He thinks she's prettiest when she's drunk and wasted and a little smudged around the edges. He thinks she's prettiest when he can't see straight and ends up touching her in places that she normally doesn't let boys touch. Alas, any and all sensibilities ( as if they weren't lacking them in the first place) have been stolen from their teenage minds by amber bubbles and intoxicating smoke. They hold hands and here is their chance for romance if he can only remember her name and if she can only comprehend the sweet nothings (emphasis on nothings) he slurs in her ear.
But he can't and she can't so all they have are awkward fingers and hot mouths with indecent breath and blurry outlines of bodies against cold night sky. He whispers promises that aren't even promises because they are made to be broken and promises are true and real and that is what she wants. She smiles dumbly, taking the falsities for honesty, licking her lips in such a way to charm him and it does. Together they stumble down the unevenly cracked sidewalk, and with a smile that he believes to be devilish, he pulls her into the graveyard.
She knows what he wants and she thinks it's a little dirty and a little sexy and she thinks she wants it too. It is late and dark and no one will find them and no one will know and that makes it all the more special. These are things she does understand and she likes them. It will be our secret, she comforts herself as she stares up at him. They stand together, silent, as he glances in all directions. He obviously doesn't know what she knows because he is suddenly skittish and a little more alert. She finds his caution endearing and a bit of a turn-on. Our secret, she whispers aloud.
He looks down at her and their eyes meet and he suddenly knows what she knows and it is a secret. A beautiful loving secret that will be theirs forever and ever and no one can take it from them. Here is their chance for romance because he can't recall that she is a minor and she can't recall that she doesn't know him.
But he doesn't think and neither does she so suddenly she's on him and he has her pressed against the back of a stone angel. It's cold but she feels hot and he feels hot and they burn together. He fumbles with his belt buckle and she unzips his jeans and she has her legs wrapped around his hips. She lets him slip a hand up her skirt and she thinks she likes it rushed and hot and dirty and a little hurtful but good. And he thinks he should be murmuring her name and that he loves her but he doesn't know her and he doesn't love her and the only thing that matters is that he is high and she is smashed.
No one will know that a nineteen-year-old man, who acts like an irresponsible little boy, is grinding his hips against those of a fifteen-year-old girl, who acts like a temptress, in a graveyard in the middle of the night. She is smiling and moaning with a mouth and teeth stained by lipstick the color of blood. He is moving and grunting with one hand pressing against the marble behind her head.
Almost there.
I love you...
So close.
...don't leave me...
So close.
...I want to be with you forever...
Almost... Almost...
...I know you feel the same...
Feel it.
Oh my sweet sweet pet.
LiveBreatheTasteLoveHateDie.
He steps away from her, re-fastening his jeans as she sighs and slides down to sit on the cold hard harsh ground with her knees pressed together and head lolling. She feels pretty and loved and magical and like a fairy that has found its wings. He stares down at her, looks at her tangled hair and smeared make-up and chipped pink nail polish and he feels sick. She has her eyes closed with hands resting in her lap and her neck is angled in such a way that he can see the bruises. Her pretty little neck with bite marks that he knows he gave her but can't remember when.
He feels sick and ugly and dirty and why did he let himself do that? No one will know but he knows and that is enough to make him want to cry and cry and cry until there is nothing left inside. He wants to run and flee and hide because he is so scared. He stole her life and her future and she has nothing but she doesn't know that yet. She hasn't realized what she's let him do and what she's let herself do. She's hasn't broken yet, but she's nearly there. She just needs to open her pretty little girl eyes that aren't so pretty because she isn't a little girl anymore.
Her eyes are still closed and there's glitter in her hair and on her eyelids and her cheeks and stuck on the wax coating her mouth. He touches his own lips and finds his fingers coming away equally cherry and shimmering. He thinks back to the party with the pulsing music and the flashing lights and he thinks that it was that shine that made him notice her. Now he almost gags and wipes his hand on his jeans over and over to get rid of the mark.
She is still unaware, humming to herself and just breathing breathing breathing and he doesn't want to watch her chest rising and falling because he knows he touched her there. He doesn't want to look at her because she makes him sick and he makes himself sick and this is so wrong why why why. He's crying without a voice but the silence won't last long so he runs and runs and trips and falls hard and hurts and yells.
Her eyes fly open and she sees him crawling on all fours and she struggles to stand but her legs are still shaking and sore. She wants to call out his name but she can't pull it to mind and she realizes that she never knew it in the first place. This is when she breaks and she covers her sparkling crimson mouth and she doesn't feel pretty anymore. She is sobbing and shattered and he is running and so is her mascara.
He is gone and she feels the cold now and she knows that she doesn't like it. She scratches at her face and she feels ugly and dirty and shame shame shame. Her fingernails are caked with powder and glitter and pieces of a broken mask. She scrapes her fingers against the frost-bitten ground and dead leaves and she's bleeding under her nails and between her legs. She hurts and it doesn't feel good anymore and she's starting to think that it never did.
Above her the clouds are victims like she is a victim and explosions are going off and she pulls her legs to her chest and she whimpers. She lowers her head and rests her sweaty forehead on her scabby knees and she rocks back and forth. Her back hurts and she's crying and she wants to go home but she doesn't know where that is and she doesn't know where she is. She doesn't know who she is but she knows what she is a whore a slut a good for nothing street walker that lost their virginity to a faceless man at fifteen oh god worthless.
She thinks that she needs him here but she knows that he is gone because he doesn't know her name and he was lying and now she is broken. Broken like a puppet with strings that have been cut by sharp mean dishonest scissors. Her voice is cracking and slurring as she moans and it isn't a pretty happy I love you moan. The sophisticated woman is gone now, leaving behind a lost little girl who can't stop bleeding.
The sky is being raped by flashing lights that look like a summer storm but it isn't summer because it's winter forever and the sun is afraid. Her fingers are sticky and raw like her cheeks that burn from her scratching and sting from the make-up. She holds herself tighter as one final blast ricochets through the ground and the world and her heart. She feels it cracking.
The stars must have been hacked out of the sky because now they are falling bloody screaming hurting I'm sorry and stars are hot so she will burn now and blister forever because she knows she deserves to be in hell. The air is full of scorched everything and her eyes burn and so does her nose and there is dirt everywhere inside and maybe she should apologize but she doesn't know who to make it out to or for what amount. She is shaking but at least her tears are gone only they're not because she feels them frozen on her face.
She raises her head because she doesn't think she's alone anymore and she wishes she hadn't because the hell inside her mind is not as horrific as the one facing her now. Headless dolls and splintered toys and everything that should be right is ruined and how can this be anyone's fault but her own? She lowers her head again and even though she isn't religious she wants to pray and apologize.
It hits her now that she doesn't know any prayers or sacred whisperings and now she feels worse and dirty inside because it was her first time and it happened in a cemetery against a stone angel with outstretched arms. The angel knows how to pray. She doesn't know his name and he doesn't know hers and everyone is crying but she does not deserve tears. The stars fell out of the sky in the shape of children's toys and she sobs because she is a child too and it is Christmas eve. The only thing she wants she gave away and it's never coming back so goodbye goodbye I love you don't lie.
"Silent night... holy night..."
Le fin.
Disclaimer: I do not own The Nightmare Before Christmas or the song "Silent Night". I realize that the sentence structure is basically shot for this story, and that was my intent. (However, tell me if it went past artistic and into mind numbingly obnoxious.)
I'm a little irked by the amount of so-called "angst" and "depressing" stories about misunderstood goth girls (ranging from 14 up to possibly 18 or 19) who have a distressed past consisting of bad report cards and too many chores. So, these dark-haired beauties escape to Halloweentown and get seduced by the Pumpkin King, who has suddenly forgotten about his rag doll love.. (Self-mutilation is optional.) Some self-assembly required.
That's not angst, you guys!
That's teenage bullshit.
And thus, a story of kids having underage sex in a graveyard (that was conveniently featured in the movie) was born. I have no shame. You hear that? NO SHAME! I HAVE NO REGRETS! I'M NOT SCARED OF THE POLICE BITCH! ...Wait, what?
This is dedicated to Ethan Yelle, the coolest guy living.