Finger Painting
She thought it would be fun. Different. Cute, even. Fingers are not only for holding and touching. They can create, too. She knows this is childish, but she cares not. She is in a daydream of blue, purple, and green – yellow, for sunlight, grey, for rain. It doesn't matter because it is her and the paint – a perfect match. Paint seeps through her white dress and there are stains. Giggles can be heard – echoing. There are footsteps, bound and mighty, ready to kill. But laughter dances throughout the room and paint is spilling onto paper. The doors explode into silence. He stands there with the uttermost expression played into a smile. Not any smile – a mocking smirk. She stands up, bows, apologizes; he steps forward, lifts her chin, swears.
Silence is dead. There is so much screaming, her head is fuzzy. She protects her ears with her small hands. Suddenly, she is thrown to the floor, upon layers of paper and tile and paint. He is on top of her, chuckling through growls. There is blue and purple eating bits of her sunshine hair. Green droplets against pale flesh, yellow and grey mixing with colors, illuminating a storm just beneath them. His coat comes off first, then he is clawing at her tainted dress. And their skin, taking in each color. She howls in fear and shame. Please, she begs. But his eyes are focused and he is engulfed. He restrains her wrists with one hand; bites her flesh until there is red. His pants fade into the background, along with reality. There is a harsh moan that escapes his thin lips as he enters. Speed is increasing. He thrusts more and more. Harder. The deeper he is, the more she feels. Her voice is cracked and he is singing with pleasure. Deeper. Against the rainbow beyond the storm, there is black.
A name.
A voice.
A sound.
Anything.
I can't feel my body.
Am I dead?
There is a fainted buzzing from the lights above. Her eyes open briefly, enough to see. Enough to see this.
It was a piece of torn paper with red. The stench made her stomach flip. Sick. There were two hearts. One big, one small. Only red. It was blood – her blood. And large, muscular finger prints.
Her body aches. There is liquid splattered. Much white has faded in replace of new colors. There are paper cuts and bites, bleeding and paint. Her hair is tangled into knots, much like the ones her in her stomach. Broken. She stays very still in the pool of mixed feelings that are not hers. There is a movie inside her head.
This was only child's play. A girl and her paint, her fingers as her tools. Only fun. A break—from everything.
Maybe a child's game isn't so innocent after all.