There's a bit of Spanish, but it's really basic and it's only like not even twenty words, just thought I'd put that out there
Murder-suicide, the perfect choice for my needs. I want revenge and I want to die, I'm eager to make the plans, but I got to be careful, I don't want to hurt Mommy. Really I'm saving her and myself, she don't know what he did to me, that ass-hole that monster of a man, I don't want her to ever find out, it would hurt her more than my death.
My plans are never concrete, I can never focus long enough, all I know is he has got to die, and so do I. Car crash maybe, some kind of accident so I don't hurt her so much, knowing her daughter wanted to kill her husband, she would wonder, maybe she'll find clues in my stories, stories of dead step-fathers, step-fathers who rape their wives children, step-fathers who love their wives kids as more than their step-child, as lovers.
I like to write, I write of stories with girls who got perfect lives, with their fathers and mothers and no secrets. I write of sad girls in tragedies, I write love stories like the one I wish I had but never got, I write of stories that got the step-father who dies in a tragic accident, all stories bout how I wish life could be. It's my fantasy world, my release till it's time.
I wish so hard that I don't die afore my first kiss, afore losing my virginity, but life never does what I ever want, it's always the opposite of what I want. I want to got a nice body, but all I got is rolls of fat and a big ass, I want pretty blue or green eyes but I got washed out dull grey ones, I want nice lips but I got lobs of fat with a hole in the middle, I want a mama who don't ignore me so I don't got to feel so afraid to say 'I love you', but she does and I never say it because I'm afraid, afraid to love my own mama.
No plans and a crush. My crushes go nowhere, they die untouched, I could never get the courage to even walk up and say hey, I shiver at the thought. I got a dirty mind, I can think of doing other things with them though, and I feel betrayed when it don't happen. Not one of my scenarios work out, I never talk to them, they never talk to me, because no one talks to me, I don't got any friends because I'm the weird girl. I shall be shunned.
I sit in my seat in the back of the class. My belly presses against the desk, my tits stick to my bra with sweat as glue, my thighs stick to the plastic seat, stick to each other. It's too hot to be in school, it's a hundred outside and school started a month ago. August and September are always the hottest months. I lift one leg; it makes a ripping sound and makes my leg burn. I put my leg back down, better not move.
My mouth tastes like metal, probably from the pills I took to block the pain from my period. They never work, the bottle says takes two, I take six, still doesn't work. I take different pills, my stomach churns with all the chemicals, my mouth tastes like metal, my vagina hurts, and my uterus is being twisted around and around.
I'm frustrated with how uncomfortable I am. I want to take my bra off, the fat in my upper arm sticks to my armpit, stubble itches, I'm hungry, I threw up my breakfast when I got to school. I ate a chocolate bar; it didn't help, only made me hungrier.
I get out of my seat unable to handle it any further; I need a shower, now. I'm going home, I'm using all the hot water even though The Step-Father is going to yell and hit me, probably leave me a bruise, I'll write a story about a dead step-father, I think about making plans, they'll never get done, I'll get distracted.
"Lydia, where are you going? Get back in your seat I'm giving a lesson!" Mrs. Teacher lady yells at me. I ignore her and grab my backpack, filled only with candy and candy wrappers. Maybe a pencil, but it's probably broken. Yea, I remember, I broke it yesterday in fifth period, taking a test, it broke halfway through and I sat in my seat for the rest of class and turned my test in unfinished, I would've failed anyways.
"I don't feel well." It's not a lie; I might throw up any second now. I walk down the aisle, I feel eyes on me and I ring my hands together nervously. Each step makes bile rise farther and farther up my throat. Don't throw up, don't throw up, don't let this happen. It comes up; I throw up, all over an unsuspecting blonde. She screams and glares at me.
I run from the classroom. I don't know where to go, anywhere, anywhere but here, the step-father is still home, his day off, no where to go, nowhere to hide, nowhere to die. I run and run, I crash into a person, I try to keep running, I feel myself crying, I feel a hand grab my arms. Their fingers sink into my skin, my fat eats their hand, their fingers. They must be disgusted, I try to move, they got a good grip on me, I don't see them, I want to get away.
"Lindsey right?" It's him, it's my crush, I look up in shock. He's a senior, he's the quarterback, he's popular, he's dated all the cheerleaders, I'm scared. How many times I imagined him touching me? He's touching me, why ain't he in class?
I stay silent, I might say something stupid if I open my mouth, I might throw up on him, like I did that girl. I bet she's crying, not as hard as me though, I'm crying so hard my ribs hurt. Could I just end it now? Forget all about the step-father and cut myself so deep I bleed to death in the arms of my crush this very second.
"Wow girl! Where you off to in such a rush?" I struggle but he's too strong, he has no intentions of letting me go. Why? Why does he care about a fat ass like me?
I look up at him scared, I can't believe I'm looking into the eyes of my crush, and he's actually looking back at me, the fat loser. The popular jock is finally looking at the fat loser girl, it's so cliché I laugh. I laugh while I cry, I feel humour while I want to die, hey that rhymes, I think, I don't know, I may write but I'm no poet. No, that definitely doesn't rhyme, wait yes, cry and die, they rhyme, maybe I could try my hand at some depressing poetry, maybe write a song and sit on a corner downtown strumming eerie tunes on my guitar and singing so deeply it's almost creepy. I could do that, maybe, while I make my plans.
"Girls…" he huffs at my emotions bouncing around so rapidly. "Aren't you that one girl whose dad died?" He asks it honestly, I just want to slit my throat. He finally lets me go and I struggle to get my backpack from my back, awkwardly getting it off and rummage through it, I don't know what I'm even looking for. My hand sifts through sticky candy wrappers, brushes against something wet, melted chocolate probably, my hand closes around the broken pencil, I drop it and keep searching. My hand stops at something cold and metal. Scissors. I pick them up. There's chocolate on my fingers and now on the scissors.
What do I do now? He's standing, staring, watching me. My backpack drops to the floor. I stare at the scissors. What am I even thinking? I've heard cutting releases the pain, maybe I should try it, writing doesn't help enough, I need more, I want more.
I glance up at him, back down to my scissors, "You're not gonna kill me now…are you?" he thinks I'm crazy, he's half serious, I wonder if he knows what I'm thinking, about slicing through my skin to see how much I bleed, how deep I can get the wounds to be. These ain't kiddie scissors, these are the real thing.
I bet the only think that will come out is fat, fat and blood will spew out of my cuts. I wonder if I could reach inside the cuts and dig out all the fat. So I can be skinny like the cheerleaders. I press the blade to my skin, I like that idea, maybe my crush, Stiles Stilinski, maybe he'd kiss me, fuck me, date me if I was skinny like his cheerleaders.
"What are you doing? Are you crazy?" Yes, yes I am thank you for noticing. Just wait until you find out I'm going too kill The Step-Father. I almost smile at the thought of him dead, after everything he's did to me.
I drag the blade across my arm, it stings, I like it, I watch blood form pockets and then drip onto the floor. I don't care who sees me, they already think I'm crazy, they know I'm different. The one cut is enough for now, I relish in the pain, I like watching the blood drip, like a faucet on low. Drip, drip, his horrified face, he runs.
I only imagine doing this. He's waiting for my response, 'Lindsey, right?' He asked me, I stare at him, he almost got it right. His hands are still on my arms, holding me in place.
"Lydia." I nod; I smile at my delusional thoughts. It's not bad, no sex and I scared him off, yea, bad, really bad. I was just nervous, it'd better if I was alone, thinking about him all alone, alone I could do some thinking.
"You okay?" he asks. Concerned, he looks concerned about me, I wonder why. Did the last cheerleader I knocked in the face tell him how I was crazy? How something was wrong with me? Did she see that I didn't hit her because she called me fat, it was just an excuse to hit something, someone, innocent slut cheerleader, with her five-point-o, perfect body, perfect parents, perfect car, clothes, ignorant little life, it's her parents fault.
She'd be like me if she had my parents. Eating the chocolate bars and candy I steal from the gas station down the street to live off of, Mommy couldn't give more than a single fuck about me, or how I get fed. She sees I'm fat, therefore I must be eating somehow, how don't matter, she was a cheerleader, a Barbie, she's still ignorant. She's too busy running a strip-club to notice me, or The Step-Father.
I love her too much to care though, she doesn't hurt me or rape me, she's just ignorant, if I told her maybe she'd do something, but I don't, I don't tell anybody, no one at all.
I nod slowly after awhile. I'm calmed down enough to act normal, to be myself, not the killer self, the bitchy sarcastic self. "What do you care?" I've stopped crying long ago. I try to pry my arms from his but it only makes him grip harder. His hands seem to sink all the way into my arms. No, I'm just being crazy. I imagine my fat turning into a monster that eats him, slowly sucking him in by the hands until he slinks inside me, and not in the sex way.
"You were crying. I'm not an asshole, I got a heart. I'm not afraid to admit sometimes I cry." Why the fuck is he telling me this? He's absolutely and utterly retarded. Mommy learned Spanish as a kid, she'd say he was estúpido, the connotation is stronger, she always said it in Spanish when she really felt it was stupid, like the guy who kidnapped a kid and eighteen years later he finally got caught, she muttered it over and over how his parole officers were estúpido. They were stupid, I got angry too.
"Why should I give a fuck, I don't know you!" I tug, I like him and all, but really all I know is that he's hot, and there's a naked picture of him on one of those social networks, he has a big dick. I don't got a cell phone or a computer, I only saw it when I looked at the screen of some chick's laptop during lunch to see what they were giggling about. I liked him from that moment on.
I only see him maybe once a day for a fleeting moment between classes. School's not that big, only about six, eight hundred tops. Town itself ain't big either. Big enough to be considered a town not a village. Big enough to got it's own high school.
Deep enough in the woods of Nor-Cal to be countrified, different than the blonde goddesses of So-Cal, LA, San Diego, Nor Cal is all woods, giant red-wood forests everywhere. We got the accents, we got the cows, the farms, the dirty trucks, trailer parks make up most of the homes, or mobile homes outside of the trailer parks, no sidewalks, long empty highways.
No weird cowboy hats, plaid shirts, hay stuck out the side of your mouth. Sure we got horses and barns and hay, but we ain't got the South in us. We're worst, we're stuck in the woods, in a small valley nobody knows about, with a lake right in the middle that takes up most of the space. Some lucky people got real houses up on the hills, far away from the retards in town. The cheerleaders got houses up there, they come from there, Only reason Mommy and The Step-Father and me live in a double-wide mobile is cause of Mommy's strip-club, The Step-Father mows lawns and makes those cheerleader's front yards perfect. He's Mexican, Mommy likes Mexicans, cause she can talk to them in their language, she might be one herself if she didn't have blonde hair and hazel/green eyes.
I probably got my shit from my father. Mommy never said nothing about him, never once mentioned him, only boyfriends she got long enough for me to call them Daddy on accident as a kid. I never asked. I'm too busy being scared of Step-father. I wonder if he's got red hair like me, grey eyes like me, maybe he was fat too. Maybe it was Peter on Family guy, maybe Lois is my real mama, with her red hair. Mommy is my real mama though; I feel it in my blood. People say we look the same, but she's a size six, I'm a size that most stores don't carry. That's why my clothes are all tight, I don't got any money, Mommy ain't gonna drive me to a city with a plus-size store.
I bet Mommy performs at her strip-club, maybe took some expensive pole-dancing and strip-tease classes when she was rich and lived in So-Cal. I bet the cheerleader's moms are her performers, they do it in their free time, they're the only ones hot enough, maybe a few ladies from in town, but they're all busy getting beat by their boyfriends, so they got to cover their bruises under heavy clothes, even though they got nice bodies.
Step-father don't beat Mommy cause he beats me, he fucks Mommy sure, right after he's done with me, always wanting more. I still consider myself a virgin; does being raped really make you un-pure? I don't think so, I'm still a virgin, I don't give a fuck what anyone says. I've never had sex; I've been raped, everyday since sixth grade. Mommy married him up when I was in third grade. Then he suggested Mommy open the strip-club and she forgot I existed, I've been fat ever since. A few years later, when the strip-club became a success and Mommy was never home to satisfy him he turned to me.
Stiles' been staring without saying nothing for a long while. I know cause I've been thinking a lot since I yelled at him. I know he ain't said a word either, I would've heard him.
"You gone mute?" I ask finally. Maybe I could just kick him, knee him whatever, then I could run and maybe hide in the back of Mommy's club in the dark where nobody'll see me. I don't know why I ain't thought of it earlier.
I wonder if he'll kiss me. I could kiss him first, he's the first guy I've tried to approach that didn't run away repulsed. I thought they didn't care, thought they just wanted something to stick their dicks in. Well, I didn't exactly approach him, I ran into him, but he hasn't run away yet and he's touching me.
"Your mama owns that strip-club right?" he asks finally. What the fuck is he thinking about? I'd love to know.
"Yeah, so?"
"She's hot."
"Hear that a lot." I grimace, but I'm not, got a hot mama, but I'm just a slob.
"You look like her." I think he means it as a compliment without actually calling me pretty.
"No."
"Yea, you got the same nose." He is so sure of himself.
"I got my daddy's nose." Her nose is perfect, mine ain't, he's gone crazy.
"That Mexican?"
"Step, don't know my real daddy. Mama was a whore in high school, had me, moved here before I was born." Why am I even telling him that? I like him, that's why, just cause I like him I want to tell him everything. Me liking him makes me trust him, don't know why, just do.
"Where's she from?"
"So."
"I see that, looks like it. Bet she misses that life." It's like he already knows she was a cheerleader, already knows she was rich, it's funny. I laugh.
"Maybe, I don't talk to her, she don't talk to me." I shrug. Inside my stomach coils and not just from those pills, they're wearing off now that I threw them up on that chick.
"Shame, I bet she'd be a nice mama."
"You don't got a nice one?"
"She's trailer-trash, daddy's alcoholic. Mama's probably addicted to every drug out there." The jock comes from those parents? I assumed he lives in one of those mansions on the hills with the rest of the popular kids.
"You want to let me go now?" He still has me cuffed with his hands. I bet there's going to be a bruise after the struggling I've done.
"Nope." He knows I'm going to run, he knows.
"Why not? You don't own me!" I don't really mind the fact he's got me locked in front of him, it's just at this moment I want to run away and die right now.
"You want me to?"
"What are you saying?" My heart pounds. What is he saying? He gonna fuck me? He gonna kiss me? I just might piss my pants right now.
"Bet you'd like it if I hand-cuffed you to my bed?" he leans in real close, licks my ear, bites it lightly. I moan, what's he doing? "Thought so."
"You licked my ear!"
"You liked it; you'd like it if I tied you to my bed?" I cringe, hand-cuffs sexy, tied to the bed with rope, The Step-Father did that, he likes it. I'd only think about him.
"Bent you over the table? Against the wall? Downwards Doggie? You'd like that?"
"Do you want to fuck me?" I ask. I'm so stupid,estúpido, seriously.
"Just making small chat." Liar.
"Some small chat. What if I said yes, to it all? Would you then?" I'm getting bold.
"Only if I could drive you out to my dead granddaddy's closed down farm. Fucked you on the hay in the barn. Been a fantasy of mine, dress you up in plaid lingerie, cowboy boots, a sexy side braid.
Another fantasy. I'm really crazy. I just asked him to let me go. He complies. I'm sad. I take a step back and rub my arms, then I turn and run. It never works that way. Never. Bet this whole encounter is a fantasy, a crazy fantasy.
It is. I'm still sitting in the back of the classroom, bell just rang. I'm going to go on with my day. I get up and walk, the same blonde chick I imagined puking on tries to trip me, it works; I land on my face with a loud thud. The floor shakes, I turn red. I hear laughter.
"I didn't know we were going to have an earthquake today." some guy jokes. They all laugh. I get up and stop myself from crying.
I walk out of the room like normal, I walk to the office, I tell the lady I feel sick, I want to go home. She calls The Step-Father. I don't care he's going to fuck me for the next six hours till Mommy gets home from whatever she's doing. Probably working things out at the strip-club, the business part, or drove to the nearest city to go on a shopping spree even though she don't make that much and there's not an ounce of food in the house.
I sit in the plastic chair to wait. Stiles Stilinski walks into the office. He signs something and leaves. He's eighteen, old enough to sign himself out of school early. I wish I could, I'm only fifteen though, sixteen in December. Just started my sophomore year. He doesn't even glance at me the whole time, I watch him get into a Mercedes. No druggie mama and alcoholic daddy.
I sigh and bite a hang-nail on my thumb. I rip it off and my finger bleeds. I stick it in my mouth and the blood is sweet. I wonder if it tastes the same to The Step-Father when he bites me, pretending to be a vampire, a fantasy, his favourite, he really draws blood and sucks. I stifle cries; he'd knock me out if I screamed. The neighbours my hear. I hope he don't want to be a vampire today.
He walks in the office and I avoid looking at him. I wait until he signs and walks over to stand. He's gentle and polite in public, acting like a regular old father.
"I came right over when I heard you weren't feeling well. You sick? Throwing up?" he has a heavy accent, Mommy finds it sexy. She said so once, the walls are paper thin, he never plays out his fantasies with her. They just have normal sex, unless Mommy does something funny.
"Yea, I threw up before school, but I thought it would just pass so I came anyways." I keep up my part to. We always play pretend in public, then the door closes and it turns.
"You better not be out there… ningún bebé por favor!" he does one of his Mexican prayers. He's kind of serious about the last part. I could be having a baby, but it'd only be his. He prays not, I know he's seriously upset when he starts speaking Spanish. I've picked enough Spanish to know most of what he's running on about.
"I'm not pregnant." That would ruin everything; I couldn't kill a baby no matter who's the daddy. Maybe it'd even be the light at the end of this tunnel of darkness.
He stays silent until we get safely in the car. He stays silent the whole time he drives. We turn in the direction of the gas station. He parks in front of a pump and looks at me. Stay in the car. He just filled up yesterday; he's getting a pregnancy test, for me. He's scared, I'm scared. Baby, fear, would he hurt my baby? He wouldn't. I could run away, I don't know why I ain't already, Mommy, I already know why.
He gets in the car. Throws a bag at me. Hits me in the face and lands on my lap. I open it and look inside. Three pregnancy tests. I close the bag, twisting the handles until it cuts into my skin, turns my fingers purple. I let go and wait till they turn normal, I do it again.
I get out when we pull into the dirt path we call a driveway next to our mobile home. For The Step-Father being a lawn care man, out lawn looks like shit. With the bag in hand I dash into the house and slam the door to the bathroom quickly. Lock is broken though and he walks in with me. He leans against the door, ready to wait.
Don't fucking cry. I think instead, I'm on my period I can't be pregnant. What am I even thinking? "I'm on my period…" I'm confused about why I even thought about taking the test.
"Take them!" He yells at me, reaches across the small hall bathroom to slap me. It stings; I pull my shorts and panties down. I sit on the toilet. What if they come out positive? Can I be pregnant and still have my period? No, that's not possible. Did I have my period last month? I don't remember. Fuck.
My hands shake as I open the boxes. I set each test on top of its box on the side up the tub next to me. I try to piss on each one; I get just enough piss on each one. I set them right side up on the boxes and wait with my pants down still. I look up at The Step-Father; he's staring at the tests. I reach behind the toilet, close my hand around a tampon in my box and pull it out. Heavy flow, I change it every hour, sometimes two, always afraid I've bled through my pants.
I pull out the current one, full of blood, I ignore the cramps. Painful cramps, really painful cramps. I open the new one, my hands are still shaking. I open my legs further, I stick it in, and I throw away the wrapper and applicator. I close my legs, pull up my shorts and panties and stand.
I hear a zipper. Don't cry. I'm pushed to my knees. I open my mouth to talk. I can't. I don't think about it, I think bout something else. I think bout Stiles, it helps. I think bout So-Cal and palm trees, pretty beaches, lying on the sand, warm sand, so warm. I'm tanning; I'm thinner, not skinny, still thick, just not obese. A tan boy sits next to me. The sun silhouettes him, his shoulder length dirty blonde hair, kissable lips, deep sky blue eyes.
"Hi." he says. I smile over at him. I got no past, my life starts sitting on this beach.
"Hello." I got my accent, he recognises it.
"Georgia?"
"Nor."
"Deep?"
"Way deep."
"What's your story?"
I shrug and sit up. "What's yours?"
"That bad eh? Run away?"
I laugh. I don't even know my story. "Where you from?" I ask him instead of answering.
"Here. Grew up on this beach, you're new, no tourist though. Tourists usually are in groups, families, you're all alone, you're relaxed, no stress R and R." Sounds smart. I like it.
I'll make up a story. I know I'm from Nor-Cal, that's it. No horrible past, I just know that. "You got me." I laugh. "Moved here from Sac. Wanted to be closer to the beaches, I'm not tied down, wanted to enjoy life." Simple enough could be true. I don't worry myself about not having a past, I like it, I can build my own, make it how I want.
My hair is pulled though and I fall back on my hands as The Step-Father zips his pants up. What's my story? The tests should be done now. I stand up, I look, three, all positive. Not possible, no, it's not, I'm on my period!
I don't get a chance to say anything, cause I die in that bathroom. He kills me, he bangs my head on that tub and my head hangs in the tub, bleeding into the tub. I don't get to kill him, cause he kills me first. I pass out, I float to the ceiling watching The Step-Father wrap up the tests and put them in the boxes, back in the plastic bag. He lifts my head, I watch from above. He kisses me, he sticks his tongue in my mouth, I can feel it, even from up here.
"Lo siento, mi Alma, mi amor!" he says a prayer. He looks right at me, floating up there, pressed against the ceiling. He loved me.
He touches my belly, he lifts my shirt, puts his ear to the rolls of fat, trying to listen for a heartbeat? He can't. I see the dead baby in there. I know now I ain't got my period in a long time, I didn't know because I never paid attention. The baby is big, can't tell through my fat stomach. Didn't gain much weight. Wasn't showing yet. Baby is nineteen weeks, not old enough to live. When I died it died.
I beg this to be another fantasy, maybe my whole life is. I close my eyes; my dead self has open eyes. The Step-Father cries. He cries for hours and I just float. He kisses me again, long time he kisses me, I got my first kiss, I'm dead already.
"Mi bebé !" he touches my stomach. "Mi alma." he raises his hand up, right at me. My soul, his soul, he owned me, "Mi amor." he touches my cheek. He says another prayer. He stands and leaves. My soul, I, I don't move. I just float.
I don't have to open my eyes to know I'm not in the bathroom anymore. I'm floating in the living room. Mommy walks in the house, unsuspecting. She doesn't note my absence.
"I'll be right there, mi ángel, where's my baby? My daughter? I get scared sometimes you know." The Step-Father hasn't heard a word she says. He's sitting on the couch staring at her with a blank expression. He's wiped away his tears.
"Angelo! You hear me? Something's wrong with my baby! What'd you do to her? What'd you do to her?" she starts crying before she's even found me. She feels the string that bonded us from the moment I was conceived was just cut because I died.
"ella está muerta, ella murió." he doesn't hold back his own tears. She's dead, I'm dead.
"WHAT DID YOU DO TO HER? YOU KILLED MY BABY! NO!" She runs down the hall and opens my room first. She goes to their room, their bathroom. Then she finds me. He had dropped the bag on the floor before he could dispose it. She sees the semen on the floor, she sees my shirt up, my dull grey eyes are even emptier than before. My soul, mi Alma, has followed her the whole time.
She sees the blood and screams. She collapses next to me, she grabs my hand, but it's cold. "No, no, no, no, baby wake up, my baby! Wake up, wake up, no, no, no, WAKE UP!" she shakes me hard but she already knows. I wish I could touch her, massage her shoulders, hug her, tell her I'm right there. My fear still keeps me from floating down and doing what I want. I'm still afraid to love her.
She cries on me like The Step-Father did. She gets up and walks into the living room, crying hysterically. He's gone, she grabs the phone. I don't listen because I already know what she's saying.
He's gone, I'm dead, he gets away with killing me, I wanted to kill myself! I wanted to kill him! My soul turns black, thrashes round angrily. Mommy looks up in fear. She can see me, she collapses in terror. My soul fills the room, the entire ceiling is black. She'd already hung up the phone. I'm moving so violently, everything in the room breaks.
Mommy dies. I killed her. I didn't mean to, I don't want to. I get even angrier, I'm a swirl of black and red, the cops come in and see me, my soul, my dead mama. I kill them too, before they even find my body. I suck up the house. The town, I grow larger, Nor-Cal, So-Cal, the whole country, the seas and oceans, the world, I'm a giant swirl of angry black and red soul in space, where earth used to be. I am a soul, the angriest soul, the most hurt, the most tortured, souls are more fragile than people themselves, mine is broken, mi Alma.