Note: Series of 100-word drabbles originally posted on Tumblr.


Fraternité

1/

They took turns.

Despite the inhumanity of what they were doing to her (to her body), some relic, a voice imprinted on their minds their souls during childhood—that of a mother, a teacher, a caregiver—told them it wasn't proper to push or jostle or shove, and so they waited. Patiently. Cheering each other on. The picture of fraternity:

They took turns.

This is what will stay with her, the detail her mind can't untangle or repress. Their faces watching, ever-waiting, looming in a line. The thought: Even monsters have manners, good boys at heart.

They took turns.

2/

Her skirts inch higher, necklines lower; she gets drunk amidst strangers; she totters to and from parties alone in the dark. It's like something inside her is daring it to happen again, for this time it to definitely be her fault.

(Surely it had to be her fault.)

When she's hugging a toilet, mouth hot and bitter, and a presence enters, she knows she's gotten her wish.

And she realises she doesn't want it.

But he doesn't hurt her.

He wraps her in his jacket; escorts her through the strangers; and the dark.

That night, she sleeps beneath his watch.

3/

He treats her to breakfast. He treats her to dinners. He treats her like she's a normal girl, not the mannequin she's sure she's become.

One day, as they amble alongside the river, she finds herself wanting to kiss him. Instead, she demands, "Why are you being so nice to me?"

He looks bemused, tries to cover with a smile. "Because I'm a nice person."

For some reason, anger sparks. "I'm not some project in need of fixing."

His smile evaporates. "Who said—"

"I'm not broken!"

Ducks startle into flight, passersby fall silent.

Faces loom, a line waiting.

She runs.

4/

He finds her at another party, leaning against a wall, hoping (fearing?) someone will stick their tongue down her throat.

She doesn't really want it, but she wants him to see it. Wants to break this thing between them before he has the chance to prove once again she's placed her trust in the wrong person.

He guides her outside—gentler than she deserves. Hazel eyes, unending concern. "Do you want to tell me what happened?"

No.

But she does.

Because then he'll leave before she can kiss him.

She begins: "I had a boyfriend…"

She ends: "They took turns…"

5/

She's surprised when he says, "You're not broken." Because although she said it first, it's hard to believe it's true.

She's even more surprised when he continues, "You're a person who's been hurt—badly. A person who can heal. I know, because someone I trusted hurt me, too."

He invites her to a group.

She goes, because hearing how he's healed gives her hope maybe she can heal, too.

So many faces. This pain a motif performed in infinite ways. (Nature loves repetition.)

She listens. Finds horror and solace in knowing she isn't alone. She shares.

Fraternité.

They take turns.