42. Sharon
I killed a man today. He gave my gun a blowjob, and it decorated the walls with an orchid painting of brain pulp when orgasm pulled the trigger. His face, what’s left of it anyway, flopped like a squashed banana out of its peeled skin, and the tongue, long, lolled from left to right as though it belonged to a salivating dog.
I wasn’t sorry. Why should I? He raped me. He’d done it before, nonstop, for ages. I just didn’t have the guts then to retaliate. Since I was young, before my breasts developed, even more so after they did; I guess he thought it was now all right that I’m sexually matured. He needn’t be drowned in guilt. I am a woman already. No more just a mere girl.
He’d come expecting the usual. Thinking he’s a regular at a diner. No words spoken, he just sits at his table, and the waitress brings his favourite. No dialogue, the script committed to memory. Memorized…mesmerized. It’s the same anyway; it’d been the same forever. The actors know their role.
I strip, he sits. He likes my little tease dance, his bowed legs shaking. And when I’m near, he groans. Oily palms paw me. My mind is shut. Now he does his thing; things I don’t want to remember. Things I can’t forget. Things I banish beneath my mind. I live in denial. I fantasize concerning cheesecakes. I like the taste, they’re my fave. But I don’t get to eat any; he never lets me. Say’s I’ll be fat. He likes me skinny but generous across the chest. …And he continues to touch me.
No! I want my liberty. I want my cheesecake. I don’t want that filthy man telling me what’s right or wrong, preaching his sermon on morality, but keeping me in thrall. If only his congregation knew the truth, the monstrous pervert underneath, the hypocrite on the surface. He uses me as test subject, an experiment of his faith against sin, he says. I am the sin, and he must consecrate me with his pee.
He runs his lecture notes through me. Asks me what I think. But he only wants one answer. That he’s good. That he’s damn good. That he’s the best! Otherwise, I’m spanked.
Cheesecakes. I just want some. In fact, I want all. The whole bloody pie. I sneaked into the kitchen when I was nine, stole into the fridge, which was beckoning me like salvation’s call. Scooped a pinch with my little finger…the most delicious substance to ever touch my tongue; unlike his semen, his yucky semen. He forces me. Forces me to swallow.
Now swallow this! That dirty old man, now he knows how it feels to be eating the end of a shaft. The gun was below my pillow. My boyfriend Jimmy gave it to me. He creeps in at night, he’s a genius. He picks locks. Promises me we’ll elope...after I do this. I love him. I’ll do anything.
David Bowie blared Outside. It was definitely murder, David said, but was it art? My voyeur boyfriend, standing at the door, was determined it was, and suddenly I’m sucking the dick of a headless corpse. Amazing it could still erect; amazing it could still cum. Proves nothing but sex on a man’s mind, even when technically he doesn’t have a mind. Giving head. Old habit, I guess. Always done it when he was alive, only natural I'd continue even though he’d died. A punishment maybe, for removing his head. I cut it off afterward. Emasculated that dead bastard.
And I started to cry. Now I can eat all the cheesecakes I want. He caught me the last time…my only time, as I stuck the finger to my mouth. He was behind when I closed the fridge door. That was the first, the first he explored my secret place, my tiny attic, my little corner…my forbidden garden. How I miss him, how I cried; Daddy, see you in another life.