So the storm becomes a hurricane of epic proportions and New York City is stuck in a typhoon that lasts two whole days. I’m stuck in some lifeless, airless apartment on my own with Mico on phone duties should I need anything and yet it’s not like I care.
I’m sick, glands all swollen and body aching with a fever. I toss and turn in bed and just can’t seem to do anything but drift in and out of shallow sleep for small bursts. I don’t know if it’s emotional and I’m just run down, or I should be worrying about something more.
Alexi never used condoms, yet he sleeps with so many women he could have given me something. I never thought of that aspect before, as I used to see his discarded condom wrappers in the bin when he has stayed over, and it never dawned on me he would be careless. I don’t know why he never used them with me and it’s not like I worried. I’m not on birth control anyway, I don’t need to be.
They told me at fifteen when they operated on my internals for eighteen hours straight that the chance of ever conceiving a child was a million to one, my botched back street abortion, that almost killed me, made motherhood impossible. I almost bled to death from the tortuous treatment from some dirty quack that Rick made me go visit. He was so worried that my age would bring in authorities if I showed up at a sexual health clinic with the product of another unprotected rape.
Clients who wouldn’t wear condoms usually didn’t like being asked and always ended up taking me forcefully. By the age of fifteen I was an empty shell and emotionally dead already, being told motherhood was out of the question didn’t bother me in the slightest; why would I reproduce and bring another worthless life into this world.
I don’t bear any outward scars from all the years I endured Rick’s kinks and clients. All his perversions were about making me feel it inside anyway he could. Toys, objects and violent sex and it amazed me that I still found a way to focus on enjoying the act even after he was done with me, but I guess the human brain can normalise anything when it’s done enough.
I only have one visible scar, hidden by a tattoo of a dandelion head on my hip. One mark where Rick slashed me in rage because I wouldn’t hold still while he drunkenly abused me. He smashed his bottle and somehow managed to get me across my hip bone. I had seven stitches and the stem of my tattoo means you never see it.
Cleverly placed, so unless you trace it with your finger it looks like a stem and nothing more.
A dandelion, a weed you can find everywhere. Common and ugly, unremarkable because of how many of them grow, until that is, it morphs into delicate light seed heads that find the wind and fly to freedom on the breeze. Such pretty things that have so much potential to go far, and I told myself that’s what I was and what I was doing when I changed Lisa to Camilla.
Stupid sentiment, stupid tattoo!
barely look at it
when he got my bills from the hospital from my recovery, he probably already knew if I had a clean bill of sexual health. It was something he made sure of for all his escorts and by the way he so effortlessly included it in his demands, I think he’s a guy who makes sure
I was raped without protection. It becomes as natural as breathing to check
which was my saving grace in the first few years when he abused me exclusively. He just couldn’t stop getting hard for little girls and I thanked my lucky stars that when I started to mature and fill out quickly, his sexual urges towards me
side every so often though. I was one of the few girls who could take a beating, a brutal rape
to break me all those
guy I have had sex with in a while. It would give me great pleasure to have Mico inform his dickhead boss that he gave me
of bed determined to go in search of a pharmacy for some medication to shift my epic headache and bruised aching glands. If it’s flu then I can at least find something to ease the symptoms. I’m just so drained in every way and fed up of lying
emotional state is far from okay. I don’t think I have slept enough, despite my body trying, and
at all. I figure some air and a little walk might help me shift this overall fatigue, heaviness and cotton
like being trapped in a five-star prison, and I am sick of
and completely hostile. I barely get two streets, struggling to face the onslaught of lashing rain when I realise this was a dumb idea and I should never have ventured this far. It was a struggle to get here, and
duck into the nearest one for a little shelter, so I can catch my breath and possibly drum up enough strength to head back
and moulding my jumper to my body. My ponytail is slick, water running down my back and my jacket is almost transparent it is so moisture filled. I never bought a jacket
crazy, my throat aching with the effort and the concierge just looks at me like I
in a taupe dress, tapping her menus on her hips asks. Ironically, she looks a lot like me on a good day and if I wasn’t dying of the lurgy I would sass her right back. Instead, I’m already trembling with a mix of exertion, sickness and cold from the rain. Pondering how to get back home without passing out on the way. I feel so much worse and I am starting
on perfecting that well known English dialect over the more common one I was given in life. It exudes class and
or upper-crust with the exact and lazy slurring of some syllables. It’s why I drop the R in ‘‘Dahling’’ in such a dramatic way … people eat it up like I’m the Princess of