Authors: John Raptor
My daddy told me that if I didn’t want it, I was a prude.
Told me to widen my horizons and spread my legs.
I never fought back; there was no point.
People were going to use you, no matter what.
Your body was not yours, only others to hit, slap, and rape.
Might as well accept it.
A montage of abuse spins before my eyes, as if viewed through a zoetrope. So many faces…all with that awful, lustful glean in their vacant eyes. Eyes like windows—which did not offer a glimpse into the soul, but only unfathomable depths of darkness.
And despite all I’ve been through, all the shit I’ve waded through, all the hurt I’ve been subjected to, all the bruises, the limping, the make-up covering cuts and scratches and burns, the hospital visits, the lying to doctors, the cowering in corners as he/she/it screamed and yelled and threw things and treated me like I was inferior, stupid, dumb, unworthy, and all the praying to god to protect me and save me, only to realize that god is also an abuser and does not give a shit…none of that compares to the fear I feel now as I hear footsteps clunking down the hall, and see shadows pooling beneath the door.
I scream into the handkerchief, heart pounding in my eyes, as the rusty doorknob squeals, followed by clicking sounds…and the rabbit enters the room.
The handkerchief muffles my cries: I’m unheard, as always.
“Sex is evil,” the rabbit says. “Probably the foulest act I’ve ever witnessed. Sweaty bodies creating sickly fluids, spewing and spreading their disease. It makes me want to puke. Puke until there’s nothing left.”
Flashbacks: …all the guys I’ve ever fucked, some for less than ten dollars, and how empty I felt some nights, and how I’d cuddle up under the covers and cry into a pillow for hours and sometimes cut my wrists and snort cocaine off the bathroom sink. Once, I jumped off the balcony of my apartment but I only broke my ankle…
…My father fucking me in the ass and how I puked as he violated me and it was tuna and it reeked and I could feel his slimy semen dripping out of my bleeding asshole (blood and semen dripping down the back of my child thighs) and smell his horrible whiskey breath hours after it was over and I did what I do now (minus the cocaine): go in my room and cry and pray for a way out. But god never listened…
…Kids at school could tell I was not like them. I didn’t talk. I never laughed. I had no light in my eyes. I was a whore. My father raped me and I was dirty. I would never be clean for my future husband like the other girls in my class. I was always told how important it was to stay pure, but I had already been damaged…
…So I stopped caring and I’d let guys use me. If I chose to let them use me, at least I still had some control in my life. In middle school, guys would touch me for a dollar. High school, I’d blow a guy for five bucks…
…all the girls gossiped, called me a ho, a skank, a bitch. And I guess I was. But I was goddam proud of it. Part of me thought they were jealous: I was fucking all the cute boys (and ugly ones) and they couldn’t get none. Also, I had more money than them and the work was easy: touch and suck and done (most guys only took about a minute or two). Those stuck-up bitches could have had it all too if their stupid “self-worth” didn’t get in the way…
…Now, men (and some women) pay up to $700 to fuck me. Candy Cane—that’s my name at PUSSY CATS. I am one of their hottest and most requested (the club labeled me “exotic”). I reduce those fucking horndogs to slobbering Neanderthals.
But no matter how much the price tag goes up on my pussy, I feel empty.
In reality, I have no power.
Those school bitches were right: I’m a skanky, dirty ho.
Those men and women (those customers), those boyfriends and girlfriends…they were my father, raping me, over and over, again and again and again. Nothing had changed: I was still that powerless little girl—doomed to relive my father’s abuse, his betrayal of my innocence, the rest of my fucking life.
“You’re a fucking whore,” the rabbit says (as if reading my thoughts) and rips the handkerchief from my mouth.
Crying, sobbing: “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry. It’s not my fault. Please…don’t fucking do this. Just let me go.” My teeth and jaws, my shattered wrists singing with pain; I let out a raspy cry: “Oh god…please…don’t kill me.”
“You don’t know god,” the rabbit says. It does not giggle.
The rabbit isn’t fucking around anymore. It’s not having fun or finding amusement in the torture. It’s dead serious. Which somehow disturbs me even more.
“Oh please…please…” The swelling in my face is so great I can barely breathe. “Please don’t kill me. Oh god…I’m sorry. My dad raped me. He fucking raped me you fucking bastard!”
“That’s no excuse,” the rabbit says. “Honor thy father.”
The rabbit goes to a counter with a microwave oven sitting on it. He opens a drawer beneath the counter and I can see that it’s full of surgical tools (the reflection in the microwave’s blank mesh face) and I start screaming, my limbs turning to jelly, my heart swelling in the back of my throat. I scream at the top of my lungs: “NOOOO!” Shredding my vocal chords. I start choking, eyes bloodshot and red, dripping tears. “No you sick fuck! Let me go let me go!” The restraints bruise my ankles, and the broken bones in my wrists grind against each other, flowering fresh pain. I holler, snot and tears mingling on my lips, and I know the pain will only get worse but I can’t stop crying. “Please god! Please god help me! I’m so sorry! So sorry!”
“God doesn’t give a shit about niggers, especially nigger whores,” the rabbit says. “You people don’t feel pain anyway. You’re fucking animals.”
The rabbit crawls between my legs with a scalpel and I start twisting and shrieking in the restraints as it rips off my panties (just like my father…and Luke and Neil and Brady and Alex and Robert and John and Samantha and Alice) and presses its cold instrument to my inner lips…I feel a thunderbolt of pain as it slices into my clit…blood gushes onto the mattress, onto the rabbit’s furry white chest and paws and vacant eyes (like so many of my abusers)…and I know I’m going to die and the fear swallows me up and…
…AT ANY MOMENT
There was a girl just like me…
…who removed bloody bandages from her head as he/she/it watched.
Neither said anything.
Her mascara trickled down her cheeks in tendrils, as he sat down on the bed, the springs inside squeaking like feral mice.
A block of lead resided quietly in his throat.
She washed the wound, the sink filling with crimson like chum on a salty sea.
He exhaled a slow breath and she jumped. His eyes looked sad and innocent in the glow of the sliver moon.
But her scalp throbbed…and tiny crumbs of green glass fell from her long hair, tinkling in the porcelain basin. Somewhere downstairs, a shattered beer bottle lay in the trash. She glanced at him. He stared through her, at the picture on the wall. In the picture, he held her from behind: he in a pressed charcoal tux, she in a flowing pink Cinderella gown. Prom 2007.
He exhaled again. She did not jump this time, only quivered. She could smell rotten barley permeated on his tongue. Heat rose in her chest. Her gut twitched. The tap on the sink was silenced. Crickets whispered to each other in the night. Tires squealed in the street, destroying the cricket’s serenity. Loud laughter and screaming soon followed. She jumped again.
He did not move. He did not say anything. She crawled into bed, turned on her side, and watched the moon wane through the window. She expected him to say something, perhaps kiss her on the cheek.
He said nothing.
He sat for a long moment on the edge of the bed and then moved, the springs beneath crying as he turned away from her. He stared at the opposite wall and fell asleep.
…LAST YEAR
The man didn’t move. He stood in the rain like a statue, droplets of rain glittering on his trench coat like diamond beads in the yellow glow of the street lamps. I was afraid of him, but I didn’t know why. It wasn’t the pale moon which cast his shadow long on the sidewalk. It wasn’t the Pall Mall which dangled between thin white lips. It wasn’t the fact that I couldn’t see his eyes beneath the brim of his hat. No, I was afraid of everyone, not just this man. The kind and gentle faces struck fear in me, as well as the ones hidden in shadows. As I passed him on the street corner, I felt my chest tighten. He did not move toward me. He did not look at me. When I locked myself in the safety of my apartment and felt hot tears pour down my cheeks, I realized why I was afraid. Everyone wore the face of my father.
…NOW
Robert
I have a sledgehammer in my hands.
This will probably come as a shock to you, but after pissing on that severed dick floating in shit, I ran in the opposite direction of the Bunny, and made a detour into the twisting corridors (god knows how many there are), deeper and deeper into the labyrinth…where I stumbled upon a square concrete room drenched in blood and gore. It was the most horrific thing I’d ever seen. Like every sick psychopath’s wet fantasy come to life: chainsaws, drills, scalpels, sledgehammers, stun guns, butcher knives, axes, acetylene torches (all hanging along the wall like the tools in my garage that I never use), and in the center of the death room, a wooden chair with leather restraints. I grabbed a sledgehammer and journeyed back into the dank corridors with the alien green glow. At one point, I got lost, and started to hyperventilate. Gagging on the stench of spoiled meat and shit, the back of my throat went into wild spasms. My stomach tried to pump up its contents, but there were none, and I made several dry heaves, and then got back onto my wobbly legs…
…god, I felt weak.
To steady myself, I placed my hand against the wall, where missing patches of wallpaper (smiley faces and flowers) and plaster revealed wooden boards and pink insulation. Here, the corridor resembled more the hallway of a house than the winding stone corridors of a dungeon. But the wall was full of holes, chunks of plaster and wallpaper scattered on the gravelly ground. I loosened one of the holes, ripping it wider, and maggots spilled out. I screamed. Stomped the maggots into paste. Caught my breath. Kept moving.
The wallpaper, plaster, wooden boards, and pink insulation disappeared, giving way to more stone walls, as I stumbled around a corner…
…and saw the Bunny (back turned to me) standing in the doorway of the chamber. Inside, I heard Jennifer’s sobs echoing off the stone walls.
The Bunny screamed: “SHUT THE FUCK UP YOU FUCKING WHORE!” and moved toward her.
And now, here I stand, sledgehammer in my hands…
…and rush up behind the Bunny on my tip-toes…
…Jennifer’s eyes turn to silver dollars when she spots me, behind her rabbit tormentor…
…the Bunny freezes; must realize she is looking past its long rabbit ears, at something behind—
TOO LATE.
I bring the head of the heavy sledge down on the back of the Bunny’s neck.
CRACK!
The sound of snapping vertebrae.
The Bunny drops like a sack of bricks.
The sledgehammer hits the concrete with an empty
clang
…and shortly after, I follow, collapsing to my knees, crying. Fucking crying.
Jennifer kneels next to me, hugs me, and whispers, “Thank you.”
“Oh my god…oh my god…oh my god,” is all I can say, as blood pools around the Bunny’s head.
“It’s okay. He was a prick,” Jennifer says.
“No,” I say. “I can’t believe…I can’t believe I hurt Cindy. My wife. I can’t believe I betrayed her. Oh god. They’re right. I’m a sinner. I’m a monster. I’m evil.”
“What’s your name?”
“Robert.”
“Let’s get the fuck out of here, Robert.”
Jennifer takes my hand and we exit the chamber, entering the maze of corridors—the labyrinth. She has to hold me up, keep me steady, as I lean against her freckled shoulder.
Seconds later, I collapse to the concrete floor and begin to dry heave again.
Alex
Okay, I’m getting really fucking pissed. No way in hell some fucking goddam clown is going to kill me. Also, I’m really hungry…even that soggy Captain Crunch is starting to look good.
Oh, yeah, update: I’ve been in this room for six fucking hours. Haven’t pissed or shit or had a drink or any food in all of that time, or the time before, when that fucking thing drugged me and locked me up here.
Fuck. I really need to shit. So backed up I could drop enough logs to rebuild Lincoln’s cabin.
Nigger sympathizing son of a bitch
! Wish I could go back in time and be the one to blow his fucking head off. Oh well, thanks John Wilkes Booth—even though you were a faggy actor, least you did something right.