On..... Readers.

Reader.
You do me the honor of taking the time to cast your gaze over my few words.
Will you like them?
Will you think them apt?
Or do you snarl, curl your lip at them, think them trite, dull, unimaginative?
I'm sorry.
Its all I can offer you, these tiny slivers of me, laid bare for your approval. I can't even defend myself. If you read a line and see it as obtuse how can I explain myself? Show you that I meant it this way, that it was never my intention to offend or confuse or upset or make you shake your head at my naivety, my lack of prose, my inadequate use of a dictionary or thesaurus or correct grammar.
Can I grab you by the collar and show you that I only want to please?
Every time I write I give myself to you.
I open up my chest and pull out my heart so that you can peer at it.
It makes no difference to me whether you look at it with interest or disgust..... I'm just happy you came back.

There is no fiction.
Its me.
Its the people I've met, the places I've been, the stories I've read.
Sometimes its an almost true account, other times its what happened on the other side of that worm hole... The time I went left instead of right, said yes instead of no.

When you read these words is your right hand resting on a mouse? Finger nearest the thumb poised above the left button?
Do you have your chin resting on your left hand? Your elbow balanced on your desk. your face slack, uninterested?
I hope on the inside you're transported.
You read a little and maybe you see one sentence, one word that sparks a neuron, reminds you of a time, a place, a person, makes you blink and wonder "What ever happened to...?"

I hope you realise I die a little for you reader.
For you I continue to send out myself, open myself to ridicule, face the fear of my lack of ego.

For you dear reader I suffer.
I suffer willingly.
 

Untitled two

She measured out her worth in bite sized chunks.

Little morsels that, although they brought instant gratification, never satisfied her, never sated that gnawing animal in her stomach, the one that writhed and growled and hissed “What are you?” Before answering itself with a rasping chuckle.

“Nothing.”

Was she from a broken home?

Did she live on one of the run down council estates, one of the dilapidated and dated streets in the sky?

Was her mother an alcoholic and her father unknown?

She sometimes wished that was the case.

Would It be easier to live with if she could endure, safe in the knowledge that there was no hope, no chance.

Her bedroom was comfortable.

The bed draped with a thick duvet, its cover marked in accents of yellow and teal the pillow cases matching, the sheets, smelt of conditioner and too long in the drier.

The faint strains of the radio drifted up the beige carped stairs, along the cream walls and slipped under her door. It was followed by the olfactory teasing of cooking. She couldn‘t yet tell what it was, but it was heavy, rich, comforting. Italian maybe, a slug of wine in the sauce. Her father would smile at her over the table, crack a joke about not telling anyone about the wine, allowing her a small glass with the grown ups.

She would smile and sip at the red as though in distasted, even though later she would no doubt be throwing back shots with Paul.

Tonight she wouldn‘t be joining them for dinner.

She pulled on tights and then followed them with jeans.

Standing up she worked a short skirt up her hips and then carefully tucked it inside her jeans. In the mirror her stomach now bulged. Slowly her hands worked out the lumps of fabric under the waistband until the skirt was invisible.

Satisfied, she slipped a hater neck on then topped it with a heavy shirt.

There was nothing she could do to hide her shoes but it didn‘t really matter.

“Sweetheart.” Her mothers mild admonishment is only play acting, she’s going through the motions of being the disproving parent, but she’s fooling neither of them. “Vi, Don’t you think they’re a little high.”

She looks down at her shoes and back up at her mothers badly hidden smile. “Not really.” She shrugs.

She hears the rustle of a newspaper and the far off voice of her father in the other room. “For Christ sake Liz, don’t go after the poor girl, her shoes are fine.” An earthy chuckle from the living room where he pretends to read the financial section but really only reads the TV listing’s.

Her shoes are not fine. They are heels, nearly 5 inches if you count the platform under the ball of her toes. Her jeans hide the worst of the shock factor though, covering all but the last inch of the heel.

Her mother thinks Vi is playing at being grown up, like the time she was eight and made up her face, bright blue eye shadow slicked on thick, red lipstick drawn on shakily till her naive pout resembled a clowns grimace.

There was a picture somewhere of this. Her serious face painted with a childish hand made her look, not cute and amusing like her parents thought.

No.

Vi had looked at that photo and thought she looked like a hooker. A 19^th century streetwalker, painted with heavy grease to hide pox scars, a make up consisting of chalk and mercury, beauty that would drive her mad if syphilis didn’t get her first.

Her parents thought she was being cute now.

She wasn’t.

“I’ll be at Sarah’s. I have my mobile.”

Vague sounds from the parents, ‘have a nice time’, ‘don’t do anything I wouldn’t’, ‘see you on Sunday’.

The door shuts with a click, holding back the warmth inside.

For a moment Vi lets her hand rest on the door knob and wonders what would happen if she simply went back inside. Just opened the door and said she didn’t feel like going out. Her parents would probably only briefly acknowledge her return, would ask if she was hungry, would not pass comment when she said no.

Sometimes it would be nice is they could be unreasonable about something.

A sharp wind nipped at her fingers, at the nape of her neck where her shirt fell away, her hand gripped the door tighter and she nearly turned the handle.

The harsh sound of the heel of Paul’s hand hitting the horn made her jump.

Quickly Vi turned from the door and trotted down the path to the car that waited, dark and low slung, like a crouching dog, something with a low set head and broad shoulders, not a dog you would pat or scratch behind the ears or croon “Nice dog, good boy” to.

Inside the car it smells like fags and vodka, sex and mint.

She looks across to Paul and smiles.

He raises an eyebrow back and swings the car away from the curb, glancing at Vi occasionally as she sheds her shirt and jeans.

She used to like the way he looked at her, now she gets a small knot of fear in her stomach whenever he does.

Paul’s eyes are small, set far back in his face, they flit from the road to her thighs, even though she’s pulled the skirt down as far as it will go.

He used to talk to her.

When they first started going out he would drive them out to one of the parks in the city and they would walk for hours, hold hands, lean against trees and kiss.

He’d call her beautiful and make her laugh. He’d stroke her hair and hold her close and she thought she was in love.

Vi wondered if he parents would have a fit if they knew how old he was. Twenty seven, twelve years older. Not so much older in the long run she told herself. Not at all, there were nine years between her parents but…..

She glanced at him.

His face was set now.

“Where we going?”

“Matt’s maybe.”

Nothing more. They always hung out in flats, bed sits. The didn’t walk together anymore.



Things changed the night he didn’t take her home on time.

She remembered being in his car and the seats being laid back.

Paul on top of her kissing her. The windows steamed up so that the street light filtered through bathing them in sick light.

Unlike before he had her pinned so that she could barely move, his kisses were urgent and his hands rough, pushed up between her legs.

She squirmed, tried to sit up but he grabbed her hand and pushed it against the front of his jeans.

Vi had frozen.

Had shook.

“You want it?” His breath was hot on her ear, he moved his hips and ground against her fingers.

“Yes.” She whispered.”… But not yet.”

He had glared at her. She remembered that most of all, how his eyes had glowed orange like an animals and how she had felt waves of anger rolling off him.

In one swift move he had released her and started the car, driving off even while she struggled to put her seat up.

He had driven around in silence and for the first time Vi was truly frightened.

It was like something had broken between them but she didn’t know how to fix it. Maybe if she’d been older…. But she didn’t want to dwell on that. Better to say nothing than to show her age by whining at him like a child.

Paul said nothing as they finally drew up at her house, not even when she stepped out of the car.

Vi had sobbed into her pillow that night.

One part of her relived that he hadn’t forced her, the other terrified that this was the end, that he’d dump her, that she was too young, too immature.

He Didn’t answer his phone or return her texts for three days, then finally he called her.

“I’m sorry.” His voice was tinny, the reception bad.

“No. I’m sorry, really. Paul…. I really want to but…”

“It’s just I really like you, when I’m around you…” He pauses and for a moment and Vi thinks he’s been cut off. “…. It’s hard to control myself.”

She feels a thrill ripple though her stomach.

How much power does she have over him? That she can make him lose control around her.

“Can I see you tonight?”

“Yes. I’m sorry Paul, really, I think…”

“I’ll pick you up at eight alright?”

She’d agreed and now she didn’t feel worried anymore, all thoughts of the last time they’d been together gone, all she could focus on was how he said she made him feel, how much of a sway she held over him.

Wrapping her arms about her she hugged herself close and decided she’d be Ok, it would only bring them closer.

Matt lived on the top floor of a run down tower on an estate she’d never seen in the daylight.

Groups of small children, no more than seven or eight years old, roamed the estate, throwing bottles at wall’s, each other, passers by.

Paul had parked the car away from here so they had to walk through the courtyards.

A bottle smashed at their feet and Paul picked up the neck and threw it back.

“Fucking cunt!” One of the kids screeched back over his shoulder as they ran.

Paul took Vi by the elbow and leg her none too gently away.

He’d picked her up and kissed her softly as she got in the car.

She looked at him with new eyes, saw how he struggled to keep a lid on his desire and she felt like a goddess.

For the first time ever he took her out for something to eat. Only a burger, only a little café, but it was so nice, so normal, like they were a real couple, not just pretending.

After they had walked hand in hand to a flat.

“It’s John’s. He’s not here. Said we could crash for a few hours.”

She knew what he wanted and now she wanted to let him have it, to have her.

The bed smelled of stale sweat, takeaway food.

Paul started out slowly, tender, lay her back on the bed and undressed her with care.

But it didn’t last.

He pinned her arms to the bed and crushed her lips with his.

Vi didn’t have time to say no, to slow him down, to say anything.

She tried to tell herself that he had mistaken her cries of pain for cries of pleasure. Convinced herself that it was only a misunderstanding.

After she had lain in a daze while he mumbled into her neck, She was beautiful, so beautiful.

But she didn’t feel beautiful, only battered and raw, hulled out.

Like he’d taken something from her, physically ripped something from her body.

Paul started to snore and she bit down hard on her lip, pushed the tears back furiously, why was she upset?

Wasn’t this what she wanted? He hadn’t made her have sex with him, hadn’t forced himself on her. He was her boyfriend for gods sake.

Slipping out of the bed and taking her clothes with her to the bathroom she shut and locked the door, leaning for a moment against the cool veneer, her back sticky with dried sweat.

The mirror was over the hand basin and lifting her head she could see herself staring back.

Where’s the Goddess now?

Dark circles under her eyes, hair tangled, matted at the back with friction, livid spot like bruises on her upper arms where he had gripped her tight.

Was this what she had wanted.

Vi took a deep breath, pushing past the catch in her throat.

This was what she wanted. This was how it was. Time to stop being a child and acting like a scared rabbit.

Did she really want Paul to think of her as a kid?

He was calling from the bedroom.

She went to him and tried to stop shaking.

Matt had lit up as they walked through the door and immediately passed the joint to Vi, smiling at her as she sucked on it, making the tip glow coal red before handing it back with a stifled cough.

Paul was no longer at her side but was instead sitting on the sofa with a blond girl, sitting close enough that their thighs touched.

Matt had taken her coat and was now steering her to an armchair.

The joint was in her hand again and this time she didn’t cough, but held the smoke in her lungs until her head felt light and the world started to close in on her.

Slowly she blew the smoke out of her nose and let her head rest on the back of the chair, her eyes never leaving the blond girl.

She looked older than Vi, maybe already in her twenties. Her mouth was too big and her nose turned up more than it should if it was to be considered pretty, the roots on top of her head where dark in contrast to the bleached tresses.

Vi felt the chair moving and gripped the arms tight.

Her stomach flipped like she was on a rollercoaster. That lazy flop that made her body tingle.

Rooms spinning.

Paul’s hand on the blonds thigh.

She’d never felt like this on pot before.

Matt’s face is too close, his eyes bugging, his smile cavernous.

“You Ok baby? You Ok? Huh?”

His voice is slow, elongated, far away.

Vi swallows hard and Matt is laughing , looking back at Paul and the blond and she see’s they are laughing too.

The blond stands up and stumbles over to the chair, setting herself on the arm. She laughing and snorting, pulling the hem of her skirt up so that her lack of underwear is obvious.

Vi tries to rise out the chair but the room spins and the blonds hand in on her shoulder. She feels hair tickling her shoulder and turns her head to find the blonds lips meeting her own. Tries to pull away but doesn’t have the strength. The blonds lips feel greasy, her mouth tastes like rancid fat and old smoke. She gags but the blond has her hair gripped in her long nailed fingers.

Somewhere to the side Paul, or maybe Matt, is laughing.

There’s a hand pulling at the top of her halter neck and Vi tries to bring a hand up to stop them.

She wonders, distantly, if there was more than pot in the joint, but its too late now. The edges blur, the volume is dimmed.

She sleeps.

The sleep is not deep or complete but rather the light sleep of one who is dozing on the sofa with the TV still on.

Everything filters through as though dripped through a veil. A laugh becomes a birds cry in her dream. Its harsh, almost bark like. Its wings flap against her face and she raises her arms to shield herself. Claws dig into her, force their was through her skin. She fights the birds, cries out as they slash at her, then as she falls deeper into her sleep the birds take flight across the empty, blood stained landscape.



The flat is quiet.

Vi lifts her head off the bed and brings her hand to her mouth to wipe away the string of spittle that hung between lips and sheet.

Her head thumps hard and she blinks at the pale morning light that seeps through the curtains.

There’s heavy, rattling snoring coming from the other side of the bed.

Vi pushes herself up, fighting the wave of nausea that hits her.

The blond is lying across the foot of the bed, its her snores Vi can hear. Her limbs are spread, over tanned arms and legs thrown about so that she looked less like a woman and more like a toddler who had been so tired that she had fallen asleep before getting into bed properly.

Vi is naked.

Moving deliberately she pushes herself off the bed, slithering to the floor quietly, curling up on the threadbare carpet, gathering herself, wrapping her arms around her chest tightly. For long seconds she doesn’t know who she is, where she is, then as her fingers grip her upper arms it all comes back.

The girl on the bed snorts loudly and rolls over, exposing a livid purple bruise on her chest.

Sitting up, Vi see’s a tripod in the corner of the room, there’s no camera, but there doesn’t have to be, she knows what a tripods for.

She can’t see her clothes.

Stiffly, on shaking legs, she stands and shuffles from the room.

The flat is silent except for the blonds snores. If Matt and Paul are here they sleep silently.

Vi takes a large fleece jacket from a coat hook and pulls it on, then barefoot and shivering she lets herself out.

The light was defused through a slick of mist that covered the estate like a corpses shroud.

The slap of her bare feet against the rain soaked concrete echoed off the buildings, making it sound like she was being followed, and the mist clung to her face and beaded on the fleece like tiny translucent pearls.

A shadow moved in the gloom and for a second Vi was afraid, then she simply let her shoulders slump. What was she afraid of? Being raped? Being murdered?

She felt dead already.

The pattering of feet made her look up in time to see the dogs appear.

Large, bull headed, long legged and muscular like prize fighters, their smooth brindle coats shone with vitality, their eyes pulled her in with their intelligence and warmth.

Vi watched them pad towards her, frozen to the spot she wondered if they would attack, certainly they could easily fell her, take her apart as effortlessly as lion would a small gazelle.

The first dog reached her and nuzzled into her hand, pushing his reassuringly solid head against her fingers, happily huffing for attention.

With cautious movements Vi scratched the dog behind his ear, even smiled a little as his back leg began to twitch with pleasure.

Now the second dog was demanding attention from her other hand and she gave it, grateful to the heat coming off the huge dogs, her feet blue with cold, the fleece covering her only half way down her thighs.

“They like you.”

The girl had appeared out of the gloom and now stood in front of her smiling. She seemed younger than Vi. Shorter anyway, much more of the child about her than herself. She couldn‘t help but wonder why such a slight girl was walking two such powerful dogs.

“They don’t like just anyone you know.” The girls eyes seemed to glow with a cold intensity that made Vi’s ears ring.

Despite the cold the girl only wore shorts and a vest, topped with a long trench coat, like she’d stolen her clothes from a dressing up box. The boots she wore made her feet look big. Glancing at the toes Vi saw dark stains ingrained in the leather, splatters that faded up the top of the boots, a few spots on her pale thin legs.

She met the girls eyes, they narrowed with amusement.

“Blood.” Vi whispered.

“It’s not yours.” The girl whispered back. “And its not innocent. It does not concern you.” She reached out a hand and touched Vi’s cheek tenderly. “What did they do to you?”

Vi only shook her head and sunk to her haunches, putting an arm around each dog and leaning heavily on them. They stood like rocks, allowing her rest on them, their breath hot on her face, their solid bodies warming her.

“What do you want to do?”

“I don’t know. I can’t… I can’t…”

The girl shook her head.

“You have a choice. There’s always a choice. What do you want?”

Vi started to cry.

Through all of this she had never uttered a sound, shed not one tear, but now she sobbed and buried her face into the nearest dogs shoulder.

“I want to go home. I want to go home but I can‘t.”

“Why not?“

“He’ll find me, he’ll tell my parents what I did.”

The girl was laughing and Vi looked up at her in shock, momentarily angry that she was pouring her heart out and this child was finding it funny.

“He’s already forgotten you.” She pointed behind them and Vi saw Paul walking towards them, hands stuffed in his pockets, cigarette hanging from his lips.

She shrank back as he got closer, waited for him to see her, for his eyes to widen and then narrow in anger, but it never came.

Instead he walked straight past them, his eyes barely registering her.

Vi shot a look at the girl who simply grinned and said “Forgotten.” then stood up.

“Go home girl. You’ve woken up. Go home before you sleep again.” She saw Vi staring after Paul as he walked through the mist. “In the end they find me.” The girl whispered, her grin fading, her eyes steely.

Vi Didn’t wait to find out what she meant by that. She turned from the girl and ran into the morning light.