Page 2 of Drowned In Silence

Standing up and shoving himself back into his work pants, he spits on me again, and throws the money on the table, before walking out of the room.

Finally, I can have a moment of solitude. I have been used too many times today. Too many cold showers while I scrub my body bloody and raw. Too many men coming inside of my room and inside of me.

I hate it. I hate the way my body turns black and blue from their hands as they continuously hit me. Over and over, they hit and kick because I don’t make a sound, don’t make a noise. They cut me open, hoping I will scream or at the very least, shed a few tears. I try very hard not to give that to them. They use every bodily fluid as a means of torture, wishing that I would give themsomething. Anything.

But I refuse to be the highlight of their fucking day.

I sit here, day in and day out, while the scum of the earth line up for me. I am a fuck toy, sold only for survival. Every morning, I start the day in the same way. I eat a pathetic breakfast, drink my cup of coffee, and take my shower. I shave all of the body hair away, twist my locks into a braid, and get ready to be used. I lay on the threadbare mattress, wait for the man of the hour, and take his orders. “Lay on your back and look at me,” or, “Lay on your stomach anddon’tlook at me.” Each day is the same routine, except for Sundays.

Sunday is the ‘day of rest’. My parents taught me to dress up in makeup and pretty clothes and force me to sit in front of their computer for Sunday Service. They both sat on either side of my body, with my Father’s hand beneath my dress, stroking my thigh. The way he did it makes my skin crawl while goosebumps pebble on my skin. It’s disgusting, but it was all normal for me. You would think that I’d have gotten used to his smirks and sneers, but after so many years of church, I still have the same reaction.

Their goal is to get me to go to church and purge my body of the darkness– darkness that they created.

All because my Mother needed the drugs. I was payment. Only used for someone else’s gain. The heroin was too much for my Father to keep up with, but Mommy Dearest didn’t care. It started when I was little and never stopped. I wasn’t even old enough for puberty to hit, a virgin in every sense of the word. At first, I fought and screamed, begging for the men to stop. The blood would pour from my body while I laid on the towel below me. They would say it's natural, and everyone does it. I didn't know anything different. I was beaten over and over until I had no more tears. After the firsttwenty or so times, I stopped fighting and succumbed to the darkness.

Now I do it to myself. When I was eighteen I moved out, never to look back at the disaster that was my parents. I had to earn a penny and at that age, without proper schooling, you can’t get a job. So, I took to the streets, figured out how to use my body in the easiest way possible. I’m a whore. I hate it, but I don’t have another choice. It’s letting men claim my body or a cardboard box. Either way, I wish it were something different.

I roll over onto my back and sink my hand below the stained mattress, my fingers itching for one of my few releases. Feeling the sharpness of the blade and the coldness of the metal, I wrap my hand around it and unsheathe it from its hiding spot. Blood trickles from my fingers onto the floor, but still not enough to make me smile. Sitting up and placing my feet on the floor, I switch the blade to my good hand and carefully slice open my wrist. The blade punctures my skin in a satisfying rip, tearing the tissue apart. Maroon seeps out of the wound instantly, rolling down my arm, and dripping in between my toes onto the crunchy carpet. The sound of the blood hitting the floor makes my eyes roll back and my mouth lets out a sigh.

My head lulls back and my brain becomes foggy. Here is the release I need. Not orgasms, not screams, not even seeing the men walk out the door.

This.

Feeling the blood pour down my arm in rivulets while my brain blacks in and out of consciousness, is enough to keep me going each day.

This is what I live for.

This is what I will die from.

This is how I will be remembered.

The door slams open and I scramble to sit up, but I can’t. My fingers release the knife and my eyes stay closed. If I could just have one fucking moment of true serenity. Maybe this John will fuck me while I'm unconscious so I don't have to feel anything. Hopefully he will be kind enough to leave my payment. I just want to succumb to the darkness. I beg to succumb.

Sunday Service

Dynah - Flashback

I’m jolted awake bya sharp sting on my face. It takes me a moment to process that I’m being hit. Upon opening my eyes, I see my father standing over me.

“Wake up, you dumb bitch,” he screams at me. His voice is deep, and his tattoos stand start against his skin. His shirtless body tenses as he slaps me once more across the cheek. “Good. You’re up. It’s Sunday. Let’s go.”

I rub the crusty sleep from my eyes and open them wider. I’m still in my dingy bedroom, blood smeared down my arm and the knife not far from my other hand. My body has new handprints etched into my skin, new colors forming around the edges of the deep bruise. I'm not sure how many more people came in last night, but they didn't wake me from my slumber, but at least I didn't have to listen to them. The sun peeks through the moth-eaten blinds, signaling that it’s morning, just in time for church.

Father hands me a shirt, which is only a dirty rose-pink sweater. I slip my arms through as he dresses me like a child.

“Good bitch,” he praises. The noise makes me feel like someone is shoving glass into my ears. “Arms down.”

I lower my arms and stand up. The sweater drapes off my body as if it were a dress. My malnourished body could be shoved in here four or five times, and it still might be too big. Having to push up the sleeves, I stumble a little. I’m lightheaded and woozy, but I know I won’t get to eat.

That’s another thing I hate about Sundays. They don’t feed me because I should be ‘filled by the consumption of Christ’s body and blood.’ I still don’t understand that reference. Why do I need to eat the body of Christ?

I didn’t get an education like normal people. After my parents pulled me from elementary school, I continued all my studies independently, sneaking out of my room after my parents fell asleep, down to the living room, and stealing dictionaries. Thankfully, I never got caught.

I wouldn't say I'm well educated in ‘society's norms.’ but I know I'm better off than most. I assume I know more than most my age, just from what I've overheard about teenage kids on TV.

His voice rings out into the stagnant room, “Meet us downstairs once you fix the rat's nest on your head.” He leaves and slams the door behind him.

After finger-combing my greasy black hair, I open the door and peek out. Sometimes, he will wait for me outside to make sure I don’t go places I’m not supposed to. Thankfully, today isn’t one of them.

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