FrenchThePotato
Our hearts twisted
And mine began to tear
At its fragile seams.
And then he threw something at me
A cloud, maybe.
Deliciously pristine
Crisp but soft
Glowing white.
I caught it
Fingers closed
Around
This cloud.
This hope.
This new chance
This new dream
Of a life
we
can
have.
Except it wasn't.
It was a fucking airbag.
OUT OF THE FUCKING HONDA
THAT SHIT WAS FALLING APART ANYWAY BUT JESUS
HOW THE FUCK AM I GOING TO GET AROUND NOW?
I want a fucking divorce.
When Jenny woke up that morning, she was cocooned in her duvet, heart pounding and tears running down her cheeks.
It must have been some dream.
"Press down on it!" Sophie was shrieking. "Press down on the wound! You can't let him bleed out! You can't!"
I looked at her. "He's a DOG, Soph."
"So?"
"A STUFFED dog."
"Then where'd the blood come from?"
"My hand. You bit it, remember?"
It was a pressing sort of question, and I had no idea how to answer it. My mind had gone blank; any thoughts left behind were running laps around my head.
Jamie, seeing me pause, kicked me under the table. I yelped with surprise and pain, and Anni looked at us suspiciously. She asked again.
'How did they die?'
Sometimes I feel rented.
I do not mean I am a prostitute. My body is not rented in that way, at least. No, I am rented out by people who decide I am only worth anything when they need me to do something for them.
I am rented out to make dinner. I am rented out to wash clothing and darn holes and iron tablecloths and talk to the parents of children I hate and wish my own offspring would not invite to the house I try so fucking hard to keep clean, as their grubby-fingered brats climb on the furniture and leave spots everywhere, EVERYWHERE
FUCKING EVERYWHERE
i am rented. Nobody thinks I am a wise enough investment, so I'm only used when I'm needed and then thrown away.
I am worth about as much as a broom.
That is all.
I was thirsty. So goddamned thirsty. For water, obviously. You couldn't walk through a desert for 5 miles without getting a little thirsty. But I was also thirsty for James. For the taste of his lips on mine. I'd never thought I'd ever actually feel that way about someone, back when I was sixteen. I'd always been sort of convinced that there would never be a boy capable of doing that to me. But now, I couldn't hold back this flood of James-ness: his laugh, his smile, his eyes like dinnerplates and long slender fingers and hair like ink and the way he looked at me whenever I told him I loved him.
When I thought about that, it was almost possible to forget about where I was and what'd happened.
Almost.
'I think that's the worst part, though,' she said finally, when the hiccups had subsided. 'The fact that they all pity me, you know?'
Damien and I exchanged looks. We DIDN'T know; that was the problem. And she'd never tell us anyway. She loved mysteries too much to reveal herself that easily.