Night After Night

by: Heather Sinclair

 

I sit on my three-month-old Italian leather couch, waiting, my hand nervously twisting the platinum bracelet encircling my thin wrist.

What will tonight bring?

He was so gentlemanly when we interacted on the Internet. Always having the right word when I was feeling down. Always the perky joke to bring a smile to my face.

But so many of them do.

Past years have found me in the club scene, taking new women and new men home with me, only to be alone in the morning.

Nobody ever stays...nobody ever cares.

'I want to know what it's like to be with someone like you.' They say. However, I know different. They want to know what it's like to be with a freak. Just a little slumming before it's right back home to vanilla-ville.

Another day, another dollar. When will it end?

They just want to satisfy their cheap thrill...to be with a man that thinks he's a girl. To slide their nervous induced, clammy hands up my silken clad thigh, until they find something that ordinary girls don't have. The 'special surprise'. The 'girl with something extra'.

So sick of hearing that.

I can't stop needing. I can't stop wanting...wanting to be loved. To be near someone that actually cares it I am hurt. Someone that cares what I want to eat or what movie I want to see, or...

Please God, if you are there, help me.

Am I being punished? Is it because I was evil in another life that you do this to me...trap me in this hair emitting, grotesque form of life that is this body? I'll make it up, I swear! Just please...no more.

Let it end. Please just let it end.

I have all the riches that one could desire. I would give it all up and start over. I would do anything. I would be anyone as long as she was female. Ugly and fat can be cured... having this Oscar Meyer growth between my legs, can't.

Dispose of it. Rid me of its foulness.

I won't go through with the operation. It won't be real. It won't be right. Instead I fill my body with poisons and chemicals to fill out my hips, soften my skin, and cause growth upon my chest. It isn't real. It isn't right.

They are right, I am a freak.

The knock comes at my door! He's here! The shade is drawn away from my misery and a smile adorns my face once again. I answer and receive my beau for the evening. He is stunning in his tailored suit. The way he looks at me...

No...no...not again.

"You want to stay in tonight, baby?" He asks.

I reply in kind. "Sure, whatever you want."

In mere minutes his clothes are off and he is upon me; bending me over the Italian leather couch, raising my thousand-dollar dress over my back and ripping away my underwear. I hear him spit, twice. and then enter me abruptly.

Let it end. Please just let it end.

Tears flow freely from my face, to the seat of the couch as he pounds away. He emits guttural sounds every few moments. The occasional slap across my ass lets me know what place I serve in this world. I am a tool for the amusement of others. Much like video game, or a television.

Just use me and abuse me 'till you are tired.

The final grunt issues and I feel his hands move away. I can't move. I can't respond. I can't feel anything. He uses the dress to clean himself off.

I can't move. I can't respond. I can't feel anything.

My head rests lightly on the seat of the couch. I watch as he straps his pants back on and as he picks up his coat.

"You don't mind if we call it an evening,

do ya babe?" He says.

I respond in kind. "Sure, whatever you want."

Minutes pass after he leaves. I am still in the same used position he left me. The blood has been racing to my head and finally it registers in my brain that I need to clean up.

Nobody ever stays, nobody ever cares.

I shed the thousand-dollar dress to the bathroom floor and turn on the hot water. On the make-up table sits the cold cream; cold cream used to remove the frigid façade that is my simulated femme costume of a face.

When will it end?

I sit on the edge of the marble decorative lining of the tub and stare at myself in the mirror on the adjacent wall. I am not surprised that the tears have yet to cease their trickling down, revealing my often broken heart. My anger wells upon seeing my male reflection taunting me, and I move to destroy it once and for all.

Fucking life!

The reflection is shattered along with the jar of cold cream. Glass litters the counter and the floor below. The image is made worse seeing my reflection on the hundreds of shards scattered around. Everywhere I look, there I am. A mockery of a woman, the splintered remains of a man.

Do it.

Can I do it? Can I bend down and take a hand-sized shard and rake it across my arm? It would solve all of my problems. It would be ended, finally.

Do it!

Can I do it? I could just fill the tub up with warm water. Isn't that what they say to do. Isn't that what I have see it all of those movies? It would only hurt for a few seconds more, and then it would be over.

JUST FUCKING DO IT!

I feel the edge of the broken glass resting upon my wrist. Oblivion waits for my arrival. Then a noise. The trance is broken and I drop the shard, listening as it brakes yet again with the fall. The phone.

Is it?

"Hello?"

"Heather, it's Stephen. You want to get

together tonight?" He asks.

I reply in kind. "Sure, whatever you want."

 

End.

 

 

 

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© 2002 by Heather Sinclair. All Rights Reserved. These documents (including, without limitation, all articles, text, images, logos, compilation design) may printed for personal use only. No portion of these documents may be stored electronically, distributed electronically, or otherwise made available without express written consent of the copyright holder.