My Life in Briefs

Short story exercise, week THREE. Prompt: Life in Brief. I decided to interpret the prompt childishly, but make the story serious.

The black and gold dressing gown gliding over my body, caressing my skin, supple and soft, was the highlight of my day. It made me feel luxurious, it made me feel invisible, draping my body like a piece of Japanese art. The black trim, absent of all colour, conceals me within its protection, keeping me away from the fearful experiences I’m susceptible to. The gold, guarded by the black, was my outlook on life; optimistic and healthy, but safe. Patterned with lanterns and feathers, but secured by blossom and its trawling branches, curving inwards to keep them from floating away.

The scent of honey and chocolate flickering often frees me, taking me to that other place, that place where I can enjoy life’s pleasures. I would lie against a tall tree, surrounded by blossom with a trail of thick amber slowly making its way down the length of my body, filling my naval en route. I would take bites out of my finger nails which were made of the darkest, richest cocoa you could imagine, crumbling on my lips and falling into the flowing sweetness that made me tingle in the right places.

‘Cynthia, you got five minutes girl, don’t you be late!’ bellowed the door as it shook, testing its hinges. Reality resumed.  I blew out the candle, tightened my gown with another knot and made for the door. The stickered mirror, stained walls and worn carpet crept back in as a constant reminder of my life.

As I opened the door I was blinded by a foray of lights dancing across my face. ‘Honey, clean up your face, you can’t be going on like that! You heard what Danny said: “No nose candy!”’ ordered Shuga-Eve.

I made my way to the top of the stairs as my song started, three, two, one ‘You let me violate you, you let me desecrate you’.  I’ve performed it a million times; the moves are a thoughtless process. The knots come undone, my shield slumps to the floor in a golden heap. I’m left, as I always am, in my leather underwear; exposed and forever frightened. The only positive being that the lights are so bright I can’t see the swine that surround me, snorting, whistling and shouting things they’ve picked up from their dirty habits.

I tease the chrome bannister with my leg, polished to perfection with that phallic motion, and squat. Down a few steps only to crawl back up so that everyone can see what a nice tight ass I've got. The rest becomes a blur. I feel the occasional hoof wedge a dirty twenty in my panties, but I don’t see it. I am their trough and they are hungry. It’s just the way it is.

This is only the beginning of my shift, next I’ve got to see if my John[1] is in, otherwise I have to work the room. I put on my seductive eyes. ‘Want some company?’ I’d say, or, ‘Buy me a drink?’ I tend to end the night slumped over the bar with one hand still clutching an empty glass and the other in someone’s zipper. Every night is the same: the people, the music, the abuse and the lack of self-respect.

I've saved my tips for as long as I've worked here. At least they're safe, clean and secure.

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[1] John – a patron of a hooker.

Burnt Toast

Short story exercise, week ONE. Prompt: Accidentally. I wanted to start with a trivial act and turn it into some sort of melodramatic scene.

I awakened to a flood of bells filling my ears. I knew that sound too well for it to be anything other than the smoke alarm. I must have dozed off for a couple of seconds, not much longer. But with that sound, that awful dreaded sound, I knew what came next. It was hard to decide what was worse, the beacon of sound smashing against my skull, delivering a deafening blow or the heavy thuds I heard from above. I feared them both.

I ran to the kitchen, opening the door to a cloud of black and white swirling in on each other as it danced around the kitchen. My vision was blurred and my eyes were crying, they could feel the weakness in me, they cried for the smoke and they cried for me. I opened all the windows and doors hoping the cloud would be my nine and vanish through the escape route I had so desperately provided, but instead it lingered and laughed as it waited for my misfortune.

The thuds became louder; the door over head was slammed. I clung to the tea-towel waving it about frantically to stop the bells, to stop that ugly little man from pulling those ropes. The smoke never made its way upstairs, it always hung about in the kitchen teasing me with the possibility. It was always the bells that gave me away.

‘Just close your eyes, everything will be alright,’ I told myself. ‘It’ll all be over soon.’ I repeated over and over.

Thud, thud, thud came the rage. I panicked not knowing what to do next, paralysed by fear, tormented by memories. I could hear my mother’s voice ‘Don’t you fret my dear' she would say, ‘run, run, run away’.
I turned to run but instead collided with a wall. It grabbed my arm like a vice. Still deafened by the piercing ring of the bells I could only make out a mountain of abuse that encumbered me, rendering me incapable of movement.

He shoved me to the counter, pushing my face towards the source of all of today’s problems.
‘Smell it!’ he bellowed. ‘Fucking smell it! That burnt and bitter smell sums up this bloody marriage! Can you smell it?’ pushing my face closer.
He forced me over so that the back of my head was now against the counter surface. The only thought going through my head was one of being an observer to this scene.
‘Taste it! Open your fucking mouth,’ he wrenched it open with what felt like claws for fingers. He smashed the blackened bread down and it broke into honeycomb like pieces. I could hear what sounded like gravel being walked across as he crushed the combs into smaller pieces with his fist. As he stuffed them into my mouth I tried to swallow  quickly and think of honey so as not to taste it, but the crumbs acted like a sponge and my mouth became dry, the metallic taste took over as I gagged.

‘Catch the crumbs my little toaster. You’ll learn one day,’ he taunted.