Crying
January 4th, 2014, 07:57 PM
(!!!!! While it's not graphic, this piece contains the suggestion of child sex abuse and may be touchy or triggering.)
Aimee was a pretty name, she’d been told. Aimee had a pretty face, she’d been told. Aimee was a sweet girl, a rose, a queen among peasants, and she’d been told so all her life. Aimee Olivia Rochelle.
It wasn’t quite as slippery as Lo-lee-ta: the tip of the tongue taking a trip of three steps down the palate to tap, at three, on the teeth. Lo. Lee. Ta. She wasn’t Lo, plain Lo, in the morning, standing four feet ten in one sock. She was never a Lola in slacks. She couldn’t have been Dolores on the dotted line. But in their arms, she was always just another the same, a little lady of eight or ten or twelve years and it didn’t matter because it couldn’t matter.
She was not too young to be confused and not too old to worry, but she was trained to smile and bite her lips and stand pigeon toed in front of their ugly heaving bodies telling her to come over and lie beside them.
And nobody asked, and nobody helped, and at the end of every broken night she would graciously accept a trembling hundred and then a twenty as they told her to “buy herself a new dress”.
They called her eyes ‘a rich, exotic violet’, when they were really dark, cloudy blue, but no one ever complained. They called her hair ‘the color of spun gold’, when it was really dirty blonde, perforated with strands of sun that stuck out in pretty curls and wisps around her head, but no one commented. The pale freckles on her nose were the same, the dark curve of her eyelashes was the same, but Aimee was different because they told her she was different. Aimee was different because they told everyone who was interested that she was different, and they listened, and they entered with ‘husband’s bulges’ and full pockets and twisted, hungry smiles.
(Not done yet, thought I'd post it to get a little feedback... Also, I'd like to make sure that everyone knows that the point of this piece is that child abuse is disgusting and awful and ruins lives. Yeah.)
Aimee was a pretty name, she’d been told. Aimee had a pretty face, she’d been told. Aimee was a sweet girl, a rose, a queen among peasants, and she’d been told so all her life. Aimee Olivia Rochelle.
It wasn’t quite as slippery as Lo-lee-ta: the tip of the tongue taking a trip of three steps down the palate to tap, at three, on the teeth. Lo. Lee. Ta. She wasn’t Lo, plain Lo, in the morning, standing four feet ten in one sock. She was never a Lola in slacks. She couldn’t have been Dolores on the dotted line. But in their arms, she was always just another the same, a little lady of eight or ten or twelve years and it didn’t matter because it couldn’t matter.
She was not too young to be confused and not too old to worry, but she was trained to smile and bite her lips and stand pigeon toed in front of their ugly heaving bodies telling her to come over and lie beside them.
And nobody asked, and nobody helped, and at the end of every broken night she would graciously accept a trembling hundred and then a twenty as they told her to “buy herself a new dress”.
They called her eyes ‘a rich, exotic violet’, when they were really dark, cloudy blue, but no one ever complained. They called her hair ‘the color of spun gold’, when it was really dirty blonde, perforated with strands of sun that stuck out in pretty curls and wisps around her head, but no one commented. The pale freckles on her nose were the same, the dark curve of her eyelashes was the same, but Aimee was different because they told her she was different. Aimee was different because they told everyone who was interested that she was different, and they listened, and they entered with ‘husband’s bulges’ and full pockets and twisted, hungry smiles.
(Not done yet, thought I'd post it to get a little feedback... Also, I'd like to make sure that everyone knows that the point of this piece is that child abuse is disgusting and awful and ruins lives. Yeah.)