The white sheets are stained in blood, mixed with his semen. The tears on my face have long since dried out, and those never seemed to have any effect on Simmons. His urine is all over my stomach and chest, and the smell is too strong, I barely keep myself from throwing up.
He does this weekly.
He comes, uses my body in any way he sees fit, then leaves. While he’s here, he makes sure it hurts. He likes it when I’m crying. He likes to see me in pain, and he likes to inflict it on me. He gets off on it . There’s always that proud look in his eyes when he enters me, making sure it’s all dry. And if I scream, he hits me.
My entire body is covered in bruises, some old, some new, and when the old ones heal, he makes sure to add new ones to be seen. Mom says I need to put up with it, and not to scream so much, because my step-father hates to hear me scream like that.
They say it’s awful and that if I don’t keep silent, the neighbors will start asking questions. All I know is that we’re getting a lot of money from Mr. Simmons and his weekly visits, but that soon enough, it might not be enough.
That they might need to start adding more men to rotation, and keep the entirety of my week full. Thus far, Mr. Simmons doesn’t like that. He wants to keep me as tight and unblemished as he can just for himself.
I’m not sure if that scares me or gives me a sense of relief because at least it’s only him.
I know this is wrong. I know what this is. I just can’t say it. I can’t accept it. I can’t allow myself to accept that my life has become a nightmare and that I have no way out.
Because the moment I accept that this is my reality, I’m not sure how I’ll handle it. It wasn’t always like this. It wasn’t always this terrible.
Mom and step-dad were always bad toward me. They would hit me, make sure I didn’t get any food if I misbehaved, but it was never this bad. Not until Mr. Simmons started visiting me a couple of weeks ago. The first time he forced himself on me, Mom was there.
She was holding my hand, scolding me for crying in pain. She saw the blood on the sheets, and smiled in triumph. It was proof that I was a virgin, which was what Mr. Simmons wanted. I don’t know how old he is, but he seems to be their age, if not a bit younger.
He gave mom instructions on how to keep me clean and shaved at all times. He doesn't always announce his arrival. Sometimes, he’d let them know in advance, other times, like tonight, he came in drunk.
He always finishes inside me, and Mom keeps feeding me day after pills, as well as forcing birth control down my throat every morning. She doesn’t want to risk me getting pregnant, because it would mean Mr. Simmons would stop coming over, and their drug-funding money would disappear.
Then, I’d likely be left for dead.
Tonight, he was rougher than usual. He took a knife and carved patterns in my chest. The wounds aren’t deep, but they’re still bleeding, and they’ll definitely leave a scar. It’s ugly.
I’m ugly.
I stand in front of the mirror, with silent tears running down my face. I know better than to cry loudly, because step-dad will come and beat me until I pass out if he hears me crying.
I’m so ugly.
My body is ruined. My face is ruined, too. I look like I just came out of a horror movie, with blood, semen, and Mr. Simmons’ urine all over me. My hair looks like a bird’s nest, and soon enough, mom will come to comb through it.
She’s never gentle.
I don’t even know what the word even means anymore. It holds no meaning to me, it holds no significance. Just like me. I’m a dirty, insignificant person on this Earth, and I never should’ve been born.
All I’m good for is to be fucked and used.
Who knows what I did for me to deserve this? Because surely, I did something to deserve this.
I won’t be allowed to bathe until later in the night, so I slump to the floor, hugging my knees to my chest. Mr. Simmons’ semen is still dripping out of me, and I’m barely holding back the nausea.
And the tears are falling freely down my cheeks. I’m tired of this. I’m so tired of being in pain. It hurts. Physically, the pain is getting unbearable, because just when I think he’s done his worst, he surprises me by doing something twice as bad.
Mentally, I’m dying.
I won’t be able to hold on for much longer. I don’t want to live. A filthy person like me doesn’t deserve to live. I should probably die.
Because the agony is getting too much.
Either they will die, or I will.
I wake up with a loud gasp, sitting up in bed. I’m drenched in cold sweat, my heart beating rapidly in my chest. My throat is dry, and I can’t bring myself out of the nightmare.
