Stain

It was a stubborn stain of a unique complexion – a blush pink mark which spread across the surface like a growing contusion. ‘No pain, no gain’ she whispered as the bleach bit at her hands and seeped into microscopic cuts at the fingertips. Gritted teeth bared the signs of stress as the ritualistic cleaning continued.

The circular motions of the sponge steadily infused the pink of the stain into the transparent cleaning solution, forming a palette of varying hues. Coral, magenta, and salmon mingled with no distinct boundaries into an abstract work of art. The towel used to mop the mess took on a psychedelic pattern.

The last of the stain surrendered to a final rinse and bitterly descended the drain. Slow movements eased the rigid muscles in her fingers, relief at the completion such an arduous task making the motions more durable. A well-deserved bath was long due.

She lowered herself into the filling bath, allowing the water to lap gently at her body, the numerous bubbles bringing childish enjoyment to the serene joy. Eyes fell shut as the bath reached its maximum capacity. Breathing slowed to the hushed sounds of slumber.

The water surrounding her took on a familiar pink tint, each breath forcing out a ripple of the colour. Molten skin slowly sloughed off her forearm, the gelatinous lumps buoyant in the bath water. The tell-tale sting of bleach-treated skin was no longer unpleasant, but a titillating sensation.

Stubbornly waking, she withdrew herself from the bathtub. A faint red ring remained as the water drained away, depositing the gelatinous skin fragments at the base of the bathtub. Rummaging through the bathroom cleaning cabinet, she removed a more petite bottle of bleach. Using the remaining contents, she liberally sprayed the tub before rinsing the scene away.

Slipping on the silk dressing gown that hung from the door, she let the sleek material sooth the wound. Within a month she would be the human embodiment of purity – perfection. Her fingers ran the length of her thighs, body thrumming at the thought. The surface was textured but the patches of skin no longer gooey to the touch and, like patchwork, the scars wove together into a discoloured quilt of flesh.


I have no idea if this makes sense, and it is semi-finished, but a late post is better than no post.

No Struggle

The moonlight crept through the window, dancing along her skin. Dust spiralled and twirled between the beams of light, slowly approaching the girl until they landed upon the yellowed skin. Deep gashes dominated her forearms, blood seeping from the wounds; the deep red rivulets printed on her skin. Staggered breaths escaped from her lips, the small puffs of mist becoming lost in the moonlight. Her eyelashes fluttered as she fought for one last moment. It wasn’t really a struggle if she didn’t fight.

Twelve hours. She had timed it perfectly. In twelve hours they would find her. In twelve hours they would find her body, her veins exposed to bitter winter air as the last drops of life coagulated at their openings.

An autopsy would be demanded. Just in case there was a chance that they weren’t to blame. Just in case they hadn’t murdered yet another person.

But they would find nothing.

Nothing except the wild scratches lining the inside of her thighs, the skin beneath her fingernails, and the mutilated remains of her vaginal opening. The barbed wire clenched in her bloodied fist draped down her body, caressing her hips before becoming lost in the stringy remains of her sexuality. The penetration was excruciating, but she fought against the pain for the satisfaction. It wasn’t a struggle if she didn’t fight.

Despite the pain and the blood, her only relief lay in the fact that at least this penetration was by her own will. Her own choice. Her own consent. The last one wasn’t.

The bleeding then was nothing in the light of her new state. But that didn’t make it hurt less. The rips healed, the bruises faded, but the scars remained ingrained on her soul. But, she didn’t fight. She didn’t fight. There was no struggle if you didn’t fight. There was no rape if there was no struggle.

Well, she’d struggled now. She held the remains of her struggle in the meeting of her thighs, in the perforated skin of her hands, in the receding soul that screamed for salvation through her eyes.

There was no struggle if she didn’t fight.

This was a god damn struggle. But at least this struggle ended with peace.