Ruins | Fiction + Poetry

It's been a while I did something like this – share stories with poetry interlude. It could be different stories with similar storyline or a continued story. I won’t tell you which one this is. Read and find out. Be sure to enjoy it while at it.

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“Have you seen something like this before?” he asked.

She shook my head. He smiled and calmly pried the disc out of her left fingers. Her eyes followed the pictures drawn on it as he slid it into the player. That was a lie. She had seen something similar on Sarah’s bed when she went looking for her pyjamas the night before. Mama had a way of folding and putting away laundry in the wrong places. Sarah had snatched the magazine from her, stuffed the clothes into her hands before nudging her out of the room. She stood in front of the closed door wondering what was inside, if it was stories with pictures like they read in school.

She watched him press play on the remote control. They hardly use the video machine unless Dad rented an old film. She licked chocolate off her left fingers and stared at the TV. A girl was dancing. She frowned. The girl on the magazine wasn’t dancing, rather, she was seated, her eyes closed, her mouth slightly open. She wasn’t exactly sure what the girls was sitting on. Sarah didn’t let her have a good look.

He was watching her. She noticed because this was different. Not the usual way he used to look at her before carrying me up and tickling her. There was something in his eyes, a wild glow that made her look away. She shuddered and continued to watch the action on the TV. The girl had finished dancing. In her hands was a familiar looking toy which also looked a little strange at the same time. She was sure she had seen it somewhere before. The girl pushed a button and the toy began to make a funny wheezing sound. It reminded her of Mama’s hand dryer. Then she remembered. He had scooped ice-cream on a similar toy and given it to her the last time she was in his room. She smiled. He smiled back and walked over to sit beside her.

“Come,” he patted his laps.

She climbed on, her eyes still fixed on the TV.

“Open your legs,” he whispered.

That was the beginning of it all.

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I want to ask questions,
About how it all started,
When it will end.
I have words in my mouth,
Unfinished sentences,
Half formed phrases,
And no one to talk to.

I want to look at your face,
And the love that was there once.
I want to see you
The way I used to.
Not with fear in my eyes,
Nor with dread in my mind.
Just let me touch you.

I want to trust you again,
And love you endlessly.
Your laughter is gone,
So is mine.
I feel so alone
Even when you’re with me.
Please, bring you back to me.

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“Do you love me?” he asked again.

Holding the whip above his head, he waited. The naked figure lay limp on the couch, the steady rise and fall of the chest only evidence of life. He flexed his shoulder muscles and raised an eyebrow. The figure nodded slowly.

“Say it,” he commanded as the whip connected with skin.

“I love you,” the figure whimpered.

“Now, come to daddy.”

He dropped the whip and sat, smiling.

The figure stood. The gangly sixteen year old body longer than usual. Head bowed, the figure walked slowly towards his predator, the knife hidden behind.

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Look at my body.
It is full of scars.
Red lines struggling
To outdo each other.
Bruises, fresh and new
Screaming to be noticed.
Do you recognise me?
I’m not sure I want to know the answer.

Look at the pain you inflict.
You get off on it,
Like an addict high on blunt.
You hardly notice the changes,
How I’m so different from before.
When is this going to end?
My whole being is sick with it,
And my spirit is leaving me.

Look into my eyes,
So dark and hollow.
The colours are gone.
Everything is empty.
I used to wonder
If I was ever a child.
Would you tell tell?
I need something to carry with me.

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“Your father’s spirit has left him.”

She lay on her narrow bed and stared unseeing at the open window. She knew he was dead. She had stood over him while he took his last breath. The first years of her life were of misery, but there had been hope shortly after her eleventh year rite. When cutting off the pointed flesh from her most private part, they had assured her it wouldn’t happen again. It only stopped for a while and she was happy. But he began sneaking into her tiny room, just like before. Then came the suitors. They began to queue up because she had become a girl so sweet her own father couldn’t resist her.

She got up. She had grown tall and slender, and at seventeen, managed to look like a child and an adult at the same time. Outside, people sat in silence round the compound.

“Come.”

She followed the voice to the back of the house. They stood and stared at each other for a long time.

“I know what you did.”

Silence.

“I won’t tell a soul. I want you to know that.”

At that moment, she saw so much love in the eyes of the woman she’d called mother for years. She also saw torment. Pain well hidden as she watched her suffer for so long and couldn’t do a thing. She let her have glimpse of everything – fear, happiness, relief.

“I love you, Mother,” she mumbled as she went into her open arms and began to sob.

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