She’d come home so
happy. His name was Sean. He was cute, with brown hair and blue eyes
and a smile which made her heart flip.
He was shy, and asked if he could walk home with her every day. She watched him with amused affection as he
built up his courage to ask her out.
He’d found out. She
didn’t think she had to keep it secret. When
he found out about it, he’d beaten her, calling her slut and whore and bitch
and then he’d fucked her brutally and left her to cry herself out
afterwards. The next day, at breakfast,
he’d been quite ordinary, almost more loving and friendly than usual.
After that, their
sex had never had even the pretence of love.
She started making up stories about how she’d fallen down the stairs, or
slipped on a wet pavement, or tripped over the edge of the carpet and hurt her eye. She could see the doubt and disbelief in the faces
of her interlocutors. She was too
ashamed to tell the truth. I deserve it, she thought. I
tempted him. This is what he’d told
her. And when she turned her face from
him as he thrust into her, he’d ask, so reasonable, don’t you love your daddy? And then he’d hit her hard. Smile
at me, bitch, he’d say. Smile, you fucking whore. You unlovable trollop. Smile.
But she couldn’t.
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