Swollen body parts rub against each other, limbs sore and numb, circulation cutting. She hopes nothing ends up rotting, because girls don't rot. They're supposed to smell like vanilla bean and white jasmine. Or something pretty. Just something pretty.
The porcelain is cold, but hot piss runs down her jaw, past the creases in her neck, riding along the flesh lumps of her so-called body. The stream is weak, and once it's over it quickly chills, leaving her quivering as he slides himself into her mouth, forcing her to swallow. She gags, and he moans in response.
The movements are boring. The taste of piss is boring. He relieves himself in her mouth and it's over, just like that. The taste of cum doesn't touch her tongue, it just slides right down her throat and into her stomach. He pulls out and gives her cheek a good tap with his hand, and it's warm. It would be nice if his thumbs traced along her red lips, palm cupping her sore cheeks, because then maybe she could fool herself into thinking that she's something, just in this moment.
His hand slides away, and her lips loosen, eyes lowering. She shuffles in her bindings, hoping they can come off so she can go home already.
An arm reaches behind her, and she waits patiently, but instead she hears a metallic pluck and the twist of a steel knob.
A torrent of ice cold is blasted against her head, and her body caves, muscles shrinking. The water stings past her blubber, and she resists the urge to plead him to stop. It's cold. Please stop. She doesn't like the cold. It's sharp, and it makes her feel like the world is leaving her behind. Hell doesn't burn, Hell just feels like a nonstop shock of ice, stabbing each nerve into a sob.
She clenches her eyes. Her body won't stop shaking. Her fingers are frozen in place. And she can't feel her feet.
Eventually, it stops, and it's quiet. The man stands there, and light crawls into her retinas. She sees that she's bowing beneath his feet, like some sort of dog. It doesn't bother her though, and she doesn't really want to lift herself because where her body meets the tub is where it's the warmest. Despite that, he pulls her up by her bindings, and fingers start clumsily untying the heavy, wet rope, and he mutters to her to cooperate so he can undo them quicker—it's getting late.
She stands in the tub. Her fingers get stuck in her wet hair when she combs through it. It's freezing, and she doesn't want to think about how her body looks right now. She wishes she could stop shaking, because it just makes her hanging belly quiver.
She places her hands over herself to stop feeling, but all it does is remind her of how she'll never be small again.
You never want to feel that far away again, so you remove his number. Block it. Delete everything so you don't have to be reminded of who you are.
"Who's that?"
Your girlfriend looks over your shoulder.
"Nobody," you say. "Just spam."
You slide your cellphone shut.
She squints, then breaks into a smile as she sips her drink, green eyes reflecting the sky. She sets her cup down on the picnic table and tucks her straight blonde hair behind her ears as the kandi bracelets you made for her slide down her arm. You made them a little too big, since you referenced off your own wrists, even though you tried to make them a bit smaller.
You open your DS to feel a little more at ease, and she places her head on your shoulder as she watches you play.
She eats her fries, and you're glad the wind is blowing the other way.
Time passes, and she shifts. You can tell she's getting bored.
"Why do you play as the boy?" She asks.
"I dunno. He looks cool, I guess."
"Huh... But the girl kind of looks like you."
The girl has short black hair, but she's cute. So she's nothing like you at all.
Your girlfriend looks around. Kids scream in the distance. It's summer break, so there are no parents. The coast is clear so she whips her head back around and gives you a peck on the cheek. It's a little wet, and it smells like fries so your stomach tightens, and you kind of wish she didn't do that.
"It's getting late. Come on. My parents should be gone by now, and I don't have work tomorrow."
She pulls at your tight clothes and smiles at you, and you give her a small smile in return.
Her room is messy and dim, her j-pop playlist soft in the background. Your hands travel across her body. Her ass is covered in acne, but each cheek sits softly in your palms, round and perfect. Her moans are cuter than yours, and her face works at every angle.
You lean forward and rest your neck between the crook of her neck, and she smells so nice. So pretty. You close your eyes, trying to imagine the world as only her, so you don't have to remember that your body is further from anything as real as hers.
She's soft against your lips as you travel down her body. You can feel her ribs, her hip bones, all tucked beneath tight skin.
Your chin brushes against her pubic hair, and she giggles, thighs squeezing your face. She looks down at you and laughs harder.
"You look like a dumpling!" But suddenly, her eyes widen, and she clamps her hand over her mouth. "Oh god, wait, that isn't racist is it?"
You try to shake your head. She giggles again, releasing you so you can continue pleasing her.
Or worshiping her. Same thing.
Bodies touch. She tastes like musk and piss, but at least it's different from you.
She's tasted you before, but only once. She had to stop, and she said she was sorry. You saw the way her face tightened, as if she smelled something rotten. You never asked again.
And so the night goes on, and your body remains untouched.
Just like how you make yourself like it.
You keep thinking about all the ways you could kill yourself, so you can't sleep.
3 a.m. It's dark, and your parents aren't home.
Your mother is at work, and your father left without a word many years ago.
You wish he said something.
Your little brother had been playing video games, but he's asleep now, so you slip past his room and into the one tucked in the corner of the house. The one that nobody goes into anymore. Except you.
The door creaks open, and it still smells like him. Probably. You don't really remember what he smells like.
You don't know where he is. What he's doing. What bed he's sleeping in. He used to nap in here after work, on the old couch right next to his desk.
You remember when you were as tall as the doorknob, and you opened the door to see him sitting in front of his computer. There was something on the screen. Words in a language you don't know.
It looked like an exchange. Two names, two colors. One blank icon for him, and another photo of a woman you've never met.
He sat you on his lap, and you asked him what he was doing.
He was talking to a friend. You saw little animated hearts and cartoon smiling faces. You asked him to click on one.
There was a pause, but he pressed buttons on his keyboard, strange symbols showing on his screen, and then they were sent into the exchange with his friend. Then, he clicked on the face you asked him to click on. It looked funny, so you giggled.
At the memory, your face twists. You lift your hand, and it travels across the now dusty keyboard.
Your fingers hop from key to key, places your father touched before he even touched you.
The fabric of his shirt come to mind, then his watch, then the tips of his fingers, and you imagine what it would be like to feel them brushing against your cheeks, placed beneath your jaw, gentle and kind— just like he used to be. You gasp, and something in your chest bursts into itself, traveling through your cavities, down your abdomen, then up your shoulders, squeaking to a halt at your fingertips.
You suck in your lips, pressing a fist into your chest.
In this room, you don't have a body. You only feel. You only feel that blooming something inside, and that something fills everything up.
Your empty head, your heart, your stomach, and womb.
It aches.
When you tell yourself you don't feel anything—really, it just aches.
You lay on the couch and try to remember anything about him—what he smelled like, how his voice sounded. Anything.
You try to imagine how his fingertips felt. You want to know if he ever ran his fingers through your hair.
You just can't remember anything. So you fill in the blanks on your own.
The couch is uncomfortable but smooth. Tracing across the fabric, you imagine your fingers to be his.
They reach the back of your other hand and up your arm. You shiver, and your chest continues to bleed.
Gently, his fingers brush across your dry lips, and your lower body grows hot. He parts them for a moment before cupping your cheeks, and you lean into his touch with a soft smile.
With your other hand, you slide past the waistband of your pajamas, past your untrimmed pubes, and you cup yourself as your hips move on their own, grinding into your palm.
Both of your lips are probably rough and cracked, but you imagine what it's like to kiss him anyways. His lips are wet from your tongues, so it's fine. You don't know what he tastes like, but it doesn't matter, because the prickling in your tear ducts reminds you that it's not real. It will never be real.
Your heart will always be empty. You will never know what love feels like.
It's not real.
At least, not for people like you.
So all you can do is imagine with wet, hot eyes.
Imagine what it's like to place your palm in his.
Imagine what it's like to walk, hand in hand.
Imagine what it's like to be small, nestled in his arms.
You moan, right before your body shakes into a sob, but you don't stop moving.
Nothing is working. No fake scenario is setting your heart on fire anymore. You just feel sad.
But feeling sad feels kinda good.
Tears roll down the side of your nose, and hair sticks to the snot drying on your cheeks.
You wonder what he would say if he saw you like his, face wet and sticky, masturbating on his old couch.
Would he be shocked? Disgusted? Aroused? You like to imagine the latter.
You groan into the pillows, and you feel like you're dying, so that's what's happening now.
You're gasping for air, and he unzips his pants. You can't see his face— It's covered in shadow. But you don't care, because he's stroking himself at the sight of you.
Maybe you're bleeding, maybe your heart is finally giving out. You don't know, but he's moving his hands faster, and you're just happy that it's the last thing you'll ever see. You hope he's proud of his little girl.
Finally, you can be pretty.
And his cum splattering across your face as everything else fades is proof of it.
Because only through him can you be happy.
Your body tips over the edge, and you can barely hear your own voice as your ears pound.
Dad's little girl. Dad's little girl. You tighten your fists around that feeling for as long as you can, but it always fades in the end.
Despite that, you feel a little less empty, and you lay there, gasping.
Not quite smiling, not quite feeling much of anything anymore except something strange, you rest and close your eyes as you continue to imagine the future that will never happen.
Because you know that it's all you'll ever get to have.
