WARNING: STRONG CONTENT
Somewhere in the hollow hall, I smelled him. His stink never failed to alert me to his revolting and approaching presence. I was older… almost a whole year, since I last vomited, from the combination of his rancid pubic aroma, and the acid-like sweat that dripped into my mouth as he hovered drooling on top of me.
He finally felt brave enough to enter my room, and he immediately mounted me. I automatically narrowed my focus on two beads of sweat that swelled from his temples. I took note of how fat they plumped, before they succumbed to gravity’s pull and began a race down his red and contorted face. I learned some time ago, that I could muffle the vulgar words he grunted and slurred into my ears, if I could stay focused on something else; even something as seemingly insignificant as his abundance of sweat.
Countless nights, I wished and prayed as passionately and desperately as a child possibly could, that his alcohol-saturated perspirations would transform into everlasting tears. I wished them to be born of unspeakable and unrelenting evils repetitively forced upon him. I wanted/needed, to bear witness to the sufferings that would buckle his knees and provoke frantic cries for help to an absent God. I knew if I could be granted one answered prayer, he’d spend the rest of his life in a lost battle against frequent, and unpredictable floods of tears incurably infected with the contaminants of his vivid remembrance.
Every waft he’d catch of his own soured and musky stink would incite the characters of his nightmares to perform long encores of the most destructive horrors. I wanted darkness to shadow every approaching caress of warm sunshine, leaving him to suffer in cold isolation. I would make sure every good part of him was stained with embarrassment and guilt, and then shattered by fear and pain. His spirit would be weakened to the edges of death, and his self-confidence plundered without hope of recovery.
I fantasized of watching him suffer endless tortures, as depraved demons and flesh starved monsters of every hideous breed, forced him to do the same things that invoked my own shame, humiliation, and malignant mental anguish, which he burdened upon me. Unfortunately, those wonderful dreams of justice would never come to pass. They were only realized in the imagination of severely darkly-afflicted and God forsaken child.
So far, it was a tie. Both beads of his sweat were traveling neck and neck down his cheeks. Suddenly, I got a whiff of the stench rising from his groin; I lost my focus and gagged. I made no effort to hide my disgust of him.
I saw the sad dimming of his eyes as my revulsion sparked his embarrassment, so I allowed my body to react without restraint or remorse. I gagged again, and I tasted bile as it bled up my throat and coated my tongue. Instantly, I was struck with the urge to spit it in his face. I couldn’t think of any lower insult. I always cringed when I watched my mother spit in my father’s face; and I can’t begin to describe how insignificant and worthless I felt, when she did it to me.
I gathered the thick acid as it rapidly flooded my mouth, and prepared myself to spit. I hoped to land it into his disgusting mouth, while also blinding his eyes. One…. two…. three… I don’t know why I couldn’t go through with it. Instead, I swallowed it down and tried my hardest not to gag again.
The moment I chose that act of submission, I suddenly heard the – now too familiar – voice, for the first time. The second I swallowed my own vomit; the voice began the first of what would become a ritualistic rebuke of every cell of my being. It was thick with a disgusted disdain, not unlike what I felt my mother held for me.
“That’s right bitch,” she said, “you deserve to eat your puke! Look at yourself just lying there while this fat boar humps you like your little prized piglet! Could you possibly be any more pathetic? I think you like this twisted shit! If you didn’t, you wouldn’t act like a mute and retarded chicken! Fight back, stupid idiot! I know that you can fight, so freakin’ claw his eyes out! Jesus Christ, you’re pathetic! You should do us both a favor and kill yourself as soon, as you finish helping your master swine get his rocks off! You make me just as sick as he does!”
I couldn’t move. I was frozen, and engulfed in a fiery tingling from my head to my toes. At first I thought the voice was actually God, until I realized it sounded too much like my own. As far as I knew, the God I was told about never existed anyway.
I was only slightly aware of his dismount and exit from my room. He ordered me to go wipe his deposit out of my body immediately, but I didn’t move. I was lost in a violent fit of paralyzing confusion. I needed to know if I was the one talking to myself, and saying those cruel words. Something about my questioning felt like the answer yes would be right; but somehow, it also felt like it would be very wrong.
I lay there immovable throughout the remainder of that night. I replayed the words of that screaming voice, on a loop inside my head. Each time, It seemed more real…more alive…and more wise. I would eventually grow to agree with every word the voice screamed at me throughout the years. Still, I could never be absolutely sure if the voice was my own. No matter how hard I tried, I just couldn’t be certain.
Sadly, to this very day, I still don’t know who speaks so unkindly and cruel inside my head. I just know can’t stop believing in her words.
Tracy Lia Lynn is a freelance writer and artist of all sorts. You can read her original verion of Hollow Hall in our Rebel Yell issue, p. 23. A small poem Inspired by a triggered memory from childhood.