“How many times?” you scream, “How many times must I tell you?”
I try to ignore you. My face is turned to the ground, trying to ignore you.
“All this!” you yell, “All this … for nothing? You are worthless you are.”
The spilled glitter on the floor is nothing to comfort me by. The myriad of thousands of specks of brightness are not enough echoes of starlight to make me feel happy. Maybe in another time, maybe in another place – but right now they are nothing but wasted sparkles, thrown around by an impatient hand.
“How could you?” you finally quieten, but your voice is still incessant with anger, “How could you honestly think that there was one more chance?”
My hands are clasped on my lap, like they always are. So they do not rise to defend myself as you slap me, hard, across the back of the head and send me carreering off the chair onto the floor.
There I lie, amongst the glitter, staring into silence and oblivion as you walk around the large, minimalist, square clean room in your high-heels. Clackity, clackity, clack.
“You are a waste of time and space,” you hiss, passing by my ear once more, “I never should have even given birth to you.”
As your siletto heel comes down to hit me in the ribs I tense, knowing the pain can be eased this way. I remember the times when we got on, those first few years of my life before you failed the psycotherapy test, then took me and ran away to change our identities. I am haunted by the month that followed, in which I, still a toddler, was told that school was not for me, that I was too dumb, too ridiculous, too easily manipulated by all the other children and that all I could do in life was help you create your sycophantic art.
You kick me again and again, spreading bruises all over my already bruised body but careful of course not to puncture my lung again (that time in the hospital was messy when it came to declaring our names). Blood – there will be blood. It comes out of my mouth as you kick my jaw, conjoining with the glitter on the floor as a sort of glue. Eventually, after a while, I begin to piss myself, and that is what you like, I know. The urine will soak up into some of the floorboards, making dark patches here and there. Other liquids from my body – a little snot, tears, sweat – they all fall out of my system as you use me as your punching bag and form dark patches on the ground. Some of my unwashed dirty hairs stick around, but nobody will ever do tests on them because they are obviously from an animal. Some of my skin might go too, depending on if you use the knife in your tool switchblade, which is, of course, used only for creative purposes.
After a while you stop, and after another while I am allowed up. You grab me by the scruff of my neck and tug me out from the room and lock the door behind you. Tomorrow you will lock me in the flat and then come back here and thousands will pay hundreds to see your new artwork. They will gasp in awe at “how real it looks” and how its “all about child abuse, hmm yes I get it.” And you will stand there, smiling sweetly, nodding like the blonde haired beauty you always were, alluring and fake, telling them about the horrors of what you read on the telly about child abuse. Little do they know that you own me like a slave and you are a monster yourself. Little do they know the true dark eyes behind the mass of makeup. Little do they know about the lies you spin daily like a black widow spider, evil and thriving and basically the devil incarnate.
Little do they know about me, as I sit in your million dollar apartment, biding my time with trying to teach myself to read and making you dinner, ready for the evening when you will come back and prepare to plan your next piece of artwork all over again.
What were your prompts?: Rorschach blot, haunted, glitter