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The Beating
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| November 2003 |
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One wild hand flies through the air, past broad shoulders and masculine arms.
Reaching for somebody who isn’t there; flailing and grasping for freedom.
Feet kicking, voice screaming, eyes wild with fear, fierce hands press a desperate throat.
“I told you! I told you! But you couldn’t listen, now you’ll fuck if you like it or not!
“What? You don’t like it when I touch you there? Don’t you like it you sick little bitch?
“You’ll be so sorry that you told me no. I will kill you if you fight me back.”
Tears brimming so quickly and drip back into ears, ears filled with those dark hateful words.
Chests heaving, panting, and gasping for air. “Get off of me! Please let me go!”
No release is in sight. No escape may there be. And life flashes before glossed-over eyes.
And sharp stainless steel waved around one throbbing, dark head shows this isn’t a nightmare- it’s real.
From one floor to the other, from carpet to tile, black hair is ripped out from the roots.
Hard knees on a stomach. A gut wants to retch. Tight fists cast a deafening blow.
From the top of pained lungs, for three hours, they cry… but no rescue comes anywhere near.
Exhaustion and pleading. Submission and shame. And questions of why no one can hear.
Heavy beats to soft temples. A head slams into tile. Now the room has no sound and no light.
But cruel consciousness struggles and alertness stays there. The tired heart begs for mercy… or death.
Some release from such hell, humiliation and pain. But to no avail a solid doorknob sets in…
Into the back of my head. He finally stopped. The beating stopped, but I still feel the pain.
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| Autobiography
, Feminism
, Women's Issues/Studies
, Young Adult
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