It’s summer, but only because that is what the calendars dictate. In reality, that contented season has already set, just as the sun now sets over one of the more affluent sections of the city’s sprawling halo. Tender light skips along the edges of lime coloured leaves under an amber sky, with few clouds to be seen. It shines on terracotta roofs, brick chimneys and wide tree lined streets. A woman humbly walks her cheerful little dog in the evening light, accompanied by the reassuring presence of her loyal husband. With surreptitious grace the shadows grow deeper with every passing minute; Slowly the suburb is lulled into comforting darkness.
Listen. As the last bird chirps it’s sweet song, the friendly sound of television voices fills the neighbourhood. Delicious smells rise from kitchens as smiling women stir pots and pans. Happy and safe are the women in their plain modest skirts, with their hard working partners and spoilt children.
As time stretches on, as the drone of the news and the youngsters playing fades into the dark, a different sound is added to the mix. It’s a sound seldom heard in these quiet streets. Homely mothers shake their heads disdainfully, wary amusement in their eyes. Steady is the beat of the bass as it oscillates through walls of wood and stone.
It’s epicenter is a large cream house on the eastern edge of the subdivision. Flashes of blue and purple highlight silhouettes swaying to the unforgiving pulse. Inside, beige and magnolia petal colored paint covers the walls. Lounging on the plush furniture are boys with drunk girls draped over their laps. Thick carpet, damp with cheap beer. Pots containing glossy plants, tipped over. Mahogany tables, covered in cups and bottles. Young women are scattered amongst the chaos, all feminine delicacy lost as they perform the way they think the boys want them to, short skirts and low cut tops clinging to their bodies. One day they will retire their scandalous ways for a blissful conservative lifestyle of mediocre irrelevance; but tonight, tonight the excessive liquor they consume gives them the illusion of freedom.
Look. look at the girl. See her long blonde hair, and the way the taut red fabric of her dress displays her abundant curves. The creamy skin of the girl’s thighs and chest seem to beckon in the dim light. Buttons strain, battling to contain ample breasts. The girl’s face is smothered in makeup, with eye lids of smoky gray and inviting cherry lips. Look at her, strutting about, no regard for decency. Touch me, she screams. Feel me, hold me, take me.
Through the crowd a creature stalks. Deliberate and cunning, it searches for its prey. It’s insatiable desire making it more and more desperate as time goes on, as these temptations grow more and more wobbly on their feet. When an ideal target in red stumbles to the ground, it pounces. Onlookers snigger as the girl is ushered up the stairs and out of sight, unaware of the monster whose clutches she has fallen into. Why should they be surprised? It’s typical behaviour for a girl like that, a girl wearing that. Bottles continue to smash. Music continues to play. People continue to dance. A shadow, satisfied with what it has done, passes through the door and slinks into the night.
Your watch beeps. It’s half past two. The only sound is that of his brutal last words to you. They reverberate in your head again as they have for the last half hour. Stop crying slut. You were asking for it. As the shaking finally subsides you can feel the icy caress of the night air on the wet parts of your face. Feel the damp riverlets your tears carved through your makeup. Asking for it, asking for it, asking for it. You tentatively sit up, the inbetween of your legs throbs with raw violence in response. The only light in the room is that coming from a street lamp, whose ghostly luminance watches disapprovingly from the window. You stand, head pounding from the drink, body aching from the… Asking for it. As you take an unsteady step something pale and bloodied lurches across the room. Your heart sinks as you swivel to face your sallow reflection. Cast in the feeble glare, it’s face is crumpled in despair, black streaks mar it’s hollow cheeks that were once fair. A too-small vermillion scrap covers it’s sinful body, and there is only a gory mess where it’s mouth should be. You contort with repulsion at the sight. It’s a disgrace, an offense. Disgusting.
As you stare into the hateful eyes of the creature you know that he is not to blame for this. You deserve this, you did ask for it. You are the creature.
Ava Erickson.