[Fic] "Mona's Blood" -- original
Sep. 1st, 2004 03:39 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
edenfallingI have a story I wrote back when I was 12 years old. It was based on a nightmare, which, considering it's about the attempted rape of a young girl, is not terribly surprising.
Anyway, the set-up section was really godawful, as was the dialogue -- which I realized even at the time -- but the story freaked me out enough that it took me six years to get around to revising it. And then another four years before I finished the revision, this morning.
I still don't like it at all -- not because I think it's a bad story, but because it creeps the hell out of me.
But I want to get it out of my head, so I'm posting it. Read at your own risk.
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Mona's Blood
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It's late, maybe eleven, and if we were home, if this were before, Mom would kill me for still being up. Actually, she'll probably kill me anyway. The world can go crazy all it wants; Mom will never change. I hope.
The rabbi and Father Jeffries are still arguing, but neither is making much sense anymore. They can keep their god and stuff him; any god who does this to the world -- does it twice, if you believe the Bible -- isn't worth spitting on if you ask me. So I take my glass back to the kitchen, where the crew are listlessly cleaning, and walk out of the lounge. Sleep seems like a very good idea. Maybe tonight there'll be a miracle and tomorrow the water will be gone.
As I turn into the port hall, Mr. Newcastle accosts me. He is, as always, wearing a suit and tie with his hair neatly combed. He's rather good-looking in an stiff way, but he walks like he has a poker up his pants. Still, he's polite, and he always remembers I'm a person, not some six-year-old baby. "Caroline, what a pleasant surprise," he says, his voice smooth and dry. "Fancy meeting a young woman at this time of night." His smile looks well-oiled; Dad says it comes of being a lawyer.
"Good evening, Mr. Newcastle," I say, and smile back, just a little. I like him well enough, but it's late and he's really not much more than a stranger even after two weeks on this ship. And his smile makes me twitch.
"Ah, manners," he says with a laugh. "I was beginning to think everyone had forgotten how to be polite, and here a teenager proves me wrong." He tilts his head. "Then again, I suppose I'm not terribly surprised you haven't forgotten; manners do tend to go with beauty and intelligence."
I frown and take a tiny step backwards. He's as old as Dad; he's not supposed to say things like that to me. "Mr. Newcastle, I'm thirteen," I say. "I'm hardly beautiful."
He smiles, just a little, a real smile this time. His face is nice enough when he's serious, but there's something about that smile that lights him up. "No, you are beautiful, and certainly very intelligent. You remind me of my sister, when she was your age." He makes a peculiar gesture and laughs at himself. "Besides," he continues, "I believe you're the only person on this ship besides me with any appreciation for fine art, and any understanding of the masterpieces we've now lost. Last night, I thoroughly enjoyed your thoughts about Michelangelo. As one art lover to another, might I interest you in a discussion of da Vinci?"
"You mean Leonardo da Vinci?"
"Who else?" He smiles apologetically, another real smile. Why doesn't he use this smile normally instead of the oily one? "I realize it's late, but I believe I saw your parents in the stern lounge. We can speak for a few minutes now and return to the discussion as the opportunity arises, if it proves worthwhile. What do you say?"
What can it hurt, really, to talk about Renaissance artists for a few minutes? And I can be back in the cabin before Mom and Dad; they'll never know how late I've been up. "Sure," I say. "But only for fifteen minutes."
He nods. "That should be enough to learn whether our discussion is worth continuing. Shall we step outside for fresh air and a bit of privacy? It wouldn't do for your parents to find you, and the rabbi and priest make the forward lounge a bit noisy." He smiles and motions me toward the heavy doors that lead to the narrow walkway around the ship. Once outside, we find a set of wickerwork chairs under a lamp, where we sit facing each other. He rests his right ankle on his left knee and sets his hands on his calf. I cross my ankles and wait.
He smiles again and takes a deep breath. "I love the smell of the sea," he says, "though by now I've seen and smelled enough water to last a lifetime. If we still have a lifetime left, after these signs." I shrug, and he gestures as if throwing away the topic. "Now, Caroline, let's begin with a question that has puzzled art aficionados the world over for centuries. Why does the Mona Lisa smile?" He leans slightly forward, his head tilted, as if he expects me to find a brilliant solution.
I frown. "That's an interesting question, Mr. Newcastle. Honestly, I couldn't say."
"What? You don't have a pet theory ready to trot out?" He grins a bit and laughs.
I shrug again. "I'm not really an art critic. It's not something I really thought about. I guess I was more interested in the way her smile fades into her face. I paint -- well, I used to paint, before all this -- and I wanted to learn to do that."
He makes his throwing-away gesture again. "It seems we have slightly different interests, then. I have no particular talent myself, so I've always enjoyed the stories behind works of art more than the techniques. But I'm willing to talk about techniques. Suppose we speculate on the meaning of her smile and then discuss its portrayal?"
"Okay. You first, please."
He leans back, considering. "Well," he says slowly, "I've always thought that she smiles for her lover, inviting him, promising warmth and devotion." He peers at me, watching my reaction.
I frown again. "Weird. I think maybe she smiles because she knows a secret no one else does, and she's taunting people. You know, daring them to guess what she's hiding."
Mr. Newcastle hums absently. "Hiding something, you say? Perhaps a sense of play. I see love in her smile, but a happy sort of love, an anticipation."
"I guess it's playful," I say doubtfully. "But I think it's more smug than loving. She's definitely looking at someone, though -- and with the landscape behind her, it's like she's standing at the gate of a secret world, a world only she understands."
"Hiding secrets, hiding a secret world..." Mr. Newcastle trails off, giving me a peculiar look, an oily half-smile that sets my teeth on edge.
"I'd heard," he says suddenly, "that people reveal themselves when they speak of what they see in great paintings. I hadn't put much stock in that view, but I believe I may have to change my mind. Her smile is smug with secrets, you say."
I cross my arms and wish I were wearing pants instead of shorts; the night wind is picking up. "Not in a bad way, not like you're making it sound. Just... she's waiting for someone to figure out what she's hiding, and she thinks wrong guesses are funny. I don't know -- I never thought about this before!"
Now Mr. Newcastle is talking to himself, not even looking at me. "Standing at the edge of a secret world," he says thoughtfully, "and daring people to discover what she hides. Tempting them to try their luck."
"Maybe it's a whatchamacallit -- an allegory," I break in. "Like the landscape is love, and she wants someone to figure that out. So she could be waiting for a lover, like you said."
"Hmm," he says, looking at me again, that oily smile slipping out to cover his face. "And what are you waiting for, Caroline?"
I gape at him. "Me? I'm thirteen! And we just found out there really is a God and he hates us all and he's flooded the world again, and we're probably all going to die! I just want my life back!"
"So do I," Mr. Newcastle hisses, rising from his chair and looming over me. "But sinners have taken it from me, and whores, and I won't have it! Stop tempting me!"
"No problem," I squeak, scrambling from my chair and moving toward the heavy doors. "I'll just go to my cabin now."
"No!" he shouts, and lunges. "You won't get away this time, bitch!"
My head slams against the doors and everything splinters into pain and light.
His mouth burns against mine -- his left hand holds my shoulder to the door and his right scrabbles under my shirt for the zipper of my shorts. I can't believe this is happening. He was so nice, he thought I was worth talking to, and he thinks I'm a whore.
I hurt. I can't think.
My hands reach down to push him from my shorts; my head twists away from his mouth and I draw a breath to scream.
"Don't even think about it, whore," he pants. "Nobody will hear over the engine and the wind, not through these doors."
I scream anyway, and he slaps me, slaps me again, shoves me to the deck, knocks all the air away leaving me to choke on nothing and terror -- a vise over my mouth, a band around my lungs. He yanks down his pants and I can't breathe. His legs are so pale and thin and I can't scream. He reaches for his crotch and I can't move but I can't stay still, can't let him touch me, can't let him...
Ripping cloth -- I look down to the sound. My shorts are gone, my underwear -- the chill of night air on bare skin prickles through the flashing pain.
He shoves down toward me pale and red and ugly and no! The band cracks, breaks, splinters like the pain into my voice, screaming with the night wind. His arms leave my shoulders, go to my mouth and my crotch and press and pull.
I flail, scratch, grab at my shorts, my panties. Something rings on the metal floor, lies heavy in my hand. In my hand, a key, the key to my cabin. This has to be a dream. I'm not here, I'm safe in bed. This isn't real.
Cloth brushes my legs -- his underpants, not my sheets. I'm here, his hand on my mouth, his hand in my crotch, his weight on his knees and my face, and my arms are free. Can't let him get down to me, can't let him, have to stop him, hurt him, kill him like he's killing me!
He looks down to my crotch, his hand in the hidden places, his fingers tearing and pulling, and he shoves down again, shoves forward, ignores my hands as they scratch and push. No no no no no! He can't, I can't let -- I won't! -- and the key bites grooves in my fist as I lunge up to meet him, drive my arm to his face.
Warm and wet, it flows over my fingers and deep screams cut my ears as he falls back, falls to his side and his hand leaves my mouth. Follow my arm up to my hand to my key stuck deep in his eye, weeping blood and mush.
"Bitch, bitch!" slashes my brain, and lets loose the tears and I cry and I scream and now I know why the Mona Lisa smiles, because this is what she's done. This is her secret. Her lips pressed tight to hide the blood on her teeth, the blood of the men who dared to take her. She has blood on her teeth and her hands and she smiles, taunting you with her secret, that she has killed and is still virgin and guards the gate to women's country. She dares men to come and she lives on their blood and she smiles.
The doors crash open, people running through. Stopping in shock they stare, and a woman covers her eyes and screams.
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End
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---------------------------------------------
---------------------------------------------
And here, for comparison purposes, is the story I wrote when I was 12.
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---------------------------------------------
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---------------------------------------------
Mona's Blood
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It's late, maybe eleven. I am walking down the hall from the ladies' room. Mr. Newcastle accosts me. "Carrie, what a pleasant surprise," he says. "Fancy meeting a young lady out at this time of night." His smile looks well oiled.
"Hell, Mr. Newcastle," I say. I smile back, showing my teeth. I do not like the man, nor his smile.
"Ah, manners. I find manners charming in a lady, especially when coupled with beauty and intelligence."
I frown at him. "I'm not beautiful."
"Ah, but you are very intelligent. And I believe you are the only person on this ship besides myself who has any appreciation of fine art. I found your comments on Michelangelo last night fascinating. Might I interest you in a private discussion of da Vinci?"
"You mean Leonardo?" I ask him.
"But of course. Shall we step outside for fresh air? I find it most stimulating, especially for arts." He gives me his oily smile and offers his hand. Curious, I take it. We walk down the hallway, through the door, out onto the deck. He leads me to a set of chairs and we sit, facing each other.
He smiles again, and takes a deep breath. "Ah! Is the air not refreshing?" I nod. "No Carrie, I should like to ask you a question which has puzzled art lovers the world over for centuries. Why does the Mona Lisa smile?" He leans forward, studying my face.
I frown. "That's a very interesting question, Mr. Newcastle. Honestly, I can't say."
"Is that because you cannot, or because you will not venture an opinion?"
"Mmm. 'Cause I'm not sure." He sighs and relaxes.
"Suppose we trade our opinions? Would that help you? I am not entirely sure of mine either."
I consider this. "Okay. You first."
"Well. I have always thought that she smiles for her lover, inviting him." He looks intently at me, watching my reaction.
I frown again. "Funny. I think maybe she smiles because she knows a secret no one else does, and she's taunting people."
"Separating herself?"
"You could say that."
"Being distant, like you? She thinks she is too good for anyone?" He is getting agitated, cheeks red and eyes bright. "Her smile is inviting, the way a proper lady should be. But you say she is taunting, thinking she is too good for any man, just like you! You think intelligence is an excuse to make yourself better than a man! You have taunted me for weeks with your unnatural ways. I know you are a demon sent from hell to tempt me! But I shall conquer you!"
He leaps at me from his chair, grabbing my arms, and slams his mouth against mine. I freeze in shock. He had always seemed so controlled, so polite, not crazy at all. But isn't that what they all say, "He seemed like such a nice boy"? His hand rips my shirt away form behind, raking my back. I come back to myself, and struggle to be free.
His face pulls away. "Do not even think about screaming," he hisses. "No one will hear, not with us outside and the doors all closed. Surrender, demon!" My voice cuts off in mid-scream as he yanks his pants down. His legs are so pale and scrawny. I laugh hysterically, can't stop, can't get air, and keep on laughing. He slaps me, slaps me, slaps me, knocks all the air away. A vise is over my mouth, a band around my lungs. Can't breathe, can't cry, can't move, but mustn't stay still, mustn't let him... what? Mustn't let what?
Ripping cloth, look down to the sound. My pants are gone, my underwear, feel the chill of night air on bare skin. He shoves down towards me, pale and ugly. The band cracks, breaks, splinters into my voice, screaming with the night wind. His arms leave me, go to my mouth and his crotch. Arms flail, scratch. In my right hand, a key. The key to my cabin.
White cloth on my legs, his underwear. His hand on my mouth, his hand on my breasts, my arms are free. Mustn't let him get down to me, have to stop him, hurt him, kill him. Anger boils, drives my arm up, key towards his face. He looks to my crotch, to the hidden places, ignores me. Rage, anger, how can he? Blood flows, deep screams cut my ears. Follow my arm up to my hand to my key stuck deep in his eye.
"Bitch, bitch!" slashes my brain, and lets loose the tears and I cry and I scream and now I know why the Mona Lisa smiles, because this is what she has done. Her lips pressed tight to hide the blood on her teeth, blood of a man who dared to take her. She has blood on her teeth and her hands and she smiles, taunting you with her secret, that she has killed and is still virgin. She dares men to come and lives on their blood and she smiles.
The door crashes open, people running through. Stopping in shock they stare, and a woman covers her eyes and screams.
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End
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There. Maybe now they'll stay out of my head.
Anyway, the set-up section was really godawful, as was the dialogue -- which I realized even at the time -- but the story freaked me out enough that it took me six years to get around to revising it. And then another four years before I finished the revision, this morning.
I still don't like it at all -- not because I think it's a bad story, but because it creeps the hell out of me.
But I want to get it out of my head, so I'm posting it. Read at your own risk.
---------------------------------------------
Mona's Blood
---------------------------------------------
It's late, maybe eleven, and if we were home, if this were before, Mom would kill me for still being up. Actually, she'll probably kill me anyway. The world can go crazy all it wants; Mom will never change. I hope.
The rabbi and Father Jeffries are still arguing, but neither is making much sense anymore. They can keep their god and stuff him; any god who does this to the world -- does it twice, if you believe the Bible -- isn't worth spitting on if you ask me. So I take my glass back to the kitchen, where the crew are listlessly cleaning, and walk out of the lounge. Sleep seems like a very good idea. Maybe tonight there'll be a miracle and tomorrow the water will be gone.
As I turn into the port hall, Mr. Newcastle accosts me. He is, as always, wearing a suit and tie with his hair neatly combed. He's rather good-looking in an stiff way, but he walks like he has a poker up his pants. Still, he's polite, and he always remembers I'm a person, not some six-year-old baby. "Caroline, what a pleasant surprise," he says, his voice smooth and dry. "Fancy meeting a young woman at this time of night." His smile looks well-oiled; Dad says it comes of being a lawyer.
"Good evening, Mr. Newcastle," I say, and smile back, just a little. I like him well enough, but it's late and he's really not much more than a stranger even after two weeks on this ship. And his smile makes me twitch.
"Ah, manners," he says with a laugh. "I was beginning to think everyone had forgotten how to be polite, and here a teenager proves me wrong." He tilts his head. "Then again, I suppose I'm not terribly surprised you haven't forgotten; manners do tend to go with beauty and intelligence."
I frown and take a tiny step backwards. He's as old as Dad; he's not supposed to say things like that to me. "Mr. Newcastle, I'm thirteen," I say. "I'm hardly beautiful."
He smiles, just a little, a real smile this time. His face is nice enough when he's serious, but there's something about that smile that lights him up. "No, you are beautiful, and certainly very intelligent. You remind me of my sister, when she was your age." He makes a peculiar gesture and laughs at himself. "Besides," he continues, "I believe you're the only person on this ship besides me with any appreciation for fine art, and any understanding of the masterpieces we've now lost. Last night, I thoroughly enjoyed your thoughts about Michelangelo. As one art lover to another, might I interest you in a discussion of da Vinci?"
"You mean Leonardo da Vinci?"
"Who else?" He smiles apologetically, another real smile. Why doesn't he use this smile normally instead of the oily one? "I realize it's late, but I believe I saw your parents in the stern lounge. We can speak for a few minutes now and return to the discussion as the opportunity arises, if it proves worthwhile. What do you say?"
What can it hurt, really, to talk about Renaissance artists for a few minutes? And I can be back in the cabin before Mom and Dad; they'll never know how late I've been up. "Sure," I say. "But only for fifteen minutes."
He nods. "That should be enough to learn whether our discussion is worth continuing. Shall we step outside for fresh air and a bit of privacy? It wouldn't do for your parents to find you, and the rabbi and priest make the forward lounge a bit noisy." He smiles and motions me toward the heavy doors that lead to the narrow walkway around the ship. Once outside, we find a set of wickerwork chairs under a lamp, where we sit facing each other. He rests his right ankle on his left knee and sets his hands on his calf. I cross my ankles and wait.
He smiles again and takes a deep breath. "I love the smell of the sea," he says, "though by now I've seen and smelled enough water to last a lifetime. If we still have a lifetime left, after these signs." I shrug, and he gestures as if throwing away the topic. "Now, Caroline, let's begin with a question that has puzzled art aficionados the world over for centuries. Why does the Mona Lisa smile?" He leans slightly forward, his head tilted, as if he expects me to find a brilliant solution.
I frown. "That's an interesting question, Mr. Newcastle. Honestly, I couldn't say."
"What? You don't have a pet theory ready to trot out?" He grins a bit and laughs.
I shrug again. "I'm not really an art critic. It's not something I really thought about. I guess I was more interested in the way her smile fades into her face. I paint -- well, I used to paint, before all this -- and I wanted to learn to do that."
He makes his throwing-away gesture again. "It seems we have slightly different interests, then. I have no particular talent myself, so I've always enjoyed the stories behind works of art more than the techniques. But I'm willing to talk about techniques. Suppose we speculate on the meaning of her smile and then discuss its portrayal?"
"Okay. You first, please."
He leans back, considering. "Well," he says slowly, "I've always thought that she smiles for her lover, inviting him, promising warmth and devotion." He peers at me, watching my reaction.
I frown again. "Weird. I think maybe she smiles because she knows a secret no one else does, and she's taunting people. You know, daring them to guess what she's hiding."
Mr. Newcastle hums absently. "Hiding something, you say? Perhaps a sense of play. I see love in her smile, but a happy sort of love, an anticipation."
"I guess it's playful," I say doubtfully. "But I think it's more smug than loving. She's definitely looking at someone, though -- and with the landscape behind her, it's like she's standing at the gate of a secret world, a world only she understands."
"Hiding secrets, hiding a secret world..." Mr. Newcastle trails off, giving me a peculiar look, an oily half-smile that sets my teeth on edge.
"I'd heard," he says suddenly, "that people reveal themselves when they speak of what they see in great paintings. I hadn't put much stock in that view, but I believe I may have to change my mind. Her smile is smug with secrets, you say."
I cross my arms and wish I were wearing pants instead of shorts; the night wind is picking up. "Not in a bad way, not like you're making it sound. Just... she's waiting for someone to figure out what she's hiding, and she thinks wrong guesses are funny. I don't know -- I never thought about this before!"
Now Mr. Newcastle is talking to himself, not even looking at me. "Standing at the edge of a secret world," he says thoughtfully, "and daring people to discover what she hides. Tempting them to try their luck."
"Maybe it's a whatchamacallit -- an allegory," I break in. "Like the landscape is love, and she wants someone to figure that out. So she could be waiting for a lover, like you said."
"Hmm," he says, looking at me again, that oily smile slipping out to cover his face. "And what are you waiting for, Caroline?"
I gape at him. "Me? I'm thirteen! And we just found out there really is a God and he hates us all and he's flooded the world again, and we're probably all going to die! I just want my life back!"
"So do I," Mr. Newcastle hisses, rising from his chair and looming over me. "But sinners have taken it from me, and whores, and I won't have it! Stop tempting me!"
"No problem," I squeak, scrambling from my chair and moving toward the heavy doors. "I'll just go to my cabin now."
"No!" he shouts, and lunges. "You won't get away this time, bitch!"
My head slams against the doors and everything splinters into pain and light.
His mouth burns against mine -- his left hand holds my shoulder to the door and his right scrabbles under my shirt for the zipper of my shorts. I can't believe this is happening. He was so nice, he thought I was worth talking to, and he thinks I'm a whore.
I hurt. I can't think.
My hands reach down to push him from my shorts; my head twists away from his mouth and I draw a breath to scream.
"Don't even think about it, whore," he pants. "Nobody will hear over the engine and the wind, not through these doors."
I scream anyway, and he slaps me, slaps me again, shoves me to the deck, knocks all the air away leaving me to choke on nothing and terror -- a vise over my mouth, a band around my lungs. He yanks down his pants and I can't breathe. His legs are so pale and thin and I can't scream. He reaches for his crotch and I can't move but I can't stay still, can't let him touch me, can't let him...
Ripping cloth -- I look down to the sound. My shorts are gone, my underwear -- the chill of night air on bare skin prickles through the flashing pain.
He shoves down toward me pale and red and ugly and no! The band cracks, breaks, splinters like the pain into my voice, screaming with the night wind. His arms leave my shoulders, go to my mouth and my crotch and press and pull.
I flail, scratch, grab at my shorts, my panties. Something rings on the metal floor, lies heavy in my hand. In my hand, a key, the key to my cabin. This has to be a dream. I'm not here, I'm safe in bed. This isn't real.
Cloth brushes my legs -- his underpants, not my sheets. I'm here, his hand on my mouth, his hand in my crotch, his weight on his knees and my face, and my arms are free. Can't let him get down to me, can't let him, have to stop him, hurt him, kill him like he's killing me!
He looks down to my crotch, his hand in the hidden places, his fingers tearing and pulling, and he shoves down again, shoves forward, ignores my hands as they scratch and push. No no no no no! He can't, I can't let -- I won't! -- and the key bites grooves in my fist as I lunge up to meet him, drive my arm to his face.
Warm and wet, it flows over my fingers and deep screams cut my ears as he falls back, falls to his side and his hand leaves my mouth. Follow my arm up to my hand to my key stuck deep in his eye, weeping blood and mush.
"Bitch, bitch!" slashes my brain, and lets loose the tears and I cry and I scream and now I know why the Mona Lisa smiles, because this is what she's done. This is her secret. Her lips pressed tight to hide the blood on her teeth, the blood of the men who dared to take her. She has blood on her teeth and her hands and she smiles, taunting you with her secret, that she has killed and is still virgin and guards the gate to women's country. She dares men to come and she lives on their blood and she smiles.
The doors crash open, people running through. Stopping in shock they stare, and a woman covers her eyes and screams.
---------------------------------------------
End
---------------------------------------------
---------------------------------------------
---------------------------------------------
And here, for comparison purposes, is the story I wrote when I was 12.
---------------------------------------------
---------------------------------------------
---------------------------------------------
---------------------------------------------
Mona's Blood
---------------------------------------------
It's late, maybe eleven. I am walking down the hall from the ladies' room. Mr. Newcastle accosts me. "Carrie, what a pleasant surprise," he says. "Fancy meeting a young lady out at this time of night." His smile looks well oiled.
"Hell, Mr. Newcastle," I say. I smile back, showing my teeth. I do not like the man, nor his smile.
"Ah, manners. I find manners charming in a lady, especially when coupled with beauty and intelligence."
I frown at him. "I'm not beautiful."
"Ah, but you are very intelligent. And I believe you are the only person on this ship besides myself who has any appreciation of fine art. I found your comments on Michelangelo last night fascinating. Might I interest you in a private discussion of da Vinci?"
"You mean Leonardo?" I ask him.
"But of course. Shall we step outside for fresh air? I find it most stimulating, especially for arts." He gives me his oily smile and offers his hand. Curious, I take it. We walk down the hallway, through the door, out onto the deck. He leads me to a set of chairs and we sit, facing each other.
He smiles again, and takes a deep breath. "Ah! Is the air not refreshing?" I nod. "No Carrie, I should like to ask you a question which has puzzled art lovers the world over for centuries. Why does the Mona Lisa smile?" He leans forward, studying my face.
I frown. "That's a very interesting question, Mr. Newcastle. Honestly, I can't say."
"Is that because you cannot, or because you will not venture an opinion?"
"Mmm. 'Cause I'm not sure." He sighs and relaxes.
"Suppose we trade our opinions? Would that help you? I am not entirely sure of mine either."
I consider this. "Okay. You first."
"Well. I have always thought that she smiles for her lover, inviting him." He looks intently at me, watching my reaction.
I frown again. "Funny. I think maybe she smiles because she knows a secret no one else does, and she's taunting people."
"Separating herself?"
"You could say that."
"Being distant, like you? She thinks she is too good for anyone?" He is getting agitated, cheeks red and eyes bright. "Her smile is inviting, the way a proper lady should be. But you say she is taunting, thinking she is too good for any man, just like you! You think intelligence is an excuse to make yourself better than a man! You have taunted me for weeks with your unnatural ways. I know you are a demon sent from hell to tempt me! But I shall conquer you!"
He leaps at me from his chair, grabbing my arms, and slams his mouth against mine. I freeze in shock. He had always seemed so controlled, so polite, not crazy at all. But isn't that what they all say, "He seemed like such a nice boy"? His hand rips my shirt away form behind, raking my back. I come back to myself, and struggle to be free.
His face pulls away. "Do not even think about screaming," he hisses. "No one will hear, not with us outside and the doors all closed. Surrender, demon!" My voice cuts off in mid-scream as he yanks his pants down. His legs are so pale and scrawny. I laugh hysterically, can't stop, can't get air, and keep on laughing. He slaps me, slaps me, slaps me, knocks all the air away. A vise is over my mouth, a band around my lungs. Can't breathe, can't cry, can't move, but mustn't stay still, mustn't let him... what? Mustn't let what?
Ripping cloth, look down to the sound. My pants are gone, my underwear, feel the chill of night air on bare skin. He shoves down towards me, pale and ugly. The band cracks, breaks, splinters into my voice, screaming with the night wind. His arms leave me, go to my mouth and his crotch. Arms flail, scratch. In my right hand, a key. The key to my cabin.
White cloth on my legs, his underwear. His hand on my mouth, his hand on my breasts, my arms are free. Mustn't let him get down to me, have to stop him, hurt him, kill him. Anger boils, drives my arm up, key towards his face. He looks to my crotch, to the hidden places, ignores me. Rage, anger, how can he? Blood flows, deep screams cut my ears. Follow my arm up to my hand to my key stuck deep in his eye.
"Bitch, bitch!" slashes my brain, and lets loose the tears and I cry and I scream and now I know why the Mona Lisa smiles, because this is what she has done. Her lips pressed tight to hide the blood on her teeth, blood of a man who dared to take her. She has blood on her teeth and her hands and she smiles, taunting you with her secret, that she has killed and is still virgin. She dares men to come and lives on their blood and she smiles.
The door crashes open, people running through. Stopping in shock they stare, and a woman covers her eyes and screams.
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End
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There. Maybe now they'll stay out of my head.
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(no subject)
Date: 2004-09-02 12:15 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2004-09-02 02:59 am (UTC)Honestly, I find it really hard to be objective about "Mona's Blood." I'm too close to it, and I'm really uncomfortable with the subject matter -- both the rape and the eyeball stabbing (which is actually a recurring element in my nightmares, and I'm sure that's more than you really wanted to know about the icky bits of my subconscious mind).
I do think the story holds up much better than most stuff I wrote back then, though, probably because I really believed in it. I wasn't just trying to imitate the styles and themes of my favorite authors, or write something cool -- no, it's my own nightmare, 100%.
It's a fairly good look at my shaky grasp of dialogue and character motivation, though.
(no subject)
Date: 2004-09-02 04:12 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2004-09-02 07:01 pm (UTC)I still think the dialogue parts of the old version suck ass, but you'll notice that I didn't change all that much in the actual attempted rape part, just the set-up for getting there.
And as I said before, I think "Mona's Blood" probably stands up better than most of my old work. It has that spark that sticks in a writer's mind and refuses to go away, unlike most of the other things I wrote back then, which I frankly find hard to remember at all.
(no subject)
Date: 2004-09-02 10:28 pm (UTC)thanks for encouraging me to jsut plain sackit out before I do the same yo udo and freka msyelf out. I believe your'e very braveto show people something that scared even you.
and here I'll stop spamming.
(no subject)
Date: 2004-09-03 02:02 am (UTC)