Sugar Baby Blues

 

Art done by:

https://www.deviantart.com/misiasart     

    Abbey always had a thing for older men; not her, or any of her friends around her really understood where it came from. On several occasions, they would express concern, other times the friendships around her would just crumble. Her parents on the other hand, didn't seemed concerned, or even surprised. From an outsiders perspective, Abbey was the epitome of privilege--blonde hair, blue eyes, a cheerleader with an upper middle class family that had the means to help her pay for medical college. It made no sense that someone like her would attach herself to unstable father figures, but people often mistake beauty with goodness.

    When Abbey was 13, she fell in love with her art teacher, and continued to have an affair with him until she went off to high school. That same year, he went to prison for having sex with an 11 year old girl. Throughout high school, she juggled a relationship with both her high school boyfriend and his dad. They both got away with it, and the relationship with both of them ended when she graduated. Unfortunately, things got progressively worse during college. Her first semester there, she developed an obsession with a married teacher that resulted in her getting kicked out of school, and having to finish her courses online. When that didn't work out and she had to go to a different school, her parents refused to pay for it, so she developed unhealthy attachments to to sugar daddies that ultimately ended in heartbreak. The only person she ever opened up to was her best friend Kristy, who is currently consoling her confused, childhood best friend.

    "Abbey, honey, don't let that geriatric fuck boy get to you! We're in the prime of our lives, by the time we're 30, he'll be impotent."

    Abbey chuckles, wiping her tears with a damp Kleenex. "I just don't get it, he acted as if he really liked me. He told me he was only interested in dating me and being intimate with me, then when we go out dancing he blows me off for another woman! I mean seriously, what the fuck?!"

    "He's an emotionally stunted narcissist that treats women like props, that's it, it's not about you." Kristy was blunt in her analysis, which people either hated or admired, but Abbey appreciated her tough love.

    "Spoken like a true psychologist." Abbey gave a weak smile, she sniffles as she stares at her hands, playing with what is now an unusable wad of snot cotton.

    Kristy looks down in deep thought before sighing, "Abbey, I've known you my whole life and I love you very much, but this pattern..." Kristy pauses briefly to consider her next words carefully, "this pattern has remained consistent since we were kids and I'm really, really worried about you."

    They both remained silent for only a few seconds before Kristy continued, "At the Marsha Ross Institute, they're working on this experimental treatment plan. It's only been used on patience with amnesia associated with head trauma, but their has been a high success rate."

    Abbey rolls her eyes and chuckles, "uh Kristy, I don't have amnesia. Sharp memory? Spelling bee champ? I mean, HELLO!"

    Kristy didn't let her friends generic, cocky, cheerleader attitude distract her. "Maybe not, but I do think their could be something from your past that you may not be thinking about, and this may help you connect the dots."

    Abbey rolled her eyes, "for what purpose?'

    "Uh, so you can make healthier decisions for yourself and move on with you life? Duh!" Kristy replies with an edge to her tone, clearly irritated with her besties stubbornness.

    Abbey looks down at the Kleenex in her hands as she considers the idea, then throws it away in the small trashcan next to the couch. "OK, I'll do it."

                                                                                         ~

    A team of students, a doctor, and a professor surround Abbey in a sterile white room; Kristy stood next to her with a supportive hand in hers. The doctor spoke seriously and directly when regarding the treatment, "Abbey, this treatment will work much like a time machine. Your mind will take you back to a memory that you've forgotten, and probably for good reason. Do you understand that whatever you see, we are not responsible and the memory, as well as what you do with it, will be yours to carry?"

    Abbey felt a pang of fear and hesitation at the possibility of unresolved trauma, which she never bothered to consider. However, if that were the case, better to deal with it now than later. Still feeling uneasy at what she might discover, Abbey responds with a reluctant nod.

    "Are you sure? Once you go in and uncover these memories, theirs no going back."

    "Yes, I understand, I want to continue." Abbey replies with more confidence, but as more of an assurance to herself than the doctor.

    "OK, then lets begin."

                                                                                    ~

    Abbey was injected with a drug called Neocortoxine, a muscle relaxant that stimulated the part of the brain responsible for memory. Once the doctor placed a hat on Abbeys head--one that appeared  as if a robot gave birth to a pair of ominous tentacles, all of which were attached to what looked like a mini fridge with a couple of buttons and a light switch; immediately Abbey began to drift as neurostimulation allowed electrical impulses in the brain to uncover what was lost.

    Abbey stood in a poorly lit basement, surrounded by dusty boxes and cobwebs. She remembered this place from her early childhood, her parents had to downgrade after her baby brother was born. Luckily, they only stayed there for about 5 years; both her, and her parents absolutely hated the place. The basement was the worst of all--the musty air made Abbeys allergies twitch, causing her to choke. As she began to cough, two men descended the steps with a little girl traveling behind them. The little girl was Abbey when she was 6, one of the men was her dad, the other she didn't recognize. She was worried that they would see her, but as they approached the bottom of the steps, and all three of them walked past her without a second glance, and her coughing began to subside. She then realized that her experience there is merely palpable, not so concrete. She was--well, I suppose in a literal sense, a ghost within her own past acting as a spectator.

    Abbey walked around the corner to see her 6 year old self, sitting on an old couch next to the unknown man. He was older, old enough to be her grandfather; he had a tall, stocky form with a stern look about him, and a seemingly predatory gaze that never seemed to leave young Abbey. 

   Abbey watched the little version of herself look up to her dad as he gave her clear instructions, gesturing to a video camera. "Now, you're going to be a good girl and you're going to help daddy make a movie, OK? Then we'll go get ice cream!"

    Little Abbeys eyes sparkle innocently as she nodded emphatically, "But first," Abbeys dad stated as he held up a finger, pointed at the burly man on the couch. He leaned back, then unzipped his pants. "I need you to take care of my friend here--just like ice cream."

    Older Abbey gaped at the scene appalled and outraged; the violation of trust, the look of confusion and fear on young Abbeys face as the man roughly grabbed her by her hair, the secrets buried beneath an image of wealth of mediocrity...

    'How could I be so stupid!'

    Abbey jolted from her chemically induced hallucination, then began hyperventilating. Kristy runs over to her friend, taking the tentacle robot off her head. "Whats wrong honey? What did you see?"

    Abbeys sobs uncontrollably, "How could he do those things to me?!"

    "What do you mean? Who did what to you?" Kristy wiped the tears from Abbeys eyes.

    "My dad, he let men do horrible things to me when I was 6 and..." Abbeys bottom lip trembled, "fucking recorded it!"

    Kristy was afraid of this, hell, even the professionals in the room saw it coming; but Abbey needed to address the issues that were ruining her life. From this point on, Kristy could see that things were only going to get harder; not just for Abbey, but for the both of them. She knew that their was a possibility that this may even put a strain on their friendship, maybe even end it. She also knew that it was likely that Abbey may never come back from this, and inevitably blame her like she was currently blaming herself.

 

   As guilt began to rise up in Kristy's throat, she choked out a small sob lamenting the suggestion she had made, then lovingly embraces her. "Shhh, I'm here bestie, I'll be here every step of the way. You're not alone..."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Pistol Whipped Asphyxiation

                                                                             

The smoking gun

Art by: Jeffrey Richter

http://industrialhumanity.blogspot.com/

    Thousands of children grow up in foster care each year. Most of those children are never adopted. In fact, most of those kids age out of the system; forever lost in a filing cabinet or a digital wasteland of empty hopes and dreams.

    Unfortunately, I am one of those statistics. Regina Louise and Dave Pelzer were two authors that brought me solace growing up. I don't know my real name, so I call myself Regina Pelzer. My earliest memory in the system is my first family. They were a nice couple with a nice house and a nice yard; seemingly cookie cutter. It was exactly what one might suspect, too good to be true. I was only 4 years old when I felt the first sweltering blow of a belt across my back. All because I spilled a glass of milk in fancy china.

    Now, I'm a 32-year-old coke and heroin addict; I work in a sleazy strip club where you can get a blow job in the VIP room for the right price. The hope that I had in my early youth had been buried; numbed by drugs and beads of sweat that splattered from the bodies of strange men. I was innocent then; with innocence, there is naivete with naivete, theirs only ignorance behind childish eyes. At this point in my life, I feel like I should've been aborted.

    I'm bitter, sad, and aging; my green eyes are sunken and hollow and my skin is dry and cracked. My red hair has no grey yet, but it's dull and lifeless. The rest of me appears rail thin and sickly. A few good years of drug abuse has devastated my once desirable appearance.

    I'm about to be 33, and I look and feel middle aged. I've decided that I'm ready to cleanse the planet of my wretched existence, but I'm not going out alone. If I'm going to clean up the world, I'm going to take out as many as possible.

    I met up with my drug dealer who sold ammo as well. I had no money, but as a woman whose sole purpose contributed nothing more than self-preservation, I had more to offer him and seven other men. 

    I pack an automatic weapon, a pistol; and a gorgeously sharp knife with brass knuckles for the handle. As I admired the Barretta 93R, one man who sat in a chair lacing up his shoes asks,

    "So, what do you need all these guns for anyway?"

    "Spring cleaning," I reply.

    Without hesitance, I unload a simultaneous round of bullets into every single one of them. I grab the car keys off my dealer's corpse, put the Barretta in the medium-sized duffel bag I brought with me, and quickly headed out the back door. I drove to the foster group home that I grew up in. It was late, so the building was dark and empty; all except for the receptionist. She's an older lady with brown hair and gray roots.

    "May I help you?" She asks skeptically due to my withered appearance.

     I made no reply, I took the knife hiding behind my back and swiftly slit her throat. I ripped her blood splattered badge off her blouse so I could get through the highly secure building. I wiped the card on my jeans and swiped it. The doors to the day room opened; it is just as I remembered; crowded and smelly. Kids slept on the floor, couches, and chairs; very few were lucky enough to get a bed. Everything stunk of discarded offspring.

    From my right, I notice an older black nurse approach me from the nurse's station.

    "Ma'am, what do you think you're doing?" She asks unequivocally.

    I noticed children stirring awake amongst shamefully self-made floor pallets. I hastily whip out the automatic weapon I used to kill my dealer and his indigent crew. The duffel bag drops to the ground; as if everything were in slow motion, bullets go flying killing the nurse and several sleeping kids near her. Blood splatters and pools begin to form then suddenly, I'm bombed by awareness. Children scream and cry and I know theirs no turning back.

    I wasted no time and I began taking out as many as possible. Children ran into their rooms as I followed them. I stopped at room 23B, a girl sat calmly in her bed. I looked at her and she looked at me; I felt like I knew her. 

    Ten years ago I had a daughter that I gave up to the system, ignorantly thinking she would be ok. I walk into her room, close the door, and sit down next to her. She did not flinch or turn away.

    "Are you going to kill me?" She wonders innocently.

    I lovingly brush some of her hair behind her ear and warmly reply, "Yes."

    "Is it going to hurt? I'm tired of everything hurting." She says.

    My baby girl is only ten, and she's already contemplating suicide. This time, I had to do right by her.

    "Baby, I'm going to offer you something that no one else was ever willing to give you; freedom from pain."

    She leans into me and I kiss her on the head as I wrap my arms around her. I sing to her as I pull out the .44 magnum. I put the gun to her face and quickly pull the trigger, blowing her skull off. I nuzzle closely into her neck, feeling content and at peace. My face wrinkles into a smile of tranquility as I put the gun under my chin.  Right as the cops bust in the door to my daughter's room, I pull the trigger. For only a fraction of a second, the lights flickered. I was then cast into oblivion and the world around me went black.

                                                   THE END

Glass Cinderella

                                                                               

Artwork by Anthony Clarkson

There once was a girl I called Cinderella.
She paints herself in darkness and crimson dresses.
Her hair is as black as the midnight sky
Her skin scarred from distress
But no one knows the real her for she hides behind her porcelain mask.
She seems so normal and so sane
And she's loved for her beauty and enigmatic ways.
But when the clock strikes 12
She's all alone
And is safe to reveal her true self.
She wastes away into sadness and shame as she runs the razor across her alabaster skin.
She then hears the slurred speech and heavy footsteps of her drunken father
So she runs to the corner of her room trembling in fear.
But before she knew anyone
Her father had tainted her
Corrupted her
Poisoned the little bit of innocence she had left.
She lies there disturbed and nearly blind
Sheets wet from the blood that slithers down her arms and thighs.
Her mind flashes with intensity and rage.
All the sudden she lost all control
And let the sickness swallow her whole.
With all her hate and all her might
She took the kitchen knife and forever told daddy dearest
Goodnight.

Artwork by Anthony Clarkson