Page 67 of His Pretty Little Duet
Directly across from the camera, a couch and a glass table are plain to see, but the low-light and poor-quality equipment cause the surrounding areas to be licked with darkness. Pixilated. I slide the bar across until I see a blur of people enter the room. I stop and watch my little deer in a pretty dress sit down in the centre of the couch. Her brothers: Landon, Jake, and the dead fucker, Benji, position themselves around her.
She will never be alone like that again.
My little deer.
My Cosa Nostra princess.
Mine.
Distractingly, my heart hammers against the bars of my ribs, an angry spike of adrenaline throwing it into a damn frenzy inside me, while outwardly I simply lift my leg and rest it on my knee.
Ball my hands into fists.
Tighten my entire body.
Watching the footage play out.
Fawn
Three monthsago
The television flickers on, but it is one of those old-school boxes, thick and bordered in a kind of wood-look laminate. Static brings it to life, lighting the basement with flickering colour and then the glow of a black-and-white movie.
The girl and the boy on the screen are naked, but the girl isn’t moving, and then I realise it’s because she’s unconscious. It isn’t in English. Despite the disturbing content, I find it hard to look away from the hypnotic way her body shakes as he takes her without consent.
I glance from the screen and meet Benji's soulful gaze. In my mind, I smile, and yet, my lips won't form the curve.
Still, I'm almost certain he winks at me.
Subtle. Just for me to see. And even in this strange state of intoxication, I feel my heart soar in response to that gesture.
When the girl on the television screams, my eyes cut across to watch as she wakes up with the boy inside her. It's not a nice film. But Benji likes cult movies, and I like him...
Dotted in light from the standing lamps and the monitor, his room in the basement looks plucked straight from the set of an 80s show. On his wall, retro pin-up girls pose, their pear-shaped physiques tightly covered in short jumpsuits, taunting my skinny frame. He likes his girls curvaceous, confident, and dominant. Everything I’m not. Marilyn stands on a drain, air lifting her dress, and she pretends to be demure.
A cough drags my attention back to my brothers, back to the cannabis and cocaine sprinkled carelessly on the glass coffee table. My eyes scan the faces, naturally landing on Benji once more, and he gives me that grin. I think I successfully smile back this time.
A whooshing fills my ears, my heart rate slow but shuttering, nonsensical. I go to stand but wobble, dropping back down onto the couch.
No one notices.
My mouth is suddenly dry.
I go to talk, but the words don’t reach my tongue, yet I know they are in there. My bare thighs are like ice below my palms, and I wonder if I’m wet or sweating or if it’s just the sensation of being cold.
“She looks fucked."
Benji moves beside me and wraps an arm around me. I lean into him, seeking comfort as the inebriation climbs into my consciousness and warps my reality. His scent covers me like a blanket fending off the awful helplessness my condition brings with it. We watch the horrible movie play.
My eyes shift from the rape scene ahead, slicing through the air to a blinking red dot...
... flash... flash... flash...
Benji laughs on a cough, thick, pungent clouds moving around the space between the four of us. They have moved now, and the credits are rolling... I don’t remember when that movie finished.
A hand settles over mine, and I drop my gaze, staring at the way my bare thighs press together. A short white dress. Benji likes it, and I enjoy being smiled at by him. I watch Landon’s hand remove mine so he can touch my skin. It all feels the same, though. His hand. My hand. My thigh is so numb I'm not sure I'd feel a knife scoring my skin. Is that normal?
“Landon, man, give her another hit,” Benji says moments before dropping his nose to the glass and sniffing loudly. He tilts his head back and sucks air in.
