We Prick You

"Duke’s what you’d call an older man. I’m what you’d call under-age, only he doesn’t know. He thinks I’m 17."

A cautionary tale about a young runaway and the evils of older men.

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9. Scars

So tired. All I do is eat, shit and sleep. How long have I been here? Weeks? Months? It’s all a blur. 

    He locks the door every time he goes out now. Says he can’t trust me. Might do something stupid. Ha! Already did my something stupid, didn’t I? 

    Can’t remember my last period. He doesn’t care. Told him I was pregnant, he just laughed. Said I couldn’t be. Won’t get a test. Waste of money. Won’t get me new clothes any more. Waste of money. 

    Filling up now. Cheap vodka and TV shows I can’t understand. One minute I’m watching two fat slappers fight over some skinny rat of a bloke, next minute some spoilt brat is complaining that the singer her mum hired for her birthday isn’t A list enough.

    Think about who will sing about my 16th birthday. Think about who will sing at my funeral. Facebook messages, calling me a stupid bitch, a slag. Tears come easy.

    Keep blacking out. Losing time. It’s always dark. Duke comes in, chews on me for a bit, goes out again. Scars all over my arms, legs, everywhere. Some days, I wake up crying.

    I think about baby names. Tyler for a boy, Lou for a girl. No reasons, just like the sound of them. Think about our little family. Changing nappies, painting a nursery, tiny vests and socks.

    Stroke my belly. So many scars. Think about my blind, half-formed baby slithering out in my bleed. Writhing and splashing and dying, like a fish out of water. Lucky bastard.

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