The voice in my head is incessantly whining at me; Don’t start. Stop Crying. Big girls don’t cry. You’re stronger than this. Gods, shut up already. I’m not stronger than this, not remotely. Perhaps once upon a time, when I could breathe and move without scrutiny and suspicion, and without resignation, maybe then, I was stronger. Now, not even close.
I know that tears are a waste. I know that they are a weakness and that they get you hurt. Whatever entity lives up there knows that I’ve lived enough lessons in my life to know that’s a fact, Jack. There are those that will shake their heads in disbelief or in disgust at my words, likely wondering if I have finally blown a mental gasket and if I am leaking sanity. I’m neither out of my head nor crazy; things would be simpler if I were, but no, this is all just result of environmental poisonings, experiences and far too many teachings from the fist. One learns early on how to bottle and I am old hat at that game. I’ve forgotten more about self-preservation techniques than most should ever know in their lives.
People are so blind. They have little clue about how it feels to sit and shout at yourself you must not be weak sister every single time tears threaten or how it feels to know that you are going to fail. I doubt most of them could survive if they couldn’t find a Starbucks. I wonder if any of you can comprehend being torn apart by your own mind, over a few tears? I don’t think that the majority could, and I pray that they never learn how.
It’s a dual existence truly, learning how to shatter on the inside, and while smiling on the out. Sometimes, some nights it gets to be too much and the pressure can’t be held any longer. No matter how one tries, no matter how one berates oneself, those tears are going to fall.
No one likes to be made fun of as they are falling apart; the beatings I give myself, the fear that I can taste in my mouth when that dam breaks, the shame of crying because I can’t stop, is agonising. To be poked at and told to stop and denied release when it’s an impossible to hold back that tidal wave with what amounts to a drink umbrella is more than unfair. It’s cruel. The words just add a sting, when warm arms would’ve been a softer place to land.
In attempting to be all that everyone requires, one loses oneself in the demands. It’s difficult to juggle, but I like to think that I do it well. But it is difficult to be that tough supporter for those I care for, love while I starve myself. The needs of the many and all that. My life is micromanaging the undefinable, and making it work is all that much harder, and I manage while balancing that fine line between function and fulfilment. Existing in a loud, large bubble is no way to live.
He told me that he was going home to check on the animals and to put gas in the car. It would have been believable if it weren’t for the fact that it was quite difficult to drive without the keys to the vehicle, and he hadn’t asked for them since he tossed them into my purse when we arrived. He had planned to drink. Again.
Tonight, after the community bonfire that we had no choice but to attend, I saw him there in the shadows of the commissary. His eyes were full of brimstone and bite, lustfully gazing on the youthful wife of our Mayor with his dick in his eyes. I saw how she undulated slightly when her eyes met his, and the way she changed position with a gasp before excusing herself with a small smile and a flush. His eyes followed her all night, with his hand rubbing at his crotch absently and his tongue tracing his lips over and over, likely wishing they were hers, while I stood there embarrassed and growing angrier. It didn’t matter, because I wasn’t there, or rather, was and would be invisible until she turned him away. It was all about her. I thought he’d cum in his pants when she brushed against him, and I watched her hand brush against his erection with a smirk in my direction. Whore.
There they are; they think that they are hidden from view they way that they’re greedily groping each other. The Mayor’s wife and the librarian’s husband, who would’ve thought, wanking one another off in full view of anyone with eyes. “Does he have it on him?” a low male voice mutters in my ear, startling me out of the morbid mental happy place that I was in and I feel the smile spread across my lips. The warm meaty hands on my ass make me want to vomit but I nod and shudder when those thick fingers graze the sensitive skin on my inner thigh. I can’t do more than nod.
The cock that Rodney is so proud of is out for the night, twitching in the cool night air and I can hear the crackle of wrapper from here. He shoves her to her knees and slips the rubber from the package and over his dick. “Keep quiet this time, Deena. I didn’t get to finish last time,” Rodney growls and plows into her with a laugh. Last time. He bucks his hips into her and she moans loudly then squeaks when he falls against her in quickening paroxysmal convulsions. The man behind me chuckles and his large hocks squeeze my ass once more before moving away with a suggestion that I make myself scarce. What a chicken shit.
Rodney lies jittering on top of Deena, his overly swollen glans trapping Deena as much as his dead weight does and she can do little more than pant shallowly when I step quickly into the light of the fire and again into the darkness of the commissary shadows where she writhes in the dirt. “Please? Help me! I’m sorry. Can’t be seen. Here. Like this,” and I laugh to myself at the tears streaming down her dirty cheeks. Her cupid bow lips fall open in shock and dismay when Rodney bucks and blows snot into her chestnut hair. “Rodney! Dammit, get off of me! What the fuck did you do to your dick? It hurts!”
“Shut up whore. He didn’t get to finish last time, didn’t you hear? How lucky for you that he gives a shit enough to tell you that you don’t matter. Hear that? You were so anxious to have him inside you that you blew him in public where anyone could see you. I did. Your moans need work by the way. Not believable in the least.” The first voices of the other attendees are getting louder and I titter darkly from around the corner, remembering to stay out of sight. Rodney gasps again, choking bile onto her shoulder and she sobs like a twelve-year-old with a rash. He’s not dead. What a pity. He whined into my ear often enough about how he was trapped living with me. Now he is truly trapped. by the pussy he couldn’t live without. Perhaps he should have looked closer at the wrapper. His are purple, latex free.
“Hey Deena,” I chuckle as I spy the first flashes of lanterns headed this way, “I found this old video on the web. Robin Bobbin? Original.” Closer still and I crouch closer to whisper “Soon everyone else will know what you are too. Virgin bride, my ass.” Deena’s pretty eyes close in submission to fact and I dart from my safe place to spit into her pretty, filthy face, and this time I kick her in the side of the head.
The first lantern bursts through the darkness just as I make my escape and the horrified shouts of the Mayor and his entourage reach my ears much like an applause track in one of those old sitcoms. The next morning the paper from the towns in the surrounding areas will tell the tale of the Mayor’s not so virginal bride, the Mayor’s Right Hand Man and the Missing wife. Such a small town scandal that won’t soon be forgotten.
As for me? I was paid handsomely for my participation and one never knows what the next sunrise will bring.