Gwendolyn vs. the Band of Barren Hearts

by Mary E. Palmerin

  “There, my sweet girl. You feeling better yet?”

  I nod my head yes. I’m not so good with words. He knows that. I either scream out of an emotional outburst or simply due to unbiased honesty, which only comes from his eyes. I make note that my heart can’t take any more of that today. I have to avoid those eyes.

  He lathers a washcloth with soap, washing my arms, chest, and breasts with care. His hand makes its way down to my belly then to my sex, washing gently with no intentions of lust. I want to fall back and float on like a feather because I am sure that I can take no more. Pain and want all in one. That is such a goddamn cluster-fuck.

  After he ensures that the soap is free from my skin, he drains the water from the tub.

  I look to his bare chest and gasp. How could my mind be so selfish and unaware? Purple bruises are already forming over his once perfect pecs that are dusted with a faint amount of hair. His has lash marks, too many to count, over his belly and I want to care for him like he just did for me. I try to stand from the tub, but lose my balance.

  “Hey, take it easy. Let me help you,” he says sweetly.

  His nice persona is pissing me off. He deserves affection too. I want to give it to him. I push his arm away.

  “What’s wrong?” he asks, perplexed.

  “I want to care for you too, but you won’t let me.”

  A smile, wicked in nature, grazes his face. How does he do that? How does he balance the monstrosity and softness so fluidly? I don’t understand. I can’t. I’m a fucking stick of dynamite that is bound to explode soon. A train wreck while he is some beautiful disaster. My mind betrays me as I wonder what I did to deserve him.

  People care for one another when they love them, Gwen. That’s what life is about, sweetie.

  I shake my head no, the inevitable tears that I’ve hidden for far too long staining my face. I want to forget, forget them, who I was. It’s torture, such torture to live with that. Life isn’t fair!

  “Come back to me, Gwen,” he says sternly.

  I huddle backwards in the tub, my naked, wet body sliding around along the plastic since the water’s been drained.

  “Gwendolyn,” Welch states in a deeper voice, standing over me.

  Oh, God. He knows me. He knows what I can’t handle… too much niceness. So now, he is giving me what I need.

  My very own monstrosity.

  “Take my hand now, Gwendolyn.”

  I look up to him, his brows furrowed with intent and influence.

  Yes, influence. He has it over me just like I have it over him. I can’t help myself as I place my hand in his. He pulls me up slightly and wraps a towel around my shaking body. I’m not cold, I’m burning with need. How can he do that? I don’t care to have the answers anymore.

  He cuddles me to his naked chest and walks down the hallway and into our room, laying me down onto my bed. Welch goes over to where my clothes are held, remaining silent, and fishing around for clothes.

  But I don’t want to get dressed right now.

  God, I am all sorts of fucked up.

  He takes out a pair of clean panties, a white T-shirt, and pajama pants.

  “I, I, I thought-,” I stammer.

  “You thought what, sweet girl?” he says soothingly.

  Oh, help me. Cold to hot. Hot to cold. This boy is killing me.

  “I want you, Welch. Please. Make it all go away.”

  I release the towel from my shoulders while looking down to the hardening length in his boxer shorts. The muscles of his jaw tense while his nostrils flare. I don’t understand why he’s being so contemplative.

  “Take me,” I beg.

  “They could be home soon. What if they catch us? And you’re hurt, Gwen,” he whispers painfully, running his hands through his hair.

  “Fix me,” I retort, opening myself up to him.

  He takes a deep breath and walks my way, stopping just a foot shy of my exposed, wanton body.

  “They will kill us if they come home, Gwen.”

  “A death like this with you would be the best way to go,” I whimper, allowing my body to fall back onto the bed.

  “You’re killing me, Gwen.”

  I allow myself to let out a small laugh followed by a sigh as he kisses the inside of my knee. I feel his lips turn up into a smile.

  “Do that again,” he pants, then smiles once more onto my skin.

  “What?” I breathe.

  “Laugh.”

  I feel my flushed cheeks turned into a smile. I’m going to live in this dream within a fucked up nightmare. Welch provides me with little bits of goodness. Pieces of hope that I threw away all that time ago.

  But maybe there really is hope… for me.

  Maybe I haven’t lost my way completely. Perhaps I only got lost to find him.

  His hot kisses on my thigh send me into a frenzy while I tangle my hands in his hair. A chuckle emulates from his mouth. A goddamn grin dusts my skin again and I am certain I am about to go mad.

  “You’re driving me crazy, Welch.”

  “You kill me. I drive you crazy. Sounds like a perfect fucking match, sweet girl.”

  I’m in a tailspin of unknown origin, but who cares.

  “Do that, but look at me, Welch.”

  As much as I want him licking my wet heat, I want to see that grin. I want proof that faith isn’t lost. He rises slowly between my legs, his lips so pink and delicious.

  “What do you want, sweet girl?”

  “Smile for me, please.”

  “Give me a reason to, then,” he retorts.

  My heart is racing. I can’t think, I just know what I want. His hands begin to tickle along my thigh, stopping short of my throbbing slit.

  “Please. Oh. Please.”

  Begging. I am begging at this point. For which part, his smile or his touch, I am unsure. Then, the glorious moment happens as the edges of his mouth curve perfectly to expose his white teeth. Oh. My. God.

  “See, that,” he whispers while grazing the top of my clit, “Is a good fucking reason to smile, sweet girl.”

  “Please. More!” I beg again.

  That delicious smile turns up more as he inserts his finger inside me, turning it about in a rhythm that will send me into a delightful frenzy. What a harmonious reunion this is; one with my body, mind, and heart. He is the only person that has this way over me and I have to admit, I am getting more and more comfortable with it.

  “Make me yours,” I plead.

  With that plea, he pushes his boxers down to the ground and spreads my legs gently apart. It isn’t about pain right now. No, it is about us, our own little paradise. They may be able to force us to fuck before them, but he doesn’t do it like this. There is nothing sensual about what happens before those devils.

  This is a different story.

  His lips pepper kisses along my belly, making me want the connection more than before. He slides up not wasting a moment to look into my eyes, edging his hardened length into my welcoming body. I moan in appreciation, thankful for so many things that I can’t put them into words. He slowly rocks his hips into me as I sink into the bed, relishing the sensation.

  How can I be such a Jekyll and Hyde, craving pain one moment to forget feeling, yearning for the softness the next? Will I always be this fucked up? I pray for the world that I’m not, but after all, who has failed who?

  “More,” I urge.

  “Open up for me, sweet girl. I, lo-,” I pull his mouth onto mine. I can’t hear those words right now.

  I don’t deserve them. He deserves them, but not me. Yes, I’m selfish. I need him to breathe, to survive, but I can’t bear to hear those words right now. My heart will break if something happens to us, to him…

  Then I let go and fall.

  Fall.

  Down a weightless helix of ecstasy, quaking around him without a care in the world.

  “Yes, make me free for this time that we share. But don’t leave me. Promise me,” I cry as my vision becomes cloudy.
>
  Thoughts can be a funny thing. Thinking to yourself can cause betrayal when you are teetering the edge of insanity. Clearly my mouth is disloyal to my brain as I blurted out my guarded thoughts.

  “I won’t ever leave you, Gwen,” he pants, pulling himself out of me, spilling his hot fluid over my belly.

  It’s at this moment that I am equally as terrified from the internal prison I was living in before to now, realizing that there is such a thing of fucked up love after loss. I feel the protective shell that Welch was able to etch away slowly start to harden around me. My gut turns as I’m a conflicted mess.

  Living in my head is not an easy place to be. Battling these thoughts, these incubi that haunt me are becoming too daunting to handle. I want to claim rout, give in, and say fuck the fight. This is becoming too much to bear.

  I push him away from me and pull my knees into my chest, screaming as loud as I can into the air, not giving a shit who can hear me. I’m certain that the loudness is enough to burst the windows of this shit-hole and I only wish it wasn’t my heart.

  God, help my heart and fuck my head.

  I love him.

  “Talk to me, Gwen,” Welch pleads.

  “Come the fuck on you cunts,” yells Helen from the kitchen.

  I can’t believe that she wants to bring us in public. That hasn’t happened since I’ve been here.

  “What part of town is the party at?” I ask Welch.

  He shrugs his shoulders. God, that pisses me off, but I can’t blame him. It’s been two days since I had my freak-out session and we haven’t spoken much. Claude and Helen informed us that they wanted us to accompany them to a family dinner to celebrate their grandson’s birthday. For a few seconds, I feel sick, then hoping with every cell in my body that they don’t act out on their family.

  Not that we are any better, but at least we could get shuffled around. They are stuck with him forever. It makes me shiver with terror.

  “I said come on you fuckers!” Helen calls out down the hall before letting out a loud cough.

  I tuck an unruly strand of my hair behind my ear, looking down at my torn tennis shoes. I can’t believe my dirty appearance, wearing the same clothes after they’re washed once a week. I used to get excited about makeup and hairspray, now my face is drab, lifeless, and pale. I’ve always had a smaller frame, but I’ve lost a significant amount of weight since getting here. Some nights they will offer us a decent meal. Other nights they will place a dog dish full of Alpo food on the floor. Other evenings we hit the jack-pot with fried spam on pumpernickel bread.

  Lucky us, right?

  I can only think of one thing as my belly grumbles to life… I hope that there is decent food at this party. Surely they won’t deny us the right to eat proper food before their family. I can only hope for that to be true. I feel the weight of Welch’s shadow walking behind me, peering into my heart as he tries to splice it back open again. Goose bumps run down my back. Fuck him and his influence. Now is not the time or place.

  “It’s about time. You look like shit, girl. Didn’t your momma teach you to impress guests?”

  Rage.

  No one talks about my mother.

  “Fuck you, you dirty cunt,” my filthy mouth spats.

  “Gwen!” Welch whispers, grabbing my arm and pulling me into him for protection.

  Helen cackles like the old, nasty fat lady she is. The monster I wish for splurges through the shell with vigor.

  “Bring it, bitch.”

  Again, my mouth betrays my mind, but I don’t care anymore. I want to pounce on her like a goddamn tiger. All I can think of is how it would feel to take her life. To look in her eyes as the awful, disgusting life is drained away. How would that really make me feel?

  Content.

  Claude laughs again. I turn my head in astonishment. What in the fuck is going on? Where is his belt? Where is my punishment? Something isn’t right here.

  “Zip up your dirty mouth, cupcake. I won’t be late for my grandson’s party ‘cause your sorry ass.”

  That’s it? Seriously? There has to be a catch. There is always a catch when it comes to Helen and Claude. I feel Welch’s grasp tighten around my upper arm.

  “What?” I snap as Helen and Claude exit the front door, expecting us to leave.

  “You can’t be acting like that, Gwen. You’re going to get yourself killed.”

  “Clearly,” I say, rolling my eyes in sarcasm due to their lack of reprimand.

  “I could be gone,” he interjects.

  My eyes go towards his. Okay, he has my attention.

  “I could be gone, Gwen,” he whispers quietly.

  “What does that mean?” I ask.

  “Come the fuck on you stupid asses!” yells Claude from the humming Gran Prix in the drive.

  My heart is beating. What does all this mean? What is Welch trying to say?

  “I turned eighteen last week, Gwen. The state isn’t liable. But, I’m here… for you.”

  My gut sinks as my heart swells.

  I’m here… for you.

  Me? What am I worth? I am nothing but a monster. Would he truly feel the same way if he had a mere glimpse into my thought processes? Would he still hold me like he does, see me the same way?

  “I told you, Welch. I’m a monster. You don’t understand.”

  “I do understand, and that’s why you are so scared, Gwen. Remember, I’m your monster and you are mine,” he whispers, holding out his hand.

  Melt me to butter.

  The first thing I thought as we entered the small, white home on the corner lot in the heart of Mayesville is, this isn’t so bad.

  The lawn is manicured nicely and there isn’t trash strewn about in the yard. An American flag waves proudly from a black iron post on the small front porch. I watch it billow to and fro in the cold wind, thinking back to what Welch said.

  Maybe my life did lead me here to him. Him for me, whatever.

  “Come on,” Claude fumes.

  He opens the front door, allowing us to enter after Helen but before him. I sense that is a power play, but one can never be sure when it comes to Claude’s ghastly ways. I’m greeted by the smell of garlic and my belly growls loudly. I see an old woman slumped over on the couch with a walker in front her. Her glasses are smudged like Claude’s as her dentures hang from her mouth while her snores fill the air thickly. I can tell she was put together quickly and it makes me sad.

  “Daddy?” someone calls from the adjoining kitchen.

  I can’t see who it is as a row of dark wood cabinets blocks my view. A woman in her late thirties walks around with her arms out. I’m confused by this gesture. She’s put together well with her dark, shoulder length hair pinned away from her face. Her features seem soft, yet familiar and the comfort that I had is gone. I feel at unease. The lady has given me no reason to feel that way, but the anxiety is there and swimming painfully in my belly jabbing back and forth as it torments me more than before.

  I feel my head spin as the sweat beads on my brow. My eyes are stuck on the woman as she makes her way over to Claude, wrapping her arms around him. He embraces her like most fathers do.

  It’s okay, sweetheart. Everyone falls. You just have to get back up again.

  I want to tell my father’s voice to shut up, to burn the memory of him taking the training wheels off my bike away, but it won’t. I’m drowning in my own personal hell as I thirst for blood. The blood of my molester, my attacker, my devil.

  “Where’s Rex?” Claude asks, not even taking us into account, leaving us to the side.

  “He’s in the garage with the birthday boy.”

  Claude goes to the back of the house and Helen follows. I’m frozen and the woman must sense my anxiety.

  “Can I get you something to drink?” she asks with a smile.

  I know it’s genuine. That is the sick part. I can’t muster a return as I feel Welch’s hand rest along the small of my back.

  “That would be great. Thank you,”
he says.

  I feel my insides rattling. Something isn’t right, but I can’t put my finger on it.

  Hold your head high, Gwen. Get your shit together. Find that murderess tiger inside and beg for those teeth and claws to erupt. Prepare to use them because the time is nearing. I know it.

  Welch rubs the lower part of my back, the only indication that I am still human. But I don’t want to feel human anymore. I know Welch is begging to talk to me, to tell me that everything is going to be okay, but we can’t speak in such a private matter before these people. We don’t trust anyone. How can we?

  I hear the creaking of a door in the back of the house, my worry creeping miles more. I clench my fingers into my palms, burning and clawing at the flesh praying for blood.

  “Gwen?” Welch whispers behind me.

  He sees the transition before his eyes. He can control his better than I can. It’s far too late. The Jekyll and Hyde transformation is happening and there isn’t much I can do about it. Something is giving my gut a reason for it, I just don’t know what it is yet.

  Several sets of footsteps walk down the wide hallway from the back of the house as a southern accent speaks.

  “I got plenty of one dollar bills for ya, son. Poppa’s gonna take care of ya tonight!”

  That voice isn’t a familiar one. The steaming of the boiling on the water along with the thick snoring of the old lady becomes absent as I focus on the voices coming closer to me.

  A familiar laugh cackles in the air.

  “The titties gonna be great!” Claude yells out.

  What. The. Fuck.

  “Shhh, now. Don’t be talkin’ about that ‘round ya Momma, now,” the other male voice calls out.

  “She knows I’m eighteen now. Surely she isn’t dumb.”

  Mr. Cocky.