When I Make Light
folder
Drama › General
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
1
Views:
4,565
Reviews:
2
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
Drama › General
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
1
Views:
4,565
Reviews:
2
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance of characters to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The Author holds exclusive rights to this work. Unauthorized duplication is prohibited.
When I Make Light
Author\'s Commentary: This is first person, but not based on personal experience, nor have I written this account on anyone in particular. Comments are welcome, good or bad.
When I Make Light
People have told me so often, “Clara, you have a dark sense of humor.” Most of the time they say this in an off-handed fashion. Sometimes, they say it like an accusation. It’s not my fault I thought it’d be fun to video tape Aunt Adelaide in the closet eating blury pry pie. How was I to know she’d choose to have Uncle Fred for dessert instead? It was the most disgusting thing I’d ever seen. Naturally, I made a copy for Franklin--Adelaide’s husband. It was his choice to use it as incriminating evidence in their divorce settlement. And when called to testify as to why I’d rigged a camera in that particular closetinnoinnocently confessed, “I just wanted to prove to Mom that Aunt Adelaide was stealing her blueberry pie.”
But I’m not here to talk about Aunt Adelaide. Or my skill of rigging cameras. This is about humor and darkness and why the two shouldn’t be synonymous in the psyche of a fifteen-year-old-virgin-nobody. Who is now a former virgin at the age of fifteen, ten months, six days, twelve hours, and…about two seconds ago. Yes, I counted--and why? Because my sides still ache from laughing at the bastard who finally did me in. Pried my legs open. Popped my cherry. Deflowered my petals. Whatever you call it. It happened precisely twenty-four hours and fifteen minutes ago, and I want to get it all down just for myself.
I, Clara Winifred Merewether Thomason was just raped. Don’t you think Winifred is the most awful name a parent could give their child? It’s right up there with Georgiana. Not to mention that it really isn’t necessary to dole out two middle names for someone as short and ordinary as me. Hmm...oh well. Back to the rape. I’ve always heard it said that when women are raped, it’s most likely to be by a man they know. So I was paranoid of every male I knew on a “hello” basis for the longest time. It’s no wonder I didn’t see Him coming. That sneaky, dark Figure that came creeping up behind me in an ice cream shop.
Never take candy from a stranger. But when He’s holding you at knife-point while you have double-scoop chocolate fudge halfway to your mouth, you better do what He says and follow Him out back to the alley behind the shop. Right? Wrong. If given a second chance--and I just like to fantasize about these sort of things--I would’ve taken that chocolate fudge and shoved it right in His eyes, momentarily blinding Him long enough for me to kick Him in the nuts and scream “Bloody murder!”ut Iut I did the stupid thing. I froze up and did the first thing that came to mind, which happened to be His whispered instructions to go out to that alley. What is it with these stranger-rapists and dumpsters? How on earth can anyone have a hard-on with the rotten smell of dead rats and god-knows-what-used-to-be-living rotting right there? This Guy was obviously could. I never saw His face because He was very careful of this.
Somewhere between having my face shoved hard against the rough brick and my skirt flicked up and panties torn off, I dropped my chocolate fudge. Funny how I thought of that while this Stranger stuck His dick up my pussy. It was so painful I couldn’t help but cry. But I didn’t even notice the tears running down my face and staining my soul. It didn’t even register that the warmth I felt flowing down my legs was my own blood, followed a few seconds later by the Stranger’s semen. All I thought about was Aunt Adelaide and blueberry pies.
It was over so fast. With one final shove at my head, causing major scrapes on my face, He told me not to turn around till He was gone, or He would kill me. I stayed there for fifteen minutes after I’d heard His footsteps scuff off into the main walkway. I straightened out my skirt and headed home in a daze, not caring what people saw as my battered, bleeding self passed them by. Lucky for me no one was home, so I had the house to myself.
I wanted to take a shower and skin myself from the inside out. Right then, as I stood there and watched the hot water pour down in steam, I looked down at my legs and saw red. Next thing I knew, my body was shaking. At first, I thought it was from shock, but I realized it was laughter. This great horrifying laughter. I cried tears from it, grabbed my sides and sank to the floor.
There, right there, sticking two inches into my left thigh was His knife. An thn the tiny red handle was inscribed a name: F. M. Carlton. Uncle Fred.
When I Make Light
People have told me so often, “Clara, you have a dark sense of humor.” Most of the time they say this in an off-handed fashion. Sometimes, they say it like an accusation. It’s not my fault I thought it’d be fun to video tape Aunt Adelaide in the closet eating blury pry pie. How was I to know she’d choose to have Uncle Fred for dessert instead? It was the most disgusting thing I’d ever seen. Naturally, I made a copy for Franklin--Adelaide’s husband. It was his choice to use it as incriminating evidence in their divorce settlement. And when called to testify as to why I’d rigged a camera in that particular closetinnoinnocently confessed, “I just wanted to prove to Mom that Aunt Adelaide was stealing her blueberry pie.”
But I’m not here to talk about Aunt Adelaide. Or my skill of rigging cameras. This is about humor and darkness and why the two shouldn’t be synonymous in the psyche of a fifteen-year-old-virgin-nobody. Who is now a former virgin at the age of fifteen, ten months, six days, twelve hours, and…about two seconds ago. Yes, I counted--and why? Because my sides still ache from laughing at the bastard who finally did me in. Pried my legs open. Popped my cherry. Deflowered my petals. Whatever you call it. It happened precisely twenty-four hours and fifteen minutes ago, and I want to get it all down just for myself.
I, Clara Winifred Merewether Thomason was just raped. Don’t you think Winifred is the most awful name a parent could give their child? It’s right up there with Georgiana. Not to mention that it really isn’t necessary to dole out two middle names for someone as short and ordinary as me. Hmm...oh well. Back to the rape. I’ve always heard it said that when women are raped, it’s most likely to be by a man they know. So I was paranoid of every male I knew on a “hello” basis for the longest time. It’s no wonder I didn’t see Him coming. That sneaky, dark Figure that came creeping up behind me in an ice cream shop.
Never take candy from a stranger. But when He’s holding you at knife-point while you have double-scoop chocolate fudge halfway to your mouth, you better do what He says and follow Him out back to the alley behind the shop. Right? Wrong. If given a second chance--and I just like to fantasize about these sort of things--I would’ve taken that chocolate fudge and shoved it right in His eyes, momentarily blinding Him long enough for me to kick Him in the nuts and scream “Bloody murder!”ut Iut I did the stupid thing. I froze up and did the first thing that came to mind, which happened to be His whispered instructions to go out to that alley. What is it with these stranger-rapists and dumpsters? How on earth can anyone have a hard-on with the rotten smell of dead rats and god-knows-what-used-to-be-living rotting right there? This Guy was obviously could. I never saw His face because He was very careful of this.
Somewhere between having my face shoved hard against the rough brick and my skirt flicked up and panties torn off, I dropped my chocolate fudge. Funny how I thought of that while this Stranger stuck His dick up my pussy. It was so painful I couldn’t help but cry. But I didn’t even notice the tears running down my face and staining my soul. It didn’t even register that the warmth I felt flowing down my legs was my own blood, followed a few seconds later by the Stranger’s semen. All I thought about was Aunt Adelaide and blueberry pies.
It was over so fast. With one final shove at my head, causing major scrapes on my face, He told me not to turn around till He was gone, or He would kill me. I stayed there for fifteen minutes after I’d heard His footsteps scuff off into the main walkway. I straightened out my skirt and headed home in a daze, not caring what people saw as my battered, bleeding self passed them by. Lucky for me no one was home, so I had the house to myself.
I wanted to take a shower and skin myself from the inside out. Right then, as I stood there and watched the hot water pour down in steam, I looked down at my legs and saw red. Next thing I knew, my body was shaking. At first, I thought it was from shock, but I realized it was laughter. This great horrifying laughter. I cried tears from it, grabbed my sides and sank to the floor.
There, right there, sticking two inches into my left thigh was His knife. An thn the tiny red handle was inscribed a name: F. M. Carlton. Uncle Fred.