stopped talking. Even while she was describing how her step-father had lined her and her sisters up, softening them with the belt before taking them one by one to the bedroom, the only thing I could think of was what to say to make her feel better.
Why I wanted to make her feel better:
So I’d look good. It was the same reason I wanted to comfort Amanda, as she told me how her ex-boyfriend had raped her on the bed where we cuddled. I was pressed against her, her heartbeat thrumming through her skin and mine, into my chest where I imagined my own heart hid. I wasn’t sure right at that moment though; as she told me how scared she had been, I knew I was supposed to feel something, pity or anger or god knows what. But there was nothing. No, not nothing. There was fear. Fear because of the nothing. I knew that the nothing was an offense, a fault, some sin against my own humanity. Amanda, young woman in my arms, heart hammering and lips suddenly sealed shut, waiting for some warmth from me, more than just the empty heat my body produced to keep itself alive. But I had nothing; I didn’t care. I felt no pity; I wasn’t even sure I believed her story.
Most common compliment I’m given by women: “You’re such a good listener.”
Five things I’ve heard women say:
1: “Steve, you gotta teach my sister that sex is okay.” 2: “It was technically rape, yeah, but like I said it was pretty much just sex so meh.” 3: “If you’re asleep, a guy can legally rape you.” 4: “She’s such a lying slut, she was fucking asking for it.” 5: ”I love you.”
Thing I did five years ago, on a field of young trees that will never grow because Yakima is too cold for oranges, on a property owned by an unbelievably racist man who shoots squirrels for fun, in the frozen hour of 4am: Cried.
Why?
Samara (rhymes with camera) left town with her boyfriend the day before. She had pink dyed hair, a gray eye and a green eye, wore elaborate 120
Manastash 2013