crazy.
What day was it? she wanted to know. How long had she been here?
I told her it was very early Wednesday morning, that she’d been here since Monday afternoon. I told her that all I wanted was to be alone with her, and that I’d let her go after we spent some “quality time” together. Isn’t that what the experts are always talking about—quality time? Tell me things about yourself, I urged, sitting down beside her on the cot, things you’ve never told anyone else before. She was reluctant at first, but after a while she started opening up. She said she had the same insecurities as everybody else, that she didn’t think she was as pretty as her mother or younger sister, that she thought her nose was too big and her thighs were too heavy, and that she was always afraid of not measuring up. Not measuring up to what? I asked, and she shrugged her shoulders, like she didn’t even know what she was supposed to measure up to. She talked about her boyfriend, Peter, and said how everybody thought they looked so cute together, but that she really wasn’t sure she liked him that much anymore because he wasn’t very nice to her. Then she cried some more.
I asked her if she and Peter had sex. She said it was none of my business. I didn’t like that, and my displeasure musthave registered on my face, because she changed her mind immediately, told me that, yes, of course, they had sex. I asked what sort of things they did together, if she used her mouth. She said sometimes she did, but confessed that Peter never had. I told her that was too bad. A real man would use his mouth, I said.
I asked her if Peter was the first guy she’d had sex with. She shook her head. I asked her about losing her virginity, who it had been with, what it was like, if it had been painful, if she had any regrets.
That’s when she started getting really agitated. I could see it in her eyes, the way they kept darting back and forth, as if now that she’d had something to eat and drink and she had a bit of strength back, she was considering making a run for it, although where she thought she could run is anybody’s guess. But she answered me anyway. I think she was afraid of what would happen if we stopped talking, so she indulged me. She told me she was thirteen when she lost her virginity, and that yes, it had hurt, although only for a few seconds, and, no, she had no regrets. The boy was the son of their next-door neighbors, and his name was Eric Weir. He was sixteen, and he joined the army right after his high school graduation. He was promptly sent to Afghanistan, where he was killed by a sniper’s bullet a week before he was scheduled to come home. I asked her if she ever thought about him. She said no, although she was sorry he was dead. I asked her how many guys she’d slept with. She said four. Then she tried to ask me a few questions, but I wouldn’t answer. I told her I was the one asking the questions.
That’s when she got mad, started hurling insults at me—I don’t remember what they were exactly—I tend to block out some of the more objectionable things people say—and I decided there was nothing to be gained from keeping her alive any longer. I pulled out my gun. That’swhen she really lost it. God, you could hardly make out a thing she was saying because she was talking so fast. Suddenly, she turned into that other girl, Candy, offering to do whatever I wanted her to. “You want me to use my mouth?” she asked, among other obscenities I won’t bother mentioning. That’s when I hit her on the side of her face with the end of my gun. The wallop knocked her flat on her back and caused her left cheek to blow up like a balloon. It was amazing how fast that damn thing swelled up. You can’t really see it now because the bullet tore off half her head, but trust me, it was impressive.
It may sound strange, especially in light of what happened, but I think Liana was actually starting to like me, at least a little.
What day was it? she wanted to know. How long had she been here?
I told her it was very early Wednesday morning, that she’d been here since Monday afternoon. I told her that all I wanted was to be alone with her, and that I’d let her go after we spent some “quality time” together. Isn’t that what the experts are always talking about—quality time? Tell me things about yourself, I urged, sitting down beside her on the cot, things you’ve never told anyone else before. She was reluctant at first, but after a while she started opening up. She said she had the same insecurities as everybody else, that she didn’t think she was as pretty as her mother or younger sister, that she thought her nose was too big and her thighs were too heavy, and that she was always afraid of not measuring up. Not measuring up to what? I asked, and she shrugged her shoulders, like she didn’t even know what she was supposed to measure up to. She talked about her boyfriend, Peter, and said how everybody thought they looked so cute together, but that she really wasn’t sure she liked him that much anymore because he wasn’t very nice to her. Then she cried some more.
I asked her if she and Peter had sex. She said it was none of my business. I didn’t like that, and my displeasure musthave registered on my face, because she changed her mind immediately, told me that, yes, of course, they had sex. I asked what sort of things they did together, if she used her mouth. She said sometimes she did, but confessed that Peter never had. I told her that was too bad. A real man would use his mouth, I said.
I asked her if Peter was the first guy she’d had sex with. She shook her head. I asked her about losing her virginity, who it had been with, what it was like, if it had been painful, if she had any regrets.
That’s when she started getting really agitated. I could see it in her eyes, the way they kept darting back and forth, as if now that she’d had something to eat and drink and she had a bit of strength back, she was considering making a run for it, although where she thought she could run is anybody’s guess. But she answered me anyway. I think she was afraid of what would happen if we stopped talking, so she indulged me. She told me she was thirteen when she lost her virginity, and that yes, it had hurt, although only for a few seconds, and, no, she had no regrets. The boy was the son of their next-door neighbors, and his name was Eric Weir. He was sixteen, and he joined the army right after his high school graduation. He was promptly sent to Afghanistan, where he was killed by a sniper’s bullet a week before he was scheduled to come home. I asked her if she ever thought about him. She said no, although she was sorry he was dead. I asked her how many guys she’d slept with. She said four. Then she tried to ask me a few questions, but I wouldn’t answer. I told her I was the one asking the questions.
That’s when she got mad, started hurling insults at me—I don’t remember what they were exactly—I tend to block out some of the more objectionable things people say—and I decided there was nothing to be gained from keeping her alive any longer. I pulled out my gun. That’swhen she really lost it. God, you could hardly make out a thing she was saying because she was talking so fast. Suddenly, she turned into that other girl, Candy, offering to do whatever I wanted her to. “You want me to use my mouth?” she asked, among other obscenities I won’t bother mentioning. That’s when I hit her on the side of her face with the end of my gun. The wallop knocked her flat on her back and caused her left cheek to blow up like a balloon. It was amazing how fast that damn thing swelled up. You can’t really see it now because the bullet tore off half her head, but trust me, it was impressive.
It may sound strange, especially in light of what happened, but I think Liana was actually starting to like me, at least a little.
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