YOU PRETTY LITTLE BROKEN THING

Brighid Griffin

I am sitting alone in a car that is not my own. Not that this is an entirely unusual event for me. But there is always something so invasive about being alone in a car that doesn’t belong to you. It feels deceitful. Dirty. Like the owner will come back any second and notice the seat is just a little too far back or the stereo presets are just a little fucked up and it will haunt them for days. That’s how I feel lately. Haunted. 

Through the fog on the passenger side window, I can just make out Cole coming back from the concession stand. I’d never seen him outside the walls of our Pre-Cal class before tonight. Normally, he’s surrounded by a pack of fellow lacrosse players that cling to his every word. But here, alone and exposed, Cole’s exterior is crumbling around him. He’s trying to amble back to the car like a “cool” guy but that’s kind of difficult while juggling a bucket of popcorn, two cokes, and a nacho tray. He looks more like a dad on vacation bringing snacks for his kids in between rollercoaster rides. Oddly, this endears me to him. I almost feel bad. Almost. 

Cole reaches the driver’s side door of the minivan and I watch him struggle to open it between his pinky and thumb. He nearly spills a coke all over himself before he says through the window and gritted teeth: “Angela… could you?” 

I snicker to myself before leaning across the seat and popping the door open for him.

“Thanks,” Cole says, blowing a stray strand of hair out of his face. “Here, take these will you?” He passes me the snacks and I place them in the car, pretending not to notice when he spills a glob of steaming nacho cheese on his arm and hisses in pain. Then, of course, he lets out a heavy breath to mask the hiss, acting as though he could never feel pain. Typical. 

Once Cole’s finally in the car, he clicks the AC on and turns to me. A saccharine smile creeps up his cheeks. “If you want we can sit back there…” He gestures stiffly to the backseat. “I mean 'cause it’s more spacious and shit.” 

God, this is gonna be a long night. I smile sweetly through my lashes, trying to inject a little nervousness behind my eyes. “S-sure.” I had long ago perfected the fake nervous stutter. Cole might not be much to work with, but I’m still on my game. 

We climb one after another into the cramped, grease-stained backseat of his minivan. He elbows my ribs twice in an attempt to sling his arm around my waist. I’m trying to focus on Cole, his long blonde ponytail and biceps the size of softballs. But my eyes are locked on the coloring books and Barbie dolls sticking out of the door pockets. I should be focusing on Cole. If I want tonight to go as planned I can only focus on Cole. But as if controlled by some stupid puppeteer, my arm jerks forward and grabs one of the dolls. 

“Ha, sorry. It’s my mom’s car.” Cole blushes, the dim light of the backseat illuminating his face. “My sisters leave their shit everywhere. Siblings, ya know?” 

I turn the doll over in my palm. Her hair is raven black just like mine. But her eyes have been Sharpied over. Gashes of red paint litter her torso and legs. Scrawled across the tits in sloppy handwriting is the word “DIE”. 

“Morbid,” I murmur, more to myself than to him. 

Cole laughs easily. “Probably just my sisters fighting like always. My mom lets them watch Criminal Minds with her sometimes and I tell her, I swear, that’ll fuck up any five-year-old. Easy.” 

“You like Criminal Minds?” I press, dropping the Barbie on the floor of the car.

“Sure, it’s neat or whatever,” he shrugs. With a loud click, the previews begin to play on the huge drive-in theater screen and the street lights overhead dim. Cole pulls me closer into the nook between his arm and his chest, snaking his hand further and further down ‘til he’s cupping my ass. He gives it a tight squeeze. A hard lump forms in my throat. I swallow it. 

“Even the torture scenes?” I say softly, turning so my breath is hot against his cheek.

Cole jerks his head around. “The fuck kind of question is that?” 

“Can I tell you a secret?” I look straight at him. Looking into one dull blue eye, then at his cracked and peeling lips, then the other eye. A fake hesitation coats my voice as I say, “Sometimes, watching the torture and stuff it uh…” My hand grazes his chest. “It turns me on.” 

Cole’s adam’s apple bobs up and down like it’s in a dunking booth at the county fair. “Geez Angela, I mean… I don’t… Isn’t that a lot to ask on a first date?” He protests, but his cheeks are flushed pink and that’s all the answer I need. Now I have to play this off. 

Slapping his arm playfully, I laugh and say, “Oh my god, Cole! Don’t pee your pants, I’m totally fucking with you.” 

Cole puts his head in his hands and chuckles. “Oh, shit. I… You got me good. I really thought you were about to murder my ass.” 

Not murder. But you’re getting warmer. 

The movie starts up and we fall silent. It’s some lame rom-com, the kind where the couple fights over an easily avoidable miscommunication, then make up by kissing in the rain to some dramatic love song—usually by Adele. About halfway into the movie and after countless lame one-liners from Cole, he does what I’ve been waiting for. 

Cole leans over me forcing my back against the car door, his arms planted on either side keeping me there. He brushes a strand of hair behind my ear. “You’re so hot, Angela.” He looks through his eyebrows with a Cheshire cat smile. I take a deep breath, biting my lip. I need to stay still. I need to see what he does. But every bone in my body is aching to look away. To scream. To run and run and run until my lungs collapse. 

“You know, you’re not anything like the things people say about you,” he whispers.

So I’m not a whore, I think. Gee thanks. 

Cole leans in so close that his ponytail dangles over his shoulder and brushes against my collarbone. I lift my hand to swat his hair away. Hell, maybe I want to swat him, but I know I won’t. Cole grabs my wrist sharply, then pauses. His narrowed eyes bore into mine and I see what I’d been waiting for all night. It’s in the eyes. Without fail, the look is there in every man that wants to take advantage of you. Their eyes are almost indescribable. It’s a dark but luminous glint like they’re sizing you up, calculating how long it will take to eat you whole and spit you back out, guessing if you’re injured enough to go down without a fight. 

I know that to Cole I’m easy prey. Child’s play. So instead of waiting for him to rip me apart, I make the first move. “Do you wanna take this back to my place?”

The glint glows even brighter in his dead, dull eyes. “Really? I mean we have school tomorrow I don’t wanna keep you out too late, but…” 

I nod and say with as much enthusiasm as I can muster, “Really. Fuck the movie. Let’s go.” 

Cole drives like a maniac the whole way home, winding and twisting down the rocky, poorly lit back roads. By the time we get to my beaten-down old shotgun house, he’s practically skipping with excitement. Pathetic. 

I unlock the door with the key my mom keeps in the hanging fern on the front porch and step inside. I flick on the living room lights before I notice that Cole is lagging behind, shuffling his feet on the doormat. 

“What?” I demand, crossing my arms. 

Cole sticks his hands in his pockets and rocks back and forth on his feet. “What if your mom’s home?” 

Jesus Christ. “She never is at night. She works the graveyard shift at the ER.”

“Oh, awesome.” 

God, I can’t wait for this shit to be over. I cross toward Cole and place a hand on his chest. With a pretty little smile, I say, “I’m gonna get some water for us. My room is down the hall to the right.” To seal the deal, I give him a wink and a kiss on the cheek. “Wait for me there.” 

Once he’s gone I grab some glasses from the kitchen and fill them with tap water. I roll my eyes at how gross the sink is—stacked high and full of molding dishes. I swear this house feels abandoned. I open the left-most kitchen cabinet and grab a little clear vial hidden behind a stack of canned food. I can’t remember the last time my mom bought groceries, so I know it’s safe there. I tip the vial upside down and notice how low I’m getting. Fuck. Getting more won’t be easy. It’s one thing to steal your mom’s phone and text her dealer without getting caught once. It’s a whole other thing to get away with it again. Sighing, I slip a few drops of GHB into one cup and head to my room. 

I find Cole sprawled out on my bed like he owns the place—sweaty shoes on the sheets and everything. “Hey babe,” he grins and pats the bed. “Come join?” 

“In a minute,” I smile mechanically. “I need to, um, freshen up.” 

Cole laughs and stretches out his limbs like a drowsy cat. “Go do your girly things, I’ll be waiting.” 

I pass him a glass of water. “Here, drink up so you have lots of stamina.”

He gives a half-hearted chuckle. “Sure, princess. I’ll drink, you hurry.” 

I dash to my bathroom, lock the door, and wait. My phone lock screen reads 9:45 PM. For the next fifteen minutes, I sit back pressed against the door my breaths heavy and strangled. A few times I reach up and turn the sink on for a bit, thinking it will sound more convincing. But I refuse to stand. I keep my thighs pressed firmly against the cold tile floor. I would rather die in this very spot than see my own reflection right now. I’m too used to catching a glimpse of myself in moments like these and watching the edges of my face bludge and droop, my eyes melting down my cheeks. At 9:56 I hear Cole call my name so I give it an extra five minutes. Then, at 10:05 PM I unlatch the door and peek my head out. 

Right on cue, Cole is limp in my bed. I sit beside him on my starchy floral sheets and call his name a few times to make sure he’s out for good. Then I get comfortable. Putting a pillow between my spine and the wall, I lean back and watch. 

It’s euphoric. The sight of him lying there unresponsive. Vulnerable. Weak. He is at my mercy completely. Not that I would ever do anything. The thought of touching a man sexually ever again repulses me to my core. But I have the control. A man is trapped under my thumb this time. It’s fucking liberating. Fucking exhilarating. There’s not a word strong enough to describe it. My control over myself, my freedom from men, had been taken from me before I even knew I had it. And then repeatedly taken again and again. 

I used to sleep around. Throw myself at every guy in my path in order to prove that they’re all the same. That they all only care about me in so far as they can get something out of me. Or, I guess, into me. I proved myself right that cold night in August. When the boy with the sad smile held me for hours as I dry heaved tears, put my favorite show on the tv, made me a cup of cocoa, told me he loved me, and sang me to sleep. Then I woke up in the middle of the night to his dick inside me. 

But one time, one of my hookups fell asleep before I got to his house. When I arrived to find him snoring on his couch I discovered something new entirely. I had spent so long proving to myself that I had no control, that I was at the will of whatever men wanted to do with me. But that night as I watched that random, stranger of a boy sleep, I realized that I could just as easily prove the opposite. 

So ever since then, if I find a guy that’s worthy, one that has that glint of predatory hunger in his eyes, I take him home and I put him to sleep. And I stare and stare and stare until the sun comes up. 

People always say boys look like little kids when they sleep. But peering at Cole’s thick furrowed eyebrows and scrunched forehead, I disagree. I think he looks dormant, conspiratorial. Like he’s hatching his next plan of attack even in his dreams. I smile a real authentic smile for the first time that night, toothy and stretching up to crease my eyes. Nothing he’s planning could outsmart me. That gives me peace. 

I peer at him, both of our bodies unmoving, for what seems like days. At some point, the sun starts to seep in through the slits in my blinds illuminating all the dust floating through the air in my room. I figure he’ll probably wake up any minute. But then it hits me, though I’m not even sure why. The doll. Something in my soul aches for it. 

So, I pad softly down the carpeted hall, making sure to hold my breath when I pass my mother’s room. She’s such a light sleeper sometimes I think even the smell of my perfume wakes her. I sneak out to his car, grab the doll without hesitation and return inside. Just as I think I’m in the clear, I hear a familiar cough behind me. 

“Angela,” my mother’s voice calls softly. I don’t even turn around. I put all of my energy nowadays into pretending she doesn’t exist. “Your guest needs to leave. You have school.”

I can’t fucking believe her. I spin on my heels to find her standing there in her purple bathrobe. Her arms are crossed tightly and the bags under her eyes make her look ten years older. I want to scream. How dare she tell me anything. She has no power over me. I owe her nothing, nothing but a broken set of ribs. At that moment I nearly let everything out. How can a mother care so little for her own daughter? How did you live with yourself? How do you? Did you not hear me crying out on the nights when your husband wasn’t in your bed? Or did you just not care? 

But, some force drags and scrapes the words back down my throat and all I can manage is: “I’m going to pretend you didn’t just say that, Sheryl.” 

When I return to my room, I’m in the middle of hiding the doll behind one of my faux fur throw pillows when I hear Cole shift his weight and creak the springs of my ancient mattress. He murmurs something. 

I call out to him in a singsongy voice, “Good morning, sleepyhead.” Instinctually, I ruffle his hair—insurance in case my cheerful voice was unconvincing. 

He seems to buy it though because he shakes his head, rubs the sleep out of his eyes, and says “Oh shit. Did I fall asleep?” 

I try to laugh. “Yup. Passed out cold.” Literally. “I was a little disappointed you weren’t excited enough to stay up, honestly.” 

Cole sighs and tips his head back. “Fuck. My mom’s gonna kill me. Shit, I’m sorry. Another night? Maybe just not for a while cause my ass is about to be grounded.” 

I purse my lips. “Another night for sure.” 

With excuses of my mom being home and his mom probably being worried, I’m able to usher Cole outside in about five minutes. Once I see his minivan bumble down the street and turn onto Highway 45, I let out a breath so deep I worry I’ve been holding it since last night. After collapsing onto my bed in pure exhaustion, I turn to check the time on my alarm clock: 6:00 AM. I have two more hours to sleep before school. But the moment I shut my eyes and bury myself in my sheets, I catch the distinct whiff of Axe Body Spray, weed, and sweaty gym socks. 

I can’t take it. I refuse to smell like him. I wrench the sheets off my bed. While piling up my bedding, the doll from Cole’s car flops out with a soft thud. I scoop her up and—maybe it’s silly—but I feel like I need to clean her. She doesn’t deserve to be fucked up the way she is. So, forgetting all about the sheets, I head to my shower, turn the handle as cold as it’ll go, and hop in. 

Pouring a glob of coconut soap into my palm, I begin to rub at her body. I start first at the red gashes on her stomach, those fade a little but not much. So, I move on to the word “DIE” across her breasts. Whatever Cole’s sister used on this thing must be heavy-duty because nothing is budging. I sigh and place the doll on my shower shelf. Her darkened eyes watch me with care. Like how I imagine a real mother watches when helping their child bathe for the first time. I’m still alone though when you break it all down. A real mom would buy little rubber duckies and muss up their kid’s hair into a soapy mohawk. Laugh. Maybe even cry, but good tears. Only good. I must be paying some epic karmic debt in this lifetime because I don’t have those memories. I’m stuck with memories of listening anxiously for approaching steps. Memories of the first time my father knocked on my door at three in the morning, of the shower he made me take with him after. How he brushed my wet hair aside and said he loved me. I went to 1st grade the next day and thought nothing of it. This is normal. He swore it. Swore I was beautiful. Swore my mother couldn’t compare. After a while, I stopped fighting it. At school, I never ate lunch. I got detention for trying to kiss kids at recess, for stabbing the classroom dolls with scissors, and for wetting my nap mat. Cole’s sister. The doll. It’s all I can do to hope she doesn’t maim dolls for the same reason I did, as a substitute for maiming myself. 

I try to get the sharpie off of her eyes, but it’s in vain. If I can’t clean the doll, I might as well try to clean myself while I can still stand to be in the shower. I shampoo twice. My fingers move of their own feral accord, tray strings of hair catching between my nails. Slap them to the shower’s cracked tile walls. Do it harder. Make your palms sting. My nails drag through my scalp drawing blood and reopening old scabs. Just when I think two shampoos are enough, I decide to do a third just to be safe. I try to wash my body. I really do. But something about it is too gentle. Even with the tattered loofa, I can’t seem to scrub enough layers off of my skin to feel clean. I leave the shower dripping water all over the tile floor. I let myself pause in front of the mirror for a moment, completely naked. I hope to see myself as I am. I pray for it. But the eyes of my reflection are black. I have wounds all over my stomach that slowly drip their blood down my body and the word “DIE” is scribbled in huge black letters across my tits.