NAKED HEARTS

Bella Arabella. 

She sounded far away despite the fact I could see the blur of her body through my blanket of tears. I wanted to tell her my name, but my voice had been ripped away from me. It was no longer mine, but his.

“I’m going to take some photos. Is that okay, honey?” another woman asked.

Silence.

I should take some pictures as a souvenir. What do you think of that, you little slut?

I wanted to tell them to stop patronizing me with words like honey and sweetheart. They didn’t know me. Besides, whatever honey sweetness I’d possessed had been ripped out, along with my heart and my dignity. But of course, they weren’t really talking to me. They were talking to the victim I’d become. They were talking to the black hole that now occupied the space where I used to exist.

“Do you know who did this to you?” 

You’re enjoying this. Don’t deny it.

Silence.

“Now I’m going to scrape under your fingernails.”

Silence.

“Would you open your mouth wide for me? This will only take a second.”

Open your fucking mouth, cunt.

Please, stop!

I let the nurses do everything, following directions on autopilot while I floated in suspended animation, like a hibernating animal, whose body only performed the necessary functions to sustain life, which made me angry because I wanted to die.

You stupid, rich whore.

The wounds on my arms, legs, and torso stung as the nurses poured Betadine on my skin. The pungent, metallic scent of the brownish liquid made me queasy and lightheaded, adding to my acute discomfort. I hadn’t eaten in so long, and yet, hunger evaded me. Thoughts of starving myself to death and ending my now miserable life brought me a fucked-up sense of comfort as the pricks of the syringe pushed anesthetic into each gash, taking the pain and sting away. Then came the tug of the stitches that closed up my physical wounds, causing a bolt of insatiable grief that detonated my heart with the understanding that my body would heal, but my spirit was beyond repair.

“I need to touch the wounds on your face, okay?”

Aw, your face isn’t looking so pretty anymore.

I flinched and pulled my face away from the nurse’s gloved hands. His voice in my head and the current invasion of my personal space were just too much. My screams lodged in my throat as my mind replayed every hit to my face.

Punch.

Punch.

Shut the fuck up. You deserve this, slut.

Punch.

Punch.

I surrendered, allowing the nurse to touch me. The tears thickened, but I cried in silence. Too numb to form words but not numb enough to disregard the abominable mutilation of the last few hours.

Q-Tips poked me as the nurses took samples of the crusty sludge between my thighs. Blood? Semen? Probably both. 

I winced when the cold metal of the speculum pried open my insides. It burned and hurt and took the last fleck of dignity I had left.

Dead bitches don’t talk.

 “You’re going to be okay,” the women said as they squeezed my hands, trying to comfort me.

Bella Arabella, if you stop trying to resist, you might even like it.

Their efforts were futile. I wasn’t Arabel anymore. I was a soulless pile of flesh and bones wrapped in dark shadows and catapulted into The Nothing, consumed by a very present past where not even a grain of sand would remain, and where no new name or noble hero would save me.

Good guys don’t like ruined girls.

I would never, ever be okay.