Friday, 23 March 2007


Once upon a time there was a little girl. Except she wasn't such a little girl anymore, she was a 21 year old woman. She only felt like a little girl. Maybe it was because she was small and cute and people thought she was sweet. Maybe it was because people treated her like a child, occasionally being patronising. Maybe it was because acting like a spoiled brat was one of the best methods for getting what she wanted that she had up her sleeve. (The other one was sex.) There were many possible reasons, none of which are particularly relevant.

One cold, dark, Friday morning at just after midnight, this girl was contemplating her life, her day, while lying in bed with her ex. She was horny. Her sex drive had kicked back in for the day and was urging her to get a little sexual with her ex. She lay back for a while, let him finger her, bringing her to orgasm, and then fooled around a little with him. But he didn't want to ruin his jeans so she stopped short of making him come. Still horny but vaguely satisfied, she contemplated whether to stay at his house or not. There were several things to take into account. Firstly, the feelings of the ex ex boyfriend. The one who had been a boyfriend for two years and a fiance for two months before she had got scared and hidden her terror at being trapped behind feelings for her ex. He still lived with her. She had to consider his feelings too. It's not nice to wake up in a cold empty flat. Then there was the ex. He still loved her, fancied the pant off her. Would happily fuck her all day as long as he got those kisses which meant he could feel he had a chance with her still. Not that he had. Was it right to ignore the fact that she knew he wanted her more than she wanted him, and just fuck him hard anyway? He'd enjoy it. He'd be getting laid. Surely that's enough for any man. It's a fair trade off, she got sex, he got sex. She did want intimacy - no nudity, no kisses, so he didn't get them either. Which was better for him as it didn't lead him on. She voiced this.

He wasn't happy. Understandably, she figured. Who would be? It's not nice to be reminded of the reason you were dumped - "I don't fancy you anymore". Well she didn't. At least she was honest. That was after all, what he claimed he wanted. Then it began. He called her evil, calculating, a bitch. Told her she'd changed since he fell in love with her. She used and manipulated her friends. He didn't know if he wanted to be one. Didn't know if he liked her anymore, let alone loved her. She didn't care about anyone but herself. She was self obsessed, soulless.

She lay there, hugging a cushino, her outward expression blank, showing little. Inwardly she was torn, partially believing what he said because she knew some of it was true. Partially wanting to hit back, to say all the things about him that she kept inside because she did have a soul and really didn't want to hurt him. He carried on. And on. And on. Never stopping, always cutting that little bit deeper. She pretended not to let it bother her, inside it made her angry. She began to lose focus, couldn't quite look him in the eye. This was funny and made her laugh out loud. She didn't know why. Maybe it was ironic. She couldn't lose control. Wanting to make sure that she didn't break down in front of him she pretended to try to make herself cry. But the tears wouldn't come. How odd. She was sure she'd at least be able to control them. He was confused, she saw it in his eyes. Maybe he thought she would do something stupid. Maybe he was right. She got up, went to the bathroom, and stared at herself in the mirror. She didn't know the person looking back. Nothing seemed real, someho. Maybe she needed more sleep. Was she nice? Did she have a soul? A smile crept over her face but it wasn't a happy smile. She reached out to touch the glass, considered smashing it. But she didn't. Not because it would hurt but because she couldn't afford to buy a new one. Pragmatism. That most glorious of traits which had turned her into a coldhearted bitch. Apparently.

She went back into the bedroom, still feeling like she was inside a body which was not her own. She wanted to laugh and cry and scream and bite things and fuck fuck fuck until she felt like dying. He asked her to explain how she felt. She couldn't. How could she explain numbness to someone who was feeling rejection? He would be sympathetic, perhaps offer a hug. Maybe even try to take back some of what he had said. He would think that it was his words or his manner that had caused the way she felt, and that by denying them he would somehow fix things. He would miss the point entirely.

She made him go away. To tesco. For cookies. Cookies always help.