I believe I exist.
Here in the dark, naked, lonely, I believe this is me. I am the voice. No matter who is speaking. I believe there is no such thing as forgetting.
I am a bundle of words, like a bag of onions from the bodega. I am made of words as a cake is made from flour and spice. I pray to God as often as I am awake and there is no answer. I don’t hate God. Does God hate me?
I'm worried this may already be Hell. Was I so bad? I would have gone to Easter mass, but Jorge wouldn’t let me. I tried to go anyway, really I did, until he had to beat me so bad for being stubborn and when he got me crying, he held me down and put his thing in me to teach me a lesson. After that it was too hard to walk, and I had no good white dress to wear to mass anymore. If I had some bleach I would have gotten the blood out before it dried. That is not my fault. I think. But maybe I was supposed to go anyway. I should have had bleach. It's maybe my fault.
I believe I am not alone. Somewhere a woman is being beaten with fists. When she falls she will be kicked, even if there is a baby inside her. Somewhere men are holding a girl down until they are finished with her. No one will hear her cry. I feel as though they are all crowded here together with me, filling my little cell. All of us. Hello!
I believe I was made for love, if God would give me a fair chance. If I were God I would love everyone the same. Everyone would be very rich. There would be food and parties and cakes for everyone. There would be no pain anywhere in all the whole world. No one would be alone, even if they're as ugly as me. There would be only love and cakes and happiness.
A young woman stays by her child even when it dies inside her. An old woman wipes the drool from an old man's face. A woman is made for love even when love is all Hell. God speaks more clearly when you are broken.
I believe I will die very soon. I believe it will be quick. I believe after I die I will be happy, I don’t know how I know, but I just know it’s going to be all right in the end. That's what my God wants for me. My God wants me to be all right. I believe that.
"Order up. Caramel latte. Garce."
There are so many people in here today. Aw geez, that soccer mom in the little shorts. Goddamn, she's got a sweet sized pair on her or what. And she’s got her nips sticking out a mile. Oh my god, somebody shoot me. She's wearing a sports bra all right; she’s one of those ladies whose tits stick up when she's nervous. That guy sitting next to her, just think, he probably knows what she looks like naked. Looks hard to get a long with though, at least when she's standing up.
Brown sugar. Looks like this shit is all milk and no coffee. Okay.
Look at that. CNN's on top of that earthquake in
Back to the salt mine - where did I leave off. Shower scene. Rape scene. Almost spilled this shit in my keyboard. Feels weird writing stuff like this when there’s a huge pair of tits sitting a few feet away like that. It’s hard to keep my eyeballs on the keyboard. I wonder if she’s got a boob job. I’ll bet she’s got a beef up of some kind. Maybe the guy paid for it.
Cell scene, this is the part where they take her to the shower and try to rape her. Should they really rape her? No one will publish it if they really rape her, but I don't give a shit anymore. Maybe I'll try it both ways and see where the truth is. I've rewritten this shit so many times and can't get it right. I should research it, but how do you research something like that? Here we go. Again.
". . . . She couldn’t stand up in the little room, because the tearing pain in her rectum became unbearable when she straightened her back. She felt wetness there when she tried to raise up. She reached back and touched her rectum gently. She sniffed her fingers. They smelled like pennies. Slowly, carefully, she rolled onto her knees and resting on her elbows, felt the darkness with her hands. The room was very small, a little bigger than a clothes closet in a gringo house.
The aloneness was the worst thing. It was bad to be so broken up, but to be alone in this condition seemed like the bottom, the worst that things could get. It was terrifying to be so hurt, and to be so alone. She lay back despondently on the ground and wept. She fell asleep weeping, her ribs answering each sob with bursting pain.
Coffee tastes like crap. Its all boiled milk. There's too many "she's" leading sentences in that first paragraph, that won't work. It's monotonous. Doesn't read right.
Aw shit, look at that. All those dead kids on the news. Who's running this world? I could do a better job playing God myself. Hell, I'd be good at it.
I am the need, waiting in the dark. I wish I could be clean. I want to take a shower. More than anything. Someone is opening my door. The light from the hall is blinding. Soon I will be free. They will be kind to me, because my God would not let me suffer like this. My God is kind and good. I have faith. I am not abandoned.
I believe I exist.