“Ahhh that moaning! Dammit it all!” thought Jean as she lounged in her comforter after another shitty day. It was her one abode of hopeful respite, and still the labyrinthine sounds didn’t disappear, contradictory to what she had hoped for.
“Yaa! Yaa!” was all she could hear, in that fucking Czech accent she hated so much. That dirty “Yaa” with its emphasis on the “a”, making it sound like a short o. All of those internal sounds stirred the burning hate and anger inside of Jean’s whole body. “Should have done her in on the spot” she thought to herself. “What would have happened, really? I was just a kid.”
“Yea...Yea…?! You… likey…that!?” she heard him mechanically squeal through each penetration. It was as if he tried to meet the woman in her accent. Jean hated him now, at this moment, as she sat in her comforter and stared at that one picture that showed what she thought were the good times, where her father, who she loved, stood as the hero who she though he was, alongside his ex-wife, Jean’s mother. In fact, she hated all men. Their lustful, selfish ways, ready to stick their dicks into anything that’s got a whole in it. With a deep sigh, odd in its longevity, she thought of him and how he totally fucked up the miserable existence she now called her life. But something more was in that sigh…she couldn’t put her finger on it.
And then, as she sat there and saw both parents smiling back at her through that old, worn frame, both appearing so happy, so sincere, she wondered if such a surreal happiness ever truly existed between them, or for that matter, can ever exist at all. “You’re faking that smile, dad. You’re fucking faking it. You all are just fucking fakers” Jean said out loud to herself, imagining her father, 350 miles away, and all men on earth, who were all most likely asleep, actually heard her. “But you, mom”…and the thoughts drifted away…
“Jeannie-poo, hold my hand tighter! Hold my hand tighter when we cross the street.” Jean’s hand was gripped tightly; it had no room to breath.
“You and daddy are gonna read me a story after, right mommy”, Jean asks innocently, although she already knows the answer to her question. She was a smart girl.
“If I’m not too tired…Mommy had a long day. But I’m sure daddy will, and I’ll join him”. Sweet Jean tries remembering the last time mom was there to read with daddy. She tries to remember the last time mom read to her at all. And distracted by this mental inquiry, Jean trips on a planting shovel clearly left out by Sasha.
“C’mon Jean!” her mom demands, yanking her slow daughter up the steps to that giant front door. “Dam that Sasha. The cunt doesn’t do shit around here” mom muttered under her breath, at a fixed amplitude where she hoped Jean could just faintly hear it, but not loud enough for her to think mommy is mean and could use such language.
While mom shuffles in her pocket book for her house keys, Jean, already free from mommy’s hand, twists the doorknob like the impatient child she so wonderfully epitomized. And to both her and her mom’s surprise, that door was not locked. Walking in, the two observe a silk purple bra on the floor, standing out against the grayish (thought originally white) marble-tiled floor. The yelling from the basement can be clearly heard. A thumping and a humping like one wouldn’t think was real, unless they stood there, with mother and daughter, and felt the whole house shake like it was under an aerial attack during world war two. Frozen in her stance, mom’s mouth drops, Jean stands bewildered, confused.
“No”, mom sighs. “Not today, not now. Please no”, she begins to cry. “You stay!” she commands to Jean. And with a frantic dash, leaving Jean alone at the front door to observe and study that purple bra, she runs downstairs. “Yea...Yea! You…likey…that” Jean hears a deep monstrous voice yell in the deep abyss below her. A terrifying shriek brought out only half a minute later brings Jean out of her frozen obedience, and she follows mommy’s footsteps downstairs. Turning down the balustrade, standing there bewildered, she sees a strange woman on all fours, with daddy standing over her by her buttocks, both completely naked. Dick still in Sasha’s ass, a vehement mommy stands and slaps daddy.
“You horrible, horrible…” she can’t finish the words under her uncontrollable sobs. The lustful man and woman still haven’t even budged.
“Honey, please. Sasha, go, now. Honey please, just wait…” daddy attempts to say, as mommy slaps, hits, does whatever harm her frail little arms can possibly inflict on this giant monster. Fear and anxiety are all Jean can feel. Aroused by the yelling, by the slapping, by daddy’s inability to control the situation, Jean becomes enveloped in horror before she has any chance of preparation. Like an arrow piercing her in the gut, without any idea of what is coming at her, the shock and fear push her back against the wall. She shrivels up in fetal position, and floods the floor with tears.
Back in her comforter, in that same fetal position fifteen years later, she took her fourth hit out of her bong. She knew she’ll feel high after this one. It’s always been after the fourth hit that she really got out of it, got out of her own mind, sitting on that comforter. “And you, mommy…I don’t know what to say. I can’t feel anything”.