Girl in Profile by Zillah Bethell Read Free Book Online Page B

Romany dress slip to her knees. I have to catch my breath as it runs away from my body. I curve a breast into place, reveal another, lick an areola star into being. She is pale and thin as a fairy grown by the light of fireflies. She was meant for the shadows. I lengthen her limbs, deepen her, take her to extremes. Her left hand curls in mild protest. I tauten a sinew in her neck like tuning a violin string. She flinches. I show the whites of her heavy, lidded eyes, force her to look at me directly as I look at her. Not a particle of her body escapes my gaze, my touch.
    Her mouth opens in defiance. When will it be over? Soon, my dear, soon, I lie. I take my time over the torment in her face, the bewilderment, discomfort. My breath is shallow, hoarse as a dog on a chain. The world diminishes, contracts, becomes grey and meaningless. Only her body shines, enticing me, provoking me. I gouge a belly button, hollow a collarbone, shadow the inner side of her thigh. I scratch her irises out through pity then scratch them in before slitting her downy plum in half, until vermilion juices trickle down my wrist, my chin. She sobs. I’ve gone too far. I paint out quickly, cover the mess with the pretty white Romany dress, give her a pendant as a token of my regard. Her long neck droops under the weight of it. She’s wilting out of the canvas, acquiescent at last. The light dies. She is mine. (She lingered too long by the side of the lake.) I take over where the light left off. I paint my desire into her, my frustration into her, the whole of my sick and debauched little soul into her. This is what I did to her, God help me, this is what I did to her. And this is what you did to me.

Moth
    Women’s Work
    I lie in the bath water Roan and Dove have probably pissed in. Plastic toys bob around me and an orange duck laps between my legs like it’s giving me oral sex. I allow myself to think of Adam.
    â€œThis dog’s been rolling in fox shit.” Drew is washing Mr Stinks, as we’re calling him now, under the outside tap. “What the fuck’s wrong with him.”
    BC (before children) I indulged in long luxuriant baths; I might listen to the radio, light a candle, dribble a little aromatherapy oil into the cascading waves. BC I conditioned my hair; BC I prepared honey, strawberry and egg yolk face packs to keep my Miss-Carmarthen-at-twenty-two skin radiating Miss-Carmarthen-at-twenty-two. BC I had beautiful feet. Now, ten years later, I lie tense and crouching in a leaking shower cap and a piss-filled bath waiting for Drew to finish cleaning the fox shit from Mr Stinks, come in, and sit on the toilet seat so that we can get a word in that is not edgeways round the head of a child, the washing up, the Monopoly board, the Wii.
    Tom whistles in the bathroom next door then urinates: a steady stream, a pause, two drops, the flush, the light switch. All the bathrooms in this row are ground floor, flat-roofed extensions. All are cold, all are mouldy. Tom looks like a member of a boy band who’s bedded his mate’s mum. He and his girlfriend have a baby girl called Cherry and, what do you know, grandma lives the other side of us at the ready. She’s a bit of a Rottweiler, but she sure sings some sweet lullabies as she wheels the kid up and down the bleach-fizzing pavement. Tom collects his lunch from her every day – a tin of beans on a plate. Don’t ask me why a grown man gets his lunch off his nan every day – it’s beyond my comprehension. They call each other cunt over our garden gate. It’s some kind of endearment with them. “Hiya, cunt” like you might say “hiya, love”. “Cherry’s a little cunt, innit?” like you might say “Cherry’s a little coughdrop,” and, appreciatively, “Nan, you’re a real cunt…” like you might say, “Nan, you’re a real godsend.” We’re sandwiched between cunts. It can’t