Trigger Warning: Extreme Horror: Contains Strong Sexual Content, Violence, Drug Use, and Language. by John Raptor Read Free Book Online

make-up covering cuts and scratches and burns, the hospital visits, the lying to doctors, the cowering in corners as he/she/it screamed and yelled and threw things and treated me like I was inferior, stupid, dumb, unworthy, and all the praying to god to protect me and save me, only to realize that god is also an abuser and does not give a shit…none of that compares to the fear I feel now as I hear footsteps clunking down the hall, and see shadows pooling beneath the door.
    I scream into the handkerchief, heart pounding in my eyes, as the rusty doorknob squeals, followed by clicking sounds…and the rabbit enters the room.
    The handkerchief muffles my cries: I’m unheard, as always.
    “Sex is evil,” the rabbit says. “Probably the foulest act I’ve ever witnessed. Sweaty bodies creating sickly fluids, spewing and spreading their disease. It makes me want to puke. Puke until there’s nothing left.”
    Flashbacks: …all the guys I’ve ever fucked, some for less than ten dollars, and how empty I felt some nights, and how I’d cuddle up under the covers and cry into a pillow for hours and sometimes cut my wrists and snort cocaine off the bathroom sink. Once, I jumped off the balcony of my apartment but I only broke my ankle…
    …My father fucking me in the ass and how I puked as he violated me and it was tuna and it reeked and I could feel his slimy semen dripping out of my bleeding asshole (blood and semen dripping down the back of my child thighs) and smell his horrible whiskey breath hours after it was over and I did what I do now (minus the cocaine): go in my room and cry and pray for a way out. But god never listened…
    …Kids at school could tell I was not like them. I didn’t talk. I never laughed. I had no light in my eyes. I was a whore. My father raped me and I was dirty. I would never be clean for my future husband like the other girls in my class. I was always told how important it was to stay pure, but I had already been damaged…
    …So I stopped caring and I’d let guys use me. If I chose to let them use me, at least I still had some control in my life. In middle school, guys would touch me for a dollar. High school, I’d blow a guy for five bucks…
    …all the girls gossiped, called me a ho, a skank, a bitch. And I guess I was. But I was goddam proud of it. Part of me thought they were jealous: I was fucking all the cute boys (and ugly ones) and they couldn’t get none. Also, I had more money than them and the work was easy: touch and suck and done (most guys only took about a minute or two). Those stuck-up bitches could have had it all too if their stupid “self-worth” didn’t get in the way…
    …Now, men (and some women) pay up to $700 to fuck me. Candy Cane—that’s my name at PUSSY CATS. I am one of their hottest and most requested (the club labeled me “exotic”). I reduce those fucking horndogs to slobbering Neanderthals.
    But no matter how much the price tag goes up on my pussy, I feel empty.
    In reality, I have no power.
    Those school bitches were right: I’m a skanky, dirty ho.
    Those men and women (those customers), those boyfriends and girlfriends…they were my father, raping me, over and over, again and again and again. Nothing had changed: I was still that powerless little girl—doomed to relive my father’s abuse, his betrayal of my innocence, the rest of my fucking life.
    “You’re a fucking whore,” the rabbit says (as if reading my thoughts) and rips the handkerchief from my mouth.
    Crying, sobbing: “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry. It’s not my fault. Please…don’t fucking do this. Just let me go.” My teeth and jaws, my shattered wrists singing with pain; I let out a raspy cry: “Oh god…please…don’t kill me.”
    “You don’t know god,” the rabbit says. It does not giggle.
    The rabbit isn’t fucking around anymore. It’s not having fun or finding amusement in the torture. It’s dead serious. Which somehow disturbs me even