A Starr is Born

I spend the rest of that night in a state where I’m not sure if I’m trying to sleep or actually asleep. I turn the clock around because I can’t stand seeing the time. Knowing how much time has gone by is depressing me, and feeling how slowly time is going by is depressing me more. I do suspect, however, this is the longest I’ve ever seen him sleep. His breathing is deep and steady, but his grip is vice-like. I would be a fool to think it was anything close to “loving.”

I finally must have drifted because I wake up, and I’m alone. I drag my naked body into the bathroom and check myself in the mirror. I’m in a sorry state with white, red, and black schmeared all over my face and neck. I examine my naked back. The scratch marks have mostly disappeared, but have been replaced by an impressive array of new bruises. I scrub the make-up off, viscously, because I don’t need the constant reminder that I’ve just been fucked by a man who wears clown make-up. It’s probably something I won’t forget for a long time anyway.

After I put on some deliberately unattractive clothing, I go downstairs and my eyes focus immediately on the handle of the back door. I’m not sure what game is going to be played now that he has free reign over my entire body, and I’m not sure I ever want to find out. I feel significantly stronger than before, as if some demon is rising inside of me and giving me some type of motivation to open that door and bolt as fast as I can.

The backyard, as I remember, seems to lead to nothing but forest, but my instinct tells me that if I run in what I perceive as straight, I’ll have to find my way to something. We’re a small town, but not that remote. I’ll probably end up back at Joe Schmo’ in no time.

Then again, what happens if I don’t make it? What cruel punishment will he have for me then? The question really is will I feel better if I defend myself, or will I feel better if I submit to him hoping that maybe, just maybe Batman or the authorities will come and rescue me. I feel I’ve spent my time here being so passive, just lying down and letting him have his way, that I need to attempt something aggressive. I need to try, if only for the sake of knowing I did try.

The blinds are pulled down on the back door. I try to, as inconspicuously as I can, lift the shade without having anyone see me and …

MOTHERFUCKER!

It’s him! It’s fucking him! Was he waiting for me at the back door the whole time or is this some morbid coincidence? Like someone up there really has it in for me.

“Going somewhere?” He slams the door open knocking me into the couch behind me. I brace myself on the hard edge.

“I….uh….I” I stutter back.

He walks inside the “family room” and slams the door behind him, locking it with a definitive click. I can see his make-up is fresh, and he’s re-costumed as normal in the middle of the daylight.

“You motherfucker,” I scream back, “Were you just waiting there this whole fucking time?”

He really doesn’t like me cursing at him, or maybe he does because it gives him motivation for what he does next. He comes up to me and punches me hard in the stomach. The wind is knocked out of me, and I collapse onto the floor gripping my stomach.

He stands over me, smiling.

“Where did you think you were going? Hmm?”

“Out,” I cough.

The next thing I receive is a swift kick in the stomach. I cough and gasp for breath.

“Hmm,” he looks at me, admiring his morbid creation, and goes into the adjoining kitchen to sit, “After the night we had, you want to leave?”

I can’t justify that question with a response, so I hastily ask, “Don’t you have something better to do than terrorizing me? Like, terrorizing Gotham?” I’m curled over, in a fetal position, cringing.

He gets up and comes towards me. Standing over my weakened body, he uses the edge of his foot to turn me over to face him. He places his dirty and smelly shoe on my chest.

“Terrorizing Gotham is my job, but terrorizing you is my hobby,” he laughs at that one because he’s so fucking funny, or so he thinks.

“Go to hell!” I shout back.

He brings his shoe up to my throat and applies a good amount of suffocating pressure. I try to lift his shoe with my hands, to no avail, naturally. He’s smiling demonically at me.

“Oh, good for you!” I manage to cough out, “You can beat up a little girl who’s been locked in a house for three weeks, totally incapacitated. Aren’t you are strong man!” I say this through gritted teeth, “I’m so impressed.”

He removes his shoe and comes down to lift me up by the nightshirt I threw on.

He gives a short chortle. “If I was interested in destroying your body, don’t you think I would have destroyed it by now?” He raises his eyebrow at me.

Shit, I have no answer to that.

“Hmm?” He questions.

I can only glare at him.

“Because you’re right. I could have had you whenever I wanted you, but that would make me a common rapist. No,” he shakes his head, “No. What I did was much more impressive. I got you to submit willingly to me and enjoy it.”

“I never enjoyed it!” I shout back.

He laughs in my face, his warm spit spraying me.

He throws me back onto the floor. He takes out his switchblade and points it to my throat, keeping me on the floor, “And now that you have granted me full permission, if you refuse me, I get to punish you. Now that’s a fun game.”

He brings the blade back to his pocket and gets up to leave. I brace myself on the floor, “You know,” I shout at him without looking, “I could just end my own life. Save you the fun.” Oh, that was a smart thing to say.

I can hear him stop in his tracks.

He laughs, slightly, “You don’t have the balls."

“Yeah? What makes you say that?” I try challenging, knowing I can’t win this one, but hoping it will make me feel better.

“If you didn’t have the balls to leave your shit job, how would you have the balls to end your own life?” He wins.

We are both silent for a moment with our backs turned to one another, me on the floor, him standing at the back door. I’m trying my best not to vomit after having the wind knocked out of me twice, while thinking hard at the same time about all the things he just said.

“You’re a pussy,” I mutter under my breath. My defenses are too low to actually stop myself from verbalizing my thoughts.

“What?” I can hear him turning to face me, “what did you say.”

I can feel my face contorting, like I’m about to cry. I hope it works.

He’s standing over me right now, and he grabs me by my hair, bringing the switchblade back to my throat, “What did you say?” He asks again, applying just enough pressure where I can feel a small stream of warm blood beginning to form on my throat.

“I said ‘I’m sorry’” I let the tears stream down my face.

“Good girl,” he whispers into my ear and withdraws the knife, “Good, good, girl.” He lets go of my hair and leaves.

“Oh, and don’t try to escape again.” I hear the door slam behind me.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I spend the rest of that day alone, thankfully, feeling nostalgic for the cupcake days. I go to bed, having very little else to do besides read the old man’s collection of National Geographic magazines.

I manage to drift until I hear the madman come back in. He lies down on the bed, and I try to casually shift my body away from his, but he isn’t having any of that tonight and pulls me back into his vice. He goes to violently nuzzle himself into my neck and pulls at the shirt I’m wearing.

“Take this off,” he commands tugging at the shirt.

“No,” I dare.

I can feel his brow furrowing against my face. He fumbles around for something, and I hear the ever-familiar switchblade. He bunches my shirt in the back and manages to saw through it exposing my back to him. He presses me back into him, and he sleepily says, “If you sleep with a shirt again, I’ll kill you,” and within minutes I hear snoring.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A few hours later, I drifted back and forth into sleep, but “in his arms” was not a position I could relax into. Every time I attempted a getaway, his grip tightened even more. I can’t take it anymore, considering that I legitimately have to use the bathroom, so I elbow him in the stomach, which only results in a weak, yet gleeful cackle.

“Fuck,” I mutter to myself, “Can I use the bathroom?” I shout back at him, thinking that maybe a genuine request would warrant a legitimate approval.

He mumbles something unintelligible aside from “No” which is the only intelligible thing. I think I also manage to hear, “Just go here.”

“Are you fucking me?” I respond. Wow, poor choice of words on my part.

I hear a giggle, if I could ever really use that word to describe the noises he makes, and his hand cups my naked breast, tweaking my nipple hard.

The only appropriate response I can think of is to punch him in the face, so I punch him in the face.

He grabs me by the back of my hair, pulling tight. I feel like he might actually remove chunks of my hair.

“You want to go to the bathroom?” He growls, “Fine, we’ll go!”

He pulls me out of the bed by my hair, and I hold on to his wrist for dear life. He seems to have a newfound determination to rip the hair from out of my scalp, and I have a newfound determination to keep it. He drags me into the bathroom and throws me at the toilet. I fall over it on my stomach. The porcelain jabs at my body which has significantly deteriorated since my tenure at Joker Manor. He grabs both of my shoulders from behind and sits me on the toilet, standing over me, with his arms folded.

“Go.” He commands.

I’m too distracted by the pain all over my body to think about it. My body shivers under his glare. I can’t go. In fact, I wonder if I’ve already gone on the violent trip to the bathroom.

“Go!” He grabs at my throat and pushes my head against the wall, arching my back over the back of the toilet. He squeezes tightly, cutting the oxygen, and I can’t breath. I grab at his hands, trying to loosen his grip, and he slaps me across the face, returning that hand back to my throat.

I feel I’m close to passing out and dying without having welcomed it yet. He looks down and releases his grip. I gasp desperately for air.

“Good girl, you went!” He laughs.

I look down, and he’s right. He grabs me by one arm and throws me at the sink.

I brace myself on the cold counter, and he comes from behind me. It’s only when I look at the mirror do I realize that we are both still completely naked. Not only are we completely naked, he’s completely hard..

My hands are on counter and he slides his hands down both of my arms, placing his own imposing and calloused hands on top of mine.

“Now, wash your hands.” He grabs both of my wrists, “Never mind. What’s the point of washing them when you’re about to get dirty again?”

He takes both of my wrists behind my body, binding them with one of his hands, and uses the other to slam my head onto the counter. I can feel his hardness searching for my opening. He pins my head into the counter, while he releases his other hand in order to guide his dick into my pussy from behind. I cringe, but I’m restrained in such a way that I can’t defend myself. Not that I’ve ever been successful at defending myself.

He slams into me from behind, and my head slams into the edge of the mirror, rubbing along the cold counter with each thrust. His pounding is excruciating and relentless. Each time he thrusts, my head bumps into the edge of the mirror and my face rubs against the hard surface. I moan, involuntarily, with the pain of each thrust.

He pulls my head up by my hair, pressing my back against his frontal body. He cranes my head back to bite into my neck as he pounds me from behind.

He releases my throat, “I’m happy you didn’t seem to like it when I was nice to you because I didn’t like it either,” He grips my hair harder, “now I don’t have to be.”

I keep my eyes closed for fear of looking into the mirror to see what’s become of me. He nuzzles his head and greasy hair into my neck, like a disgusting wet dog who smells like it’s been living in its own shit.

“Look at us, Auburn,” he growls into my ear, “isn’t this what you wanted when you let me have you?”

I refuse to open my eyes.

“I said, ‘look at us!’” He slams my forehead into the mirror, and I can hear the glass in the mirror spider. I feel lightheaded, like I’m about to pass out again, but I come to as his thrusting recommences. He keeps my forehead against the broken mirror as he continues pounding into me. The broken glass starts to cut into my forehead, and I pray for him to orgasm and end this pain.

His thrusting becomes longer, harder, and deeper, and I can feel the blood starting to ooze from my forehead down along my face. This is the time he decides to hold out the longest, and I’m embittered that he saves his stamina for this particular event.

His pounding finally becomes more frantic, and I hear him growl loudly, shooting himself inside of me. He rests, but still keeps his hand on the back of my head, which is still pressed against the broken mirror. With one final exhale, he throws me into the corner of the room by the back of my head, and I fall into the corner, too overwhelmed to truly feel the pain that must be manifesting in wounds all over my entire body.

He stands over me, and I look down, breathing hard, staring at the floor in front of me.

“I’m happy you started to, hmm, trust me,” He crouches in front of my limp body, and lifts my chin to look him in the eyes, “Because now the fun is really going to start.”

I stare into his dark eyes, and I’m starting to feel the blood streaming down my face, and I’m resolved:

I can’t let him win,

He straddles my body and I slouch even more into the cold floor.

“Clean me.” He says, looking down at me.

I look in front of me and see his limp dick is covered with my blood and his semen.

He pushes his dick even more into my face, mockingly, and I decide that if the monster wants to play games, I can play them too, so I grab both of his hips with both of my hands and take his bloody member into my mouth. I suck at it hard, being very mindful to remove all of the blood from his cock. I run my tongue over each and every nook and cranny I can feel on his dick. I even let myself moan a little, as if I’m savoring the delicious nectar. I begin to feel his member swell in my mouth, when he removes it abruptly.

He stands over me, and I look up at him, wiping my mouth decisively with my forearm. He narrows his eyes down at me, and I look back up at him, through hooded eyes.

“You might be rewarded for that one,” he says to me, and he leaves the room, leaving me alone and naked on the floor, but not broken.

He might be stronger than me, but he isn’t necessarily smarter than me, and if he wants to play mind games, I can play them too. There’s a new game now, and the only rule I have to play by is that my life is more important than my integrity.

And with that resolution, every part of my body that should hurt starts hurting.