She was rough

I don’t remember exactly when I was given life, nor do I remember when the very idea of existence, the foundation of my identity was formed. All I know is that the moment she touches me with her hands, her fingertips bare of the scarlet lacquer she loves, I am in ecstasy. The way she bends her wrists, kneads me in my weakest, most sensitive spots, changes the very insides of me. Even while twirled around according to her whims, amid her heavy breathing, I can’t help but to think that the way I am is never going to be enough for her. She doesn’t say it out loud, but I know that she is slowly trying to mould me into her ideal standards, so that she can show me around to her friends. Maybe even letting them have a taste of what I am capable of offering. The idea sickens me.

The look she gives me after she realizes that I’m all out of energy, not able to even lean against the wall and sliding down pitifully, convinces me that she’s through with me. Ah, yes, as I suspected, she takes a fresh towel, wipes her hands with it as though she had been dealing with a dirty criminal, and then she throws the towel in my face. I can distantly hear her footsteps as she leaves me alone in the dark.

It’s the next morning when she returns. I’m ready for her. I stare her in the eyes, almost defiantly as she lifts my limp body. I wasn’t expecting it, but when she hit me, I couldn’t even feel it. She takes a blow at me a second time, third, fourth… I lose count. I barely even flinch when she takes out a thick wooden bat. She lifts me up again and slams me against the table, the white powdery dust scatters around up in the air and around me. She starts punishing me with the bat. I can feel every fiber of my being getting crushed as the wood touches the soft surface of my exterior. She is enjoying it.

She initiates lifting me again, I try to resist by clinging to the table, but I give up as she pushes her fingers underneath me and peels me. I can’t help but to feel helpless as she once again slams me against a hard surface. She gives a nod to somewhere behind her and I hear excited giggles approaching us. She has invited her friends to witness my abuse, my humiliation. One of her friends, a tall wide one, smirks. A millisecond later I feel something cold and pasty splattered on me, dispersed to cover my beaten up form. They laugh mockingly as they continue to throw things at me, trying to hide my existence.

“Stop it now”, I hear her say suddenly. The throwing stops.

She comes forward and leans over to take a look at me. I offer her no words. She picks me up, takes me across the room to a small door. I can feel the strong energy waves pulsing behind the door, but try to remain calm. She doesn’t hesitate when she grabs the handle of the door, pulls and throws me inside. Click!

The door has been locked.

I can’t move, the energy waves are heating up my body, but I feel strangely safe, like I cannot be harmed. I can hear her giggle with her friends, but I know that she can’t come inside here. Muscles start to form all over my body. I start to regain my strength. What was once limp was now hard, muscular. The cold liquid and things they threw at me before start to warm. They gather up into one and form a shield around me. I can feel them attaching to my body like new limbs.

The door to the room opens up again. She peers at me, with her friends behind snickering. They force me out of the room and drop me. She looks me up and down as if to judge me. Her friends lick their lips and nod at her approvingly.

“Slice it up”, she says.

The tall wide one from before takes the knife and cuts into me. My body cracks and lets out hot steam. They shriek out with delight. She takes a pile of paper plates and gives them out to her friends.

“Make sure the toppings don’t come off as you cut it”, she tells her friend.