Gimme Shelter

The young girl, black hair drenched and clasping ravenously to her face, sloshed her way through countless puddles. The rain seemed to be relentless.
She was tempted to look to the heavens and scream, plead for it to stop.
For everything to stop.

She eventually reached the little brown shack she currently resided in. The walls had holes in and the wood was damp and smelled of rotten flesh. The floor was nothing but a stolen plastic sheet, used for the flooring of the tents when you went camping.
The girl had taken it from the boot of an old couple who were preparing to go on holiday as she passed the open boot of their car just the other week.
They’re pale, wrinkled skin had seemed stretched over the fragile bones that had been in motion for at least 70 years.

They won’t miss it, she thought selfishly as she grabbed it from the open boot of the silver car. Hell, they won’t be in need of a tent at their age, who finds sleeping on a floor fun, anyway?

Then, she was reminded of where she was sleeping now-a-days. On the floor.
The soaking wet grass, shielded from the elements only by three damp pieces of wood and two pieces of corrugated tin she had found in a junk yard in the North began to seep through one of the numerous holes that she had made in it whilst trying to pin it down the floor whenever she was bored....which lately, seemed to be all of the time.

As she sat on the plastic sheet, she still felt the bottom of her torn, stained jeans soaking up the water, as if they were parched and hadn’t had a drink in months.
She sighed to herself as she heard the tell-tale signs of a storm begin to brew outside the little shack she called home.

There was once a happier time than this; a time when she had a proper place to call home, and proper bed to sleep in.
But it was all ripped from underneath her.

“Lora, this is Martin, we are getting married” Her mother had told her
She would never forget the sneer Martin gave her. It was as if to say ‘You not getting out of here’.
Her Mum seemed so in love, she didn’t even notice that Martin would spend his evenings staring at her when she lay on the couch, watching the TV.
She, however, noticed every little thing about the old man. The way he looked hungrily at her when he thought her Mum wasn't looking.
The way her followed her upstairs when she said she was going to bed; it was like he was waiting for something. An opportunity.

For what, she had a pretty good idea.
And that’s when she left.

It was a storm the day she ran as well, only he followed her. Into the closest park and next to the tree line; their black shadows eerily being cast down onto the dry grass. He had a knife with him, only a small pen knife, which he jabbed harshly into her abdomen 3 times, forming the points of a triangle.
‘To make you mine’ he chuckled quietly, his breath forming white misty clouds that disappeared within seconds. He had said the words more to him than to her, but never the less; she had heard the evil intent behind the cold words.

She traced the triangle that was on her stomach, remembering the pain she had felt, the way she had screeched when he dragged the knife from point to point, to make a perfect equilateral triangle.
How no one heard her, she didn’t know. Maybe they were too scared to come and find out what was happening. Maybe they were scared something would happen to them if they came to investigate. Or maybe....Just maybe nobody was there. Nobody wanted to come and save her, maybe they wanted this to happen. For her to be in infinite amounts of pain, to be blinded by the pain so to speak.

“Now, now, darling. There’s nothing to be afraid of. I’ll make you beautiful” he whispered ‘seductively’ in her ear, she smelled the stale smoke smell and the harsh liquor on his breath.
And then the fouls smells became even fouler tastes as she found Martins tongue being shoved inside of her mouth. Preventing her from screaming in pain..... But nothing would prevent the pain, make it stop. She felt like she was burning from the inside out, not being able to think straight or even see what was happening in front of her as she scrunched up her eyes, trying to erase herself from her surroundings. Praying to wake up...wake up from what she thought couldn’t be happening. These things just didn’t happen....only in movies....not in real life.

How stupid she had been....

Once Martin had stood up she opened one of her eyes, just enough to see that her blood had smeared his white shirt with an artistic white triangle, still wet it trickled down the fabric, forever marking it. Forever remembering the terrible deed it had just been a part of.
She felt the need to throw up and Martin swaggered away, whistling ‘For He’s A Jolly Good Fellow’ under his breath. She would have laughed at him, if she could feel anything other than pain, if she could control what her body now did. Over how she felt....what she did. That had all just been taken away from her, in a sea of fire that lapped up all happiness people had, and replaced it with a feeling of dread and emptiness and pain. Most of all, the pain.
She twisted over, involuntarily, and threw up just as the angry grey clouds above her head finally decided to burst, pelting down on her body. Hammering relentlessly at the injuries on her abdomen, washing the blood of off her, almost soothingly.
She sat up, some of the sick sticking in her hair. She looked around for her clothes, and noticed that they weren’t there. Martin would have thrown them in the most inconvenient place for her to get them; the river.

She shivered, remembering the feeling that the river brought. It was ice cold, and fast. Sweeping her downstream after her clothes, which had already disappeared under the murky waters. It has pulled her in, welcoming her almost. As if it didn’t want her to leave, some of the green weeds grabbed her ankles from the bed of the river, and began to pull her underneath. Struggling, she had gone under the surface, then been shoved up again, then been pulled back. Like she was a yoyo and the river was a young child, somewhat fascinated by the whole affair.

She remembered the screams and the pain that she still felt in her abdomen and everywhere else. The icy river had caused a whole new kind of pain, as if the triangle was freezing over, tattooing itself to her skin; refusing to go.

Martin had planned this. Planned her destruction, he thought he was so clever by doing this. ‘Owning’ a teenage girl. He wanted her gone, dead if he could have his way. What had made him refrain from killing her, she didn’t know. Maybe he knew she’d endure more pain by living than if he killed her...Well, if that was his thought; it had become a reality.

He was the reason that she had nowhere to go now. As far as she knew he and her Mum were still living together in the house she used to feel safe in, now she had to find her own shelter, away from them. Away from him. Each day for her now was a struggle. A struggle to eat, drink and sleep. A struggle to stay alive.

She curled up in a ball in one of the corners of the damp hut, where the water was slowly beginning to rise up the walls.

She knew she wouldn’t last this.

The storm was too harsh.

The thunder was too loud.

The rain was too heavy.

The pain was too much.

She needed to get free, Free of this life, free of the person who had lost her. Lost everything she held close, everything she had. Everything she was.

She pulled an orange pumpkin carving knife she had found discarded the other day outside the skate park. It was 2 days til Halloween then, so it figured there’d be some knife, somewhere.

And it was just what she needed to find her way out.

She walked slowly but surely out of the shack. The rain re-affirming its ownership of her as she walked to her destination, past the taunts of drunken strangers from across the road. The howls from the wolves at the full moon, the vicious barks of dogs from behind gates sporting ‘BEWARE OF DOG’ signs.

And then she found the place.

The place she had been found in by him the first time.

So she was sure he would find her here again, a second time.

And with the thought in her head she slowly pulled the carving knife across her jugular, the warm, sticky blood escaping rapidly from her neck and draining down her collarbone, as if to form a necklace. Only this wasn't a removable fashion accessory.

This was death, in all its glory. In all its horrors and in all its beauty.

It was an un-necessary death, due to no-one hearing a young girls screams. Her constant cry for help;

‘GIMME SHELTER!’