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INNOCENT

 

Mandi Rose

 

 

          Tonight is a beautiful night with a slight chill in the air.

 

          I’ve just finished painting my toenails. As they dry, I have a vision of red. I wonder: is it blood or madness? Maybe both. Right now I have the chills. What could it be? What does it mean?

 

          She made me bleed. What happened? That I’m unsure of; my mind is a landmine of memories. All memories of her hurt so bad! I need peace. I need to find some way to get over being this scared little girl. She’s put me through so much.

 

          Sharon is my older sister. She’s naturally a brunette, but dyes her hair to whatever. She has a face full of freckles, and is taller than me. She’s also not on the light side, to put it nicely. She used to be real thin with huge tits. Now she’s very fat with huge tits. Unfortunately, I look like her. All but the fat part. There’s no mistaking we’re sisters, sad to say.

 

          I got it! I know now. I remember Sharon hit me so hard, so many times in my rib cage, I spat up blood for almost a week.  I was so scared of her, I never told anyone. I still went to school and Mom never knew a thing. That wasn’t the first time Sharon physically abused me.

 

          Back when I was seven years old, she forced me to do things to her. These very bad things, I knew were wrong. First she’d say, “Do me a favor?’’ When I’d say no, she’d say, “Then I’ll tell Mom what you did.’’ Sharon would smile. “Then you’ll be in trouble.’’ Like all kids, I was afraid of getting into trouble.

         

          Out of pure fear, I reluctantly did what she demanded. As time went on, she’d go into these fits of rage and beat the shit out of me. She would! You’d think she was some crazy monster or something.

 

          After a while of her beating me, my body stopped bruising so easily. She bruised even with the slightest touch. Then she’d say I hit her. The size difference between us was too insane. No one should’ve believed that nut job was beaten up by little me!

 

          One night, though, I started planning ways to end it all. I didn’t care if I ended my life or hers. I just wanted it all to stop. I needed it to stop!

 

          I almost never slept. So, in the middle of the night, I tried to plot my escape from this crazy bitch. I tried downing pills or cutting my throat wide open. Then, I thought: That should be her. It should be her life that is cut short!

 

          That night was a clear winter wonderland. It had just finished snowing. The ground looked so clean, so fresh. No one had walked on it yet. It was just after 3AM, and I was still awake.

 

          I listened to all the night sounds in my house: my parents snoring in the next room, my middle sister just beyond them, and then, all the way down the hall, Evil sleeping . . . 

 

          And, I thought to myself, that fucking bitch will get what’s coming to her!

 

          One night I remember my dad ramming a huge kitchen knife into Big Sis's headboard.  He’d wanted to borrow $20, but she was being her usual bitchy self. She wouldn't give it to him. And the numbers he wanted to play would have made him a lot of money.

 

          Still, what a great idea he’d had! It was there for the taking, and boy did I!

 

          This night, I walked into the kitchen and quietly took out the sharpest and biggest knife Mom owned.

 

          Sharon’s room was right off the kitchen. Just a couple of steps, and I was there. I should’ve been shaking more than after any beating I ever endured from her. At least, that’s what you’d think when you plan to kill your abuser. I only thought: Jail would be so much easier to face than her kind of torture.

 

          In her mirror, I glimpsed myself. And, even in the partial light from the other room, I noticed my eyes. Before tonight I hadn’t seen it. My innocence had been stolen by my own sister. She’d killed me each time, every time!

 

          I was so damned young! No child deserves to go through this pain. Tonight I took a stand for all children.

 

          I tiptoed toward her bed. I couldn’t help but watch her breathe. She was a sound sleeper. I watched, as her chest caved in and out. I looked into that fucking freckled face of hers. I knew she never thought of what she did to me. I knew she didn’t think of all the pain she caused me. And I knew she’d never care if I told her she’d stolen my innocence.

 

          That’s when I raised the knife. I held it with both hands to keep steady and not miss my mark. In my mind, I saw it even before it was done.

 

          First, I stabbed her in the heart one . . . two . . . seven, eight times! Then I dragged the knife up to her throat. I tried to cut her head completely off. I needed to know she was dead and would never hurt me again! I needed that, but couldn’t quite get her fat head off that massive body. I never made a sound. She didn’t, either.

 

          Just as well let ignorance sleep all cozy tonight.

 

          Until daybreak, I stayed in her room, holding that bloody knife. I wanted to confess my sins to Mom.

 

          Then I realized: I didn’t have any sins to confess! I’d made the world safe from one evil piece of shit. If not for the greater good, than at least for my world, my good!

 

          And that’s enough, isn’t it? I felt like Dorothy from that movie. I wanted to shout, “Ding dong, the witch is dead!”

 

          And dead she is!







Guilty


 


Mandi Rose


 


 


          One cold, lonely night, I woke up in a pool of sweat mixed with blood.


 


I tried to sit up and noticed the knife was still in my body. I had to be in shock. Trying to glimpse the stabber fleeing my home, I noticed parts of his body. In the faint lighting, I could make out some of his facial features.


 


          Pulling the knife out of my stomach, I saw something more alarming. The knife had entered my left breast, was forced long the nipple and straight down through my stomach! The wounds didn’t stop there, I realized. 


 


Upon phoning 911, I saw my wrist had been sliced open. Maybe this guy wanted the authorities to think it was suicide. However, this would still have to be investigated and brought to trial.


 


All the doctors said I was lucky to be alive. I certainly didn’t feel lucky. Why was this guy trying to kill me? What did I ever do to him?


 


          I was in the hospital for about four months. In that time, my heart failed me twice. Luck must have still been on my side. The doctors were able to save me on both accounts. They couldn’t, however, save my breast. So now I am left to live my life with only one breast and looking extremely lopsided.


 


          That wasn’t the worst I had to deal with, I suppose. I still had to view the police lineup.


 


After a good ten minutes of examining the seven suspects, I positively identified my attacker. Scary thing was, I still didn’t know who he was or why he did this to me. He looked only vaguely familiar. . . .


 


          Of course, pressing charges was in the plan for this guy. I took this all the way to court. After a grueling six month wait, we finally had our day in court. “Our Day” just so happened to last a horrid five months.


 


The day was April 21st and it was painfully long. I learned almost nothing that first day. His name was Jeffrey Smith. I knew him a long time ago. In fact, I once thought I was in love with him. These days he looks so different, so changed, so mean. Still, why would he try to kill me?


 


          On June 26th, at 4:18 PM, my heart caused me to be rushed to the nearest emergency room.


 


That near-fatal incident took the doctors longer to revive me. I was technically dead for 10 minutes and 35 seconds. After that, my brain was fried! I doubted if I wanted to go on living. For a week, doctors wouldn’t allow me to tend to courtroom business.


 


On July 3rd, at approximately 9:25 AM, I was once again in court. I couldn’t understand why these procedures were taking so long. He tried to kill me! Just convict him and let’s be done with it all!


 


          At this point, I didn’t care why he did what he did. However, on August 14th, Jeffrey took the witness stand and totally went off about everything. He told about how he loved and missed me, about how horrible he felt, living without me. He was talking all types of crazy stuff. This nut even had the nerve to say he wanted me to take him back. Of all things, he wanted me to forgive him.


 


          All I could do was cry.  My memories of what we’d had were dragged through the court.  As he looked into my eyes and whispered my name like he used to, tears ran down both our faces.


 


I could see he was hurting, but that didn’t justify attempted murder. That’s certainly not something I pushed him into trying on me.


 


          September 11th, on the witness stand, I collapsed.  At 3:45 PM, I was once again rushed to the hospital. Somehow, I had internal bleeding, without cause or warning. I had to wait another week to return to court.


 


          Wednesday, September 17th, I returned at 11:45 AM, only to have the day cut short. Court let out at 1:30 PM, to resume the next morning.


 


The trial seemed to go on forever! But finally, finally the day arrived. The day to sentence Jeffrey for what he had done to me


. . .


 


          On Friday, September 26th, at 3:38 PM, Jeffrey Smith was sentenced to life without parole. . . .


 


          And at 7:55 PM, on that very same day, my 25th birthday . . .


                                               


                                                I DIED.




 

 

 

Mandi Rose currently lives at the Jersey shore. She writes short stories in her spare time, and works as a topless dancer at a local strip club. Mandi enjoys long walks on the beach where she fantasizes about her lover. Her ultimate goal is to do him on his boat in the middle of the ocean. When she's alone, one of her favorite things to do is masturbate.

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