She stumbled up the narrow brick steps of the familiar townhouse, eyesight flickering in and out in an unnerving manner. Grasping the doorknob, she ignored the sensation of blood as it oozed from her split knuckles, easing the door open with all the silence she could muster. She loathed the idea of alerting Naomi, the heavyset homeowner of the converted complex. She was an affectionate old colored spinster who had converted the family home into an apartment dwelling after her father’s passing, and while she had nothing but love in her heart for all her tenants—the vast majority of which were young, unmarried women—Kit couldn’t stomach the idea of answering her questions right now.
Tiptoeing quietly down the landing hallway, she fished her keys from her purse, sighing thinly as she noted the bag’s broken strap. Unlocking the door, she turned on the light as she ducked inside, immediately dropping both bag and key ring on the floor, before kicking off her scuffed heels and peeling away rip hosiery, all of which she left lying in the doorway of her apartment as she fled with frustration towards her bathroom.
The fluorescent lights above the built in vanity stung her eyes as she turned them on, leaning over an ornately carved sink to inspect herself in the mirror. Absently the fingers of her left hand drummed the pale coral tile of the counter while her right haphazardly scraped away layers of makeup, and somewhere in the back of her mind she hoped she wouldn’t leave any bloodstains on the charming detail. It would be a true tragedy, as she loved the entire apartment, tenderly accented with feminine charms meant to satisfy a particular type of clientele.
Staring at her smeared but essentially cosmetic free face, Kit’s stomach sunk and knotted in numbing depression. Her lip was split nearly all the way across, and crusted thick with blood, while her left eye was swollen shut, the skin a hideous, thick purple. Rivulets of blood stained her face from nostril to jaw, and she was thankful that she had scrapped away without a broken nose. Her left earlobe was swollen and similarly blood-crusted where her earring had been ripped out, but with great relief she found that it was only a minor tear, and would heal without much complication. Her knuckles, all four on her right hand, were split and tender, but she considered that a victory more than anything; after all, it meant she had at least managed to break something of his in retaliation, which was a very satisfying thought.
Closing her only currently functioning eye, she sighed morosely, stepping away from the mirror, and towards an elegantly claw-footed bathtub. She didn’t need her reflection to tell her that her dress was ruined, the entire front of the brilliant pink number caked with blood and sick, and she made a point to drop it into the washroom trashcan upon removal. With delicate hands, she adjusted the tub fixtures to a familiar position, letting the basin fill with warm water before climbing in. The water stung viciously against the scrapes and bruises that covered her body, but it was nonetheless soothing, the burn a sign that the filth and blood was being washed away.
She soaked for a long time, letting the wet heat ease away the tension and aches of her abused muscles. Relaxed, she let the events of the evening play back in her head as a certain masochistic lesson of caution; the dinner, the wine, his kisses and touches, the sensation of their little ‘surprise’, and the subsequent assault that has occurred all still vivid on her tongue, skin, and mind. Though she was used to this kind of failure, tonight was especially disappointing, perhaps because of the particularly violent wrath she had incurred. It wasn’t even that he had hurt her that bad—she was a tough girl, after all—but instead that each blow had been a silent statement that she was bound to die alone, because no proper man would forgive her little ‘discrepancies’.
Sitting up slightly, the movement bringing the ache back to her bones, she carefully inspected herself for every trace of damage, while basking in the familiarity and quality of her body. She had small, dainty feet, and narrow ankles that curved upwards to form succulent calf muscles. Though bruised from a number of falls, her knees were still smooth and pinched, their clean lines defining the transition from her calves, to her round and juicy thighs, which fed upwards to form full hips that had been, on more than one occasion, described fondly as the ‘child-bearing’ variety. Her posterior was firm and luscious, its shape reminiscent of a fresh Georgia peach, though on a much, much larger scale. Her waists was shapely and surprisingly trim, despite her buxom lower half, though her chest was as dreadfully flat as a young boys. Born of a indescribably forgiving short stature, her shoulders were narrower than would have been expected for someone of her nature, attached to slender but curvaceous arms. Her neck was thin and slightly long; with a moderate Laryngeal prominence, while her face was round and heart shaped, her full cheeks giving her a youthful appearance than Naomi had once insisted she would appreciate somewhere down the line. Her overall countenance was stunning--exotic but not uncomfortable--with fine porcelain skin and slightly curly, snowy white hair. Her eyes were a cotton candy pink and pleasantly proud, their fierceness reflecting back at her from the still water.
It was true, she had to admit, as she inspected herself: she had a vain love for every inch of her body, save for perhaps a meager four, which, despite the trials of the evening, and every negative emotion flooding her blood, had begun to stand erect, peaking out of the tension of the bathwater, and begging for their own inspection. She was not as fond of these few inches as she was the rest of her shapely, stunning self, and would have been content enough to have them rot off, even if they did not share the same loathing sentiment and did in fact love her very much, enough so to plead for their own sliver of attention. It would have been a near endearing display, she supposed, if they were not also a very vindictive four inches, screaming in pain and tormenting her until they were assuaged.
Lying back again, she closed her eyes, reluctantly letting her hand dip below the water to tend to her horrifically timed needs. She did not dawdle or tease, finding the act of self pleasure to be ironically lacking in any pleasure at all, and climaxed quickly and without a single sound. Drawing her hand away, she stared a moment as the messy gift offered up by her body, nose wrinkling in disgust as it floated in tendrils across the water. The calming aura of her bath ruined, she fanned the discharge away, and swiftly washed her face and her more personal effects, then drained the tub, stumbling out on aching legs and dragging a plush, daisy yellow towel from the shelf. She wrapped herself up snugly, fetched another for her hair, and then listlessly exited the bathroom, turning into her bedroom and sinking tiredly onto her bed. She took a moment to dry her hair, then removed the towel and tossed it onto the floor. Swiping a glass bottle of a hand-mixed herbal solution from her bedside, she turned on a garishly feminine lamp, lacy frills hanging from the shade, the top eclipsed by a translucent silk hanky. Popping the cork, she dabbed a bit of the cure-all onto her fingers, then applied it graciously to her lip, eye, and more prominent bodily scrapes, basking in the way it immediately began to soothe away the agony. Then she capped the bottle, returned it to its appropriate place, and sunk backwards, drawing her legs onto the bed and curling up, her still-damp skin sticking to the quilt. She let the evening play out one more time in her mind, as her body began its nightly shutdown routines, every muscle and joint within her eager for some nice, healing rest. As her breathing slowed from the warm embrace of slumber, she laughed a tiny, contrived laugh, the noise barely an exhalation, her final thoughts being the irony of her existence.
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Author's Comments
1932 is just a rough year for some girls.
Word count is 1,404. Kit copyright =FreakishFeline Forgive my historical inaccuracies. I'm sure there are more pertinent things to comment on then the fact that fluorescent lighting wasn't invented until 19-something-or-other. Comments
 ...nice reversal there, babe.
Anyways, description is as beautiful and eloquent as always. You might want to go back and check your commas (though I'd be hard pressed to find anything in specific) but it looks pretty good otherwise. This is another great example of your ability to capture a scene and character in just a flicker of time. I really feel like I understand Kit, despite being relatively unfamiliar with her expanded universe, so to speak. And don't worry; Incandescent lamps were commercialized well before 1932. Yeah, I abuse the commas a bit.
I'm hoping the theme of the story is clear. I really wanted to paint a portrait of Kit, and how, prior to meeting Barnabas, she did not fare well with men who found out about her little four inches, but on the other hand, I did not want to be too graphic or overt. I wanted to paint a picture just clear enough that people are pretty sure they know what happened--but not entirely so. -- I'm a neutrois; I am not an androgyne. Please respect the difference. I prefer Ey (he/she), Em (him/her), Eir (his/her), Eirs (his/hers), and Emself (himself/herself).  Sounds like someone needs a six-foot-tall drunk bastard who doesn't seem like he speaks English at all.
You really succeeded in making the reader feel for her, I definitely feel her pain. Once you got into describing her genitals, it wasn't vulgar or graphic, but her masturbation was painful. I love Kit, Doc does too. Oh, you have no idea. She needs him like goddamn everything.
Kit's story is tragic but life is so much happier with Doc. C: I'm really glad I pulled of the points about her genitalia and masturbation. I was worried about them a lot, and would have loathed fot it to have been vulgar. Kit deserves better than that. -- I'm a neutrois; I am not an androgyne. Please respect the difference. I prefer Ey (he/she), Em (him/her), Eir (his/her), Eirs (his/hers), and Emself (himself/herself).  The title is terribly ironic.
I don't know what happened in 1932, though, but as you describe it it would have been terrible = / Love the text. Descriptions and ambiance made me feel bad ... You've replied!
Irony was intended, yes, but don't be fooled: Kit's still a lady, despite biological hurdles~ I'm really glad this was emotionally powerful. I wanted the whole world to feel Kit's pain. -- I'm a neutrois; I am not an androgyne. Please respect the difference. I prefer Ey (he/she), Em (him/her), Eir (his/her), Eirs (his/hers), and Emself (himself/herself).  You know, I'm pretty certain flourescents were around back then... not that, I know for certain or anything, I really can't be assed to look it up.
Still, pretty good, I have such a boner for these oddly disturbing scenes... (the abuse, come on now.) It makes you hurt for the character, and god I feel like such a girl for admitting it. I am gonna go do something shallow and meaningless to make up for it. -- "I'm not gonna say, you know, there's plenty more fish in the sea. I'm not going to say if you love her, let her go. And I'm not going to bombard you with clichés. But what I will say is this... It's not the end of the world." ~Ed, in Shaun of the Dead Yeah, dA stopped logout me at every page.
I guess she does. Paradoxes are a reason to live  And you managed to describe the pain beautifully. Like only someone who's ewperimenting it can do. It's harsh and poetic at the time, like a blazing sun. |
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Critiques
You do have a few errors in your grammar, however. Some of these, I imagine, were mistakes that the spell checker didn't pick up (example: "she laughed a tiny, contrived laughed"). This is something that a good final proof-reading of your story will catch.
One other minor comment, and this is more a personal taste thing than any actual flaw: there are a few places where I think you could have split a paragraph into two. IMHO, shorter paragraphs make the story easier to read and digest. Again, this is my personal taste.
In short, I enjoyed your story immensely. I hope you have something in mind alrady for a sequel. I'm looking forward to reading it.
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