Oatmeal Raisin

I hate the feel of cum inside me. Mostly because I can never seem to get all of it out. We shot the scene three hours ago, I had two showers, and it's still soaking my underwear. I am trying to make myself not feel the slimy layer of cloth but I feel it anyway. I want to fucking scream! Instead, I peel myself off the vinyl seat and walk as normally as possible with the shuttle swerving and screeching to a stop in front of the bus station.

Outside there's so much noise I can’t think. The cars in Miami must be five times louder than the cars in South Carolina. Don’t even talk to me about the garbage trucks! Sunlight blinds me but that’s okay. I’ve seen enough of this town already. I just want to see enough to get on the right bus out of here.

The greyhound lurches and bounces through the rest of the day and all night long. We keep starting and stopping and the driver has a lead foot. I fall asleep and get woken up every five minutes. When I finally drag my suitcase down the tired bus steps, I’m bleary eyed and there's a massive crick in my neck.

Unlocking the door to my tiny apartment, it hits me that for the first time since moving out on my own, I know for sure I can pay the rent. It should be a good thing but I get all choked up about it.

I eat a few raviolis right out of the can then pick up my phone to call someone but I can’t think of anyone I want to talk to. Anyway, I’m so exhausted I can barely stand. I want to take another shower but I washed myself five times already and I still feel disgusting! I curl up on the couch and let myself unravel.

My vagina hurts. Nash, or Rod or whatever his name was, just kept pounding and pounding. I know it’s his job, and yes, I was smiling and talking dirty from the script, but he knew he was hurting me. I saw it in his eyes. He looked right at me and he could see I was in pain. The asshole was getting off on it. I fucking know it!

It feels like after my step dad finished with me. (I haven’t thought of that for a long time.) I was twelve before it began to dawn on me that all kids don’t get fucked by the grownups. It was such a weird thing to realize I just decided not to think about it anymore.

I would sneak out of the house afterwards, and walk barefoot through the backyards a few houses down. This gray haired neighbor named Hilly used to let me in through her sliding glass door. Sometimes I wonder if I made her up or if she was actually real, but either way, she always gave me these amazing, fat oatmeal raisin cookies.

I pull a raggedy blanket around me and doze off. Then suddenly I’m sitting upright on the couch. The room looks different, not as dingy. Hilly is looking at me with concern from a ladder back chair that I don’t remember having. She walks across the room and sits down to my left, puts a gentle hand on my shoulder and looks into my eyes. “You’re strong,” she says, “way stronger than you think. And you ain’t got a damned thing to be ashamed of. But you are gonna have to look at what happened.”

I stammer but can’t think of what to say. I want to ask her what she’s talking about but I know that I know. She hands me a cloth napkin. Inside are fat oatmeal raisin cookies, still warm. I bite off a piece and chew slowly. It’s the most delicious thing I ever ate.