Some bedtime reading...

Thought I'd post an old story of mine, entitled "Grumbling" which I half-heartedly submitted to Poetas III in 1998 (a competition run by the Big Issue Cymru). It was one of the finalists, and was subsequently published - my first ever acceptance. :)

It's not a comfortable story, but the wife of a friend of mine - both then in their late 50s - thought it was excellent.

Grumbling

I sat on the toilet, my legs spread, naked. My stomach was fat; it was grumbling, it felt like it was grumbling. My hand gripped the hairbrush, and I worked myself into a frenzy; I forced the cheap plastic handle deep inside myself, in and out, in and out, over and over again. I felt the pain, but I wanted the grumbling to stop.

I saw the tiny spurt of blood as it trickled onto the cold linoleum floor beneath my feet. I continued my motion, thrusting the handle deep, deeper. My fairy was hurting, bad; but the grumbling wasn’t dead.

I heard his footsteps, on the soft carpet outside the door.

I stopped.

I listened.

The door was locked.

Good.

“Kay?” the voice asked, calm and kindly, through the wooden door. My fists clenched, and I began to sweat, which began to trickle between my boobs. “Kay?” the voice asked again. “Y’ okay?”

I hissed a swear word – it sounded funny, since my teeth were almost together. I was angry, my blood felt like it was boiling in my veins. My thrusting became more vigorous, damning. The blood trickled freely, a pool formed between my feet.

I heard the steps walk away.

I stopped. It wasn’t working: the grumbling didn’t stop, but became louder. I began to cry.

“Kay!” another voice, louder; angry. It came from downstairs.

“Yes mother.” I replied, years of training took over for me. I was thirteen, felt like three.

“Listen to your brother.” she shouted back. “And dinner's ready.” An afterthought, that was; I wasn’t eating, not since last Tuesday: four days. I wanted my stomach to stop grumbling, but it wouldn’t.

I felt it move, though: it was hungry.

I stood up, and opened the door. The hair brush wasn’t long enough. I walked down the landing, past my parent’s room, past my brother’s: Bastard. Fucker. I learned those words; they’re horrible. They described him.

I entered my bedroom, and closed the door. I jammed my chair beneath the handle.

I opened my wardrobe, and there it was. The only one not used. I took the hanger, and began to straighten it - it was harder than I thought: I wish I had eaten - I needed the strength. I worked the wire into shape, a straight length. I sat on the edge of the bed, and looked down, then towards the door.

“Our father,” I began, “who art in heaven.”

I held the wire softly between my fingers, and slowly eased its way in.

“Hallowed by thy name.”

The pain escalated, but I didn’t scream – I wanted to, but I didn’t; I didn’t want them to hear, to find out.

My brother would be mad; my father would be madder.

My mother would be sad.

My hands became bloody. I felt the wire deep inside; my stomach still grumbled.

“Thy kingdom come.”

My stomach began to grumble less. The blood flowered faster. My bed was red.

“Thy will be done.”

The grumbling stopped. I stopped, and fell back onto my duvet. The wire stuck out; it was funny too look at: it looked like a willy.

I smiled:

“Amen.”