Her last words to me, “I don’t want you to see me do it.” And mine to her, nothing. A kiss, I figured – a fragile kiss said more. I gripped my umbrella tightly, studying my dark gloves, shimmering in places where the pale sunlight hit them. I had no other gloves. The ones I was wearing were for dinner parties. They were itchy and I couldn’t wait to take them off. My father said I looked more like her everyday, and that the gloves – elbow-length – made us look like twins if she had been a few decades younger. Because my mother’s favorite accessory had been gloves. It was strange how she loved them so much. I recall a faint memory of her telling me it had made her feel like a movie star when she was little, that she had grown attached to the way they looked, the way they felt, on her pale arms. To me, it felt constricting. As if my arms had been wrapped in gauze. I felt tears in my eyes as he pulled away. I didn’t know why I was crying so soon after I had stopped. I tried my best to conceal it. I sniffed as quietly as I could. I pressed my face into the pillow. But the sex itself wasn't necessarily enjoyable for me. I wanted the sex, no doubt, but I also used it to keep feeling ashamed. I was casual and cavalier about having sex, refused to take it seriously -- and as a result ended up feeling awful about some of the sexual choices I made.

I was crying. I could feel it on my face. I could feel the tears and they felt strange. My hand shook when I wiped them away. They had already dried up on my cold skin, a meek straggle of tears.Recently I read that national radio host Tom Leykis urged his male listeners to "hit on" female victims of incest and sexual abuse: "If you think that a woman's more likely to put out, or more likely to be good in bed because she has a history of abuse, is it wrong to try to find that out and then go for the gold?" At first I cringed in anger that the comment had been made, but then I cringed in shame, knowing that in some ways the comment described me. I had been promiscuous. I had gone out of my way to make sure that my lovers thought I was a talented sexual partner.

I awoke and it was night. My mother’s picture dug into my rib. I felt a dull pain in my bones. Crust clung to my eyelids and I rubbed them away. My vision became clearer, sharpened. The darkness I could see around me began to consume me.You are… so stubborn. So insensitive.” From my father, it came out an angry shout. “I ask you this one thing –” TLDR: I dont know how to do summaries lol. Language: English Words: 3,804 Chapters: 4/4 Kudos: 136 Bookmarks: 26 Hits: 22,084 They didn’t scurry to wake her. I knew that they wouldn’t. That my mother was dead. That she would stay dead. She had wanted to die. And I had let her.

I have a problem, I like having sex with people when they are unconscious and to add to that I fantasize about my daughter. I want her so badly I have sex dreams about her which I know is not normal or good, but I can't help it. A ringing started in my ears, punctured by the sharp sound the forks and spoons made on our plates. Each sound seemed magnified. My ears felt like they were being continuously stabbed. I was fine. I didn’t hurt. But my mother’s blood ebbed and flowed out of her, like water spilling from a broken dam.I heard you at the funeral.” My hands were fists. The utensils dug into my palm, cold and hard and unrelenting. “I heard you say how much you loved how Mom was just so messy, Dad. I heard you, and you said you loved that about her. Well then how come when she was alive you’d yell at her for it, huh? You’d get into fights all the time because she just wouldn’t clean up her crap. Can you tell me why that is, Dad? Were you just faking for the people at the funeral? Were you afraid that Grandpa and Grandma would be horrified that you’d dare to insult their daughter at her own funeral? You were just lying, then, Dad. You were lying to that whole bunch of people.” She didn’t ask for my father. She was still angry. Her stubbornness was another thing I knew of her.

I called my father’s phone and it was busy. He had turned it off. He always did. He never liked to be disturbed after the yelling. He would end up shouting at the person on the other end. He would turn it on later, after his cheeks were less flushed, his skin not buzzing with rage. It would take a long time, and my mother didn’t have that long.

Short Story Writing | Writers | Read Online | Writing Contests | Writing Software | Writing Journals | Writing A Book | Writing A Novel My underwear was gone from my waist. I could feel it wrapped around my ankles, as if they had been placed there to keep me from leaving, from running from my parents’ bedroom and telling myself, “Stop. This isn’t right. You shouldn’t be doing this.”