Yet still, I want more. Need more. Demand more. Still, the hurt, the pain, the suffering, the red welts and brilliant bruises are not enough. Never enough. Never enough to fill the gnawing self-loathing that possesses my soul. "Bitch. Bitch. Bitch." Rolling pin slammed into my cunt. Through wetness. Through dryness. Hammering at my cervix. Tearing at my inner walls. Stretching me. Filling me. Fucking me. Relentless. Mirthless. Driving again and again into my inner softness. Uncaring in its demands. Uncaring of the tears that decorate my bruised and glowing face. Uncaring of the ragdoll shaking of my shoulders, the forced gasping breaths, my bouncing breasts, the heaving of my stomach, the twisted writhing of my entirety. Uncaring, my fingers clinging to its rough smooth surface as it jackhammers. "Bitch." Just flesh. Trembling and pathetic. Just blood and muscle and sinew. Worthless. Recyclable. Fleeting in existence. Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust. Worm food. Soon forgotten. Soon. If we’re champs, we’ll yell out the window. If we lose, Sonja (a second clarinet) can do it with Toby in the back seats while the rest of us sleep. My job is to save them the rear seat. If we don’t go to State, they’ll still do it anyway, but not on the bus.I could maybe write a story about doing it on the bus, but it wouldn’t be my story.I’m doing OK this morning — a half-dozen pretty-good agates plus an unbroken sand dollar. I’m dragging my big find, a plank that’s maybe teak. When I get the right pieces of driftwood, I’m going to build a butcher block. Dad has a table saw. We don’t actually butcher anything, but it will look great.“Need some help?”I thought I was alone; you often are on the Oregon coast. I turn and a boy’s catching up with me, a boy maybe about my age with hair flipping in the wind. Kids from around here wear hats.He nods toward my find.“Teak from Thailand,” I inform him. “I make butcher blocks.” The wood hardly needs two people to carry it, but it’s not often.
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