Second Person Narrative
© Cynthia Eli Theo
Basement Studio
You always told me I would be a good girl; locks that shine golden red fall upon my pale dimpled cheeks. (Smile little girl, we are taking your picture). As soon as the set is over you plop down to the couch and say “Baby, why don’t you get me a cold beer” and you then start clicking away at the television trying to find the loudest, most obnoxious channel. Even though my legs are weak and my body is bruised you still make me a slave for you. You say, “Hey what’s taking you so long? I don’t pay you for nothing!” and laugh in a tone that makes me think of driving a sharp knife through your worthless body part, that you pride so much. Your eyes lock instantly to this one commercial of a guy feeding his panting dog, you chuckle lightly.
You told me I would love this experience, that it would be professional and beneficial for my career. Every night you roll into bed with a smirk of content and feel as though you are successful, you are powerful; you are the proudest photographer and most of all: you have a young girl at your side, every single day of your most pathetic life. Before you fall asleep you immediately think about the door. Is it locked from the inside? We don’t want your sweet little girl escaping to the harsh cold world. You think you are protecting me. You think that I deserve this.
This night is different from most nights. You sigh, and then begin to have a pain in your chest and your mind becomes full. Images of your life start flashing in your mind. You then start thinking in your head (something you don’t often do). You think of your mother, the one that kicked you out when you were only fifteen years old. You still have plans of going back there and giving her a piece of your mind (if you have one). You think of Tony, the slob who always has some random food on his shirt who owes you thousands for the stuff you have given him during the years. You think about tomorrow, the photos you want to take of me, and the poses you want to put me in. I’m your little doll, your little play thing, I’m the one who is going to make you big in the industry. Will this achievement, help your tragic pathetic life? We all have problems, but why put this out on me? Does my pain give you a rise? Does this make you feel accomplished? Of course my voice will never be heard, my mouth is only good to turn people one. I know that when I wear red lip stick (the signature of my character), you stop for a second and think of your baby sister, because when she was a little girl she use to wear your mothers shoes and put bright red lip stick on her lips and smudge it all over her teeth.
You miss her; you often worry about whether or not she’s okay. You remember the times you use to play with her in the back yard, ***** tires being swung, wet soggy grass between your toes, burnt red skin and warm kool-aid. Here you are being successful and she’s in the streets, probably selling her body for a profit. You then think, maybe you are wrong for keeping this innocent girl here, you suddenly become human with emotions. But then you go back to convincing yourself that it isn't that bad, I wanted it. I came to you anyway. You then softly fall asleep; your worries don’t bother you. Tomorrow your plans entail tying me up and allowing a little blood to show.
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