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Vivienne
When I wake up in the morning, I gaze longingly at my sewing machine that’s crowded into one corner of my tiny bedroom. Pieces of a poet blouse are lying over the back of a chair waiting for the moment I can sew them together. It’s half past five, and Carly or Julia will hammer on the walls and tell me to knock it off if they hear thechunk chunk chunkof my sewing machine before seven a.m. I’m lucky that my only two friends live on either side of my room because otherwise, the dorms would feel incredibly lonely, so I do my best to keep the noise down.
Either I’m going to lie in bed and think about Tyrant Mercer and fret about being pregnant, or I’m going to get up and find a way to distract myself.
I end up sitting on the floor in silky pajama shorts and a camisole top, hand-sewing the hem of a long, cream skirt. It’s my favorite type of garment. Romantic enough to feel like I’m wearing a costume, but not so outlandish that people will stare at me and wonder if I made a wrong turn from the Renaissance fair.
My whole body is sore. My forearm from the knife cut. My arms and shoulders where they were grabbed and restrained. My core from Tyrant’s brutal, deep fucking. It’s impossible not to think about Tyrant and the things he said, and my hand drifts over my belly. I imagine wearing this skirt over a baby bump. The fabric is cut on the bias so it has some give to it. In my mind’s eye, a larger hand covers mine on the bump. A hand decorated with ink with a heavy silver ring on its pinkie. I feel a presence behind me as if the mattress I’m propped against has turned into Tyrant himself, and I imagine him pressing a hungry kiss to the nape of my neck.
I go back to sewing in such a hurry that I stab the side of my forefinger with the needle. “Ow.”
Sucking on the bead of blood that’s formed, trepidation swirls in my belly as I remember what Tyrant growled at me last night.You’re only allowed to bleed for me. Here I am breaking his rules again.
He doesn’t have to know, he couldn’t possibly find out, and yet breaking that rule again cranks up my anxiety. Reaching for my phone, I type a message and send it. I don’t expect a reply at 6 a.m. but one comes through almost immediately.
Me:I’m bleeding.
Tyrant:I’m coming to the dorms.
Me:Wait. It was an accident. I stabbed myself with a sewing needle.
Tyrant:Show me.
I take a picture of the tiny wound and send it to him. His reply comes back a moment later.
Tyrant:Good girl for telling me.
Tyrant:Bad girl for going to a pharmacy last night. I’m going to punish you for that.
My eyes widen. Tyrant knows about that? How does he know? When I went out again at half past eleven, the streets were deserted. I was sure no one was watching as I went into the late-night pharmacy. The pharmacist was no help. He claimed that they were out of stock of Plan B. Who runs out of Plan B in a university district where young people are making mistakes left and right?
Come to think of it, the pharmacist was sweating. Suddenly I realize who probably bought up all the Plan B pills.
I read Tyrant’s message and feel a thrill.I’m going to punish you for that. He knows what I crave. A little pain to even me out. My arm was throbbing last night, but it was him putting me over his knee and spanking me that gave me the pure bliss of relief and made me brave enough to reveal my repulsive, scarred body to him. I wish there was a way to explain to my family that Tyrant is the only man who is monstrous enough to see past my ugliness. If they knew I’d even talked to him, they’d forbid me from ever seeing Barlow again. If they found out he was trying to get me pregnant…I shudder to think what Dad would do.
Pushing that horrendous thought away, I pick up my sewing once more and lean back against my mattress.
I like it here in my little room, hushed and secluded from the world. As I work, the sun creeps over the horizon and shines through the golden leaves of the enormous old tree outside my window. The cork boards fixed to my walls are covered in scraps of fabric and drawings that I hope to turn into costume projects for class or clothes for me to wear. On my bed is a quilt sewn from dozens of different fabrics. Pale golds, creams, and purples. All thrifted fabrics and old clothing that I cut up and repurposed. I never had nice things growing up, so I make them instead. I take care of them. I become lost in them as my needle dips in and out of the fabric.
I’m so absorbed in my work that I don’t realize how late it’s getting until I look at my phone and realize I only have fifteen minutes to get ready and make it to class. I gasp in shock and shoot to my feet.
Eleven minutes later, I fly out of the dorm while pulling a vintage knitted sweater over my head. I have an art history tutorial this morning and my tutor, Colleen, gives me a pained look as I hurry into the classroom and find my seat.
All last year she chided me for never making it to her classes on time. No doubt she’s thrilled that I’m back for another, more advanced, semester.
We’re focusing on post-war art for the next few weeks, and my classmates and I watch as she shows photographs of paintings by Lucian Freud, Francis Bacon, and Frida Kahlo on the large screen at the front of the room.
“What is Kahlo trying to say with this piece?” Colleen asks the class.
The room is sunk init’s-way-too-early-for-thisapathy.
I make the mistake of meeting Colleen’s eyes, and she seizes the opportunity to punish me for my late arrival. “Vivienne. What do you think?”
I don’t think. I know. The painting is calledThe Wounded Deer, and it depicts a deer with Frida Kahlo’s head and antlers running through a forest. The deer’s chest and side are pierced with arrows.
“She’s telling us what life is about.”
Colleen gives me an encouraging nod. “Please go on. What’s Kahlo saying about life with this piece?”
