Sudden Fiction

Franny was raped on Halloween. Three white high school jocks took turns at her; she was 14.

I ran for help, I got help, but not in time. I brought a black high school jock whose sister had been raped. Everybody’s sister is a good girl, he was often heard to say. Nobody’s sister deserves that.

He called himself the Black Arm of the Law.

When we found her, white jock number three was just finishing up while white jock number two held her down. The Black Arm of the Law descended upon them in righteous fury, for Franny was somebody’s sister. She was somebody’s daughter and would one day be somebody’s mother.

When the white jocks were taken care of and someone was sent to find white jock number one so he could be embraced by the Black Arm of the Law as well, he picked Franny up and carried her toward the infirmary where they would wake the nurse, who might already be awake and dealing with other, less sinister Halloween mischief.

He spoke very softly to her as she cried. “Hey, you’re still a good girl,” he told her. “Listen, you know what? When someone touches you like that, when you don’t want to be touched, that’s not really being touched—you got to believe me. It’s not you they touched when they did that. You understand? You’ve still got you inside you. Nobody’s touched you, not really. You’re still a good girl. You believe that? It’s true. You believe it?”

He walked very fast and that’s all I heard him say as I stumbled along behind carrying my Halloween candy sack and some of Franny’s clothes I picked up off the ground—her socks and shoes, her bra. I didn’t hear what she said to him, if anything, but by the time I caught up with them in the nurse’s presence, she had stopped crying. We told the nurse everything that happened, everything we’d seen, who had done it and exactly what they’d done. But Franny said, “Nobody touched me.”

For a lifetime then, she filed it away as the Halloween night when nobody touched her. She—herself, her true untouched self—would remain so deep within that she would always be untouchable, even when she wanted to be touched, even when she was desperate to be touched. She pushed men away, even the ones she married, even the ones she fell in love with, even the ones she had sex with, she pushed them all away as she clutched and gripped them closer. And as she drove them away from her, their departure left her feeling even more desperate, more worthless and ruined, until she reminded herself that they had not touched her. She was still a good girl.

She came calling one early morning

She showed her crown of thorns

She whispered softly to tell a story

About how she had been wronged

As she lay lifeless he stole her innocence

And this is how she carried on

This is how she carried on

Well I guess she closed her eyes

And just imagined everything's alright

But she could not hide her tears

'Cause they were sent to wash away those years

They were sent to wash away those years

My anger's violent But still I'm silent

When tragedy strikes at home

I know this decadence Is shared by millions

Remember you're not alone

Remember you're not alone

Well if you just close your eyes

And just imagine everything's alright

But do not hide your tears

'Cause they were sent to wash away those years

They were sent to wash away those years

Maybe we can wash away those years

For we have crossed many oceans

And we labor in between

In life there are many quotients

And I hope I find the mean the mean, the mean

Just close your eyes and imagine everything's alright

But do not hide your tears

'Cause they were sent to wash away those years

Maybe we can wash away those years

I hope that you can wash away those years

[You may recognize the story, it was inspired by a scene more brilliantly depicted by John Irving in Hotel New Hampshire. I was so messed up after reading it last night that I had to write it myself, and then, what’s the point of writing something unless you share it with someone? So I’m sharing it with you, even though it’s not completely original. The artwork is by Odile de Schwilgue, a French painter I’ve been very into for quite some time now. And then, of course, the song lyrics are by Creed.]