shelly is an artist

You're in the front passenger seat of a 1976 Oldsmobile sucking some strange man's cock for $20 when it happens again. With your eyes closed and your head bobbing up and down, faster and faster, another strange memory seeps into your skull. Strange because this memory is far removed from your current reality of blow jobs and soiled cash. Perverts and the stained upholstery of their automobiles. The fevered rush of narcotics swimming in your bloodstream.

Last night you recalled the six-year-old, so beautiful and innocent, who lost her mommy in that giant department store. Towering aisles of products bleeding colors. A million burning fluorescent lights like heaven's kaleidoscope. Tears streaming down your ruddy cheeks. And mommy nowhere in sight.

A memory. A fragment of someone's childhood -- your childhood.

What happened to that stranger? That little girl? That person? What's happened to you, Shelly?

And this is tonight's memory (lucid and striking):

You are nine-years old and it's a beautiful Saturday afternoon in May. Everything is in bloom. Your hair is clean. Pigtails and Barbie dolls. Miley, your beloved kitten.

Father asks you, his sole daughter, if you want to go to Jack's Pizza Shack for lunch. Of course you do. Every Saturday afternoon you, your mother, father and brother eat at Jack's. The weekly tradition is one of those suburban rituals -- a ceremony in which father wears the mask of the all-American dad and mother dons the dress of a happily married wife. A rite of denial. But, as a nine-year-old, you are ignorant of this fact.

You're in the backseat of the family minivan when father looks at your tiny face in the rear view mirror and asks, "Ready, kiddo?"

You nod, giddy with excitement.

Mother's tremulous hands (her hands were always unsteady) light a cigarette, and the smell of her cigarette and perfume fills your nostrils.

Brother rhythmically smacks his legs to the music in his headphones.

You hold onto this moment.

This flash of light and memory.

A point in time and space when everything is in its proper place.

A postcard of tides and sunshine.

A Polaroid of perfection.

But you know what happens next. And you stop.

You stop sucking.

"No . . . no, baby, don't stop . . . don't stop," the strange man moans, forcing your face down into that ugly darkness.

The memory, like footage from a home movie, is oblivious to your desire and continues to roll. So you suck . . . suck. A rite of denial.

You've tried to forget this incident, this accident (It was only an accident!) but it's ineffaceable and forever. The more you attempt to abandon this memory, the more vivid it becomes. And once your consciousness latches onto this memory, its rightful conclusion cannot be denied.

Mother and her shaky hands. The cigarette smoke and perfume.

Brother and his blessed oblivion.

Father shifts the minivan into reverse.

And then that sound . . . horrific.

The sound of pain.

A grievous injury.

It's the sound of a mortally wounded animal.

A cat.

Your precious kitten, Miley.

And your eyes are closed. Up and down. Faster and faster. And the man you're sucking off for $20 -- just enough for your next fix -- is moaning. This strange man who smells like hamsters and wood chips is quivering. Getting closer.

"What the fuck was that?" father asks. His hushed tone masks the terror throbbing in his gut. He quickly shifts the van into drive and lurches the vehicle forward.

"What . . . what's going on?" brother asks as he removes his headphones.

("And the oblivious shall no longer be oblivious once they have seen the light and felt the power of Almighty God!" a man of fire and brimstone shouts from some distant temple.)

You hurriedly climb over your brother and exit the van. Mother remains in her seat and takes a drag from her cigarette. Fingers tremble.

You rush to the rear of the van.

You see Miley. (No.)

You see blood. Dark blood. (No.)

Shiny, glistening tissue. Pink and pulsating. (No.)

Miley is squirming. (No.)

That agonizing sound. (No.)

You don't know what to do. (What could you do, dear?)

Your mind refuses to register what your eyes see. (Deny. Deny. Like mother.)

Your memory struggles to recall the ensuing events.

A flash

You are in your room, alone, buried in My Little Pony sheets. A pillowcase soaked with tears.

A flash

Mother is speaking to you. She strokes your hair with one hand, a cigarette burns in the other. Her lips move but silence is the sound. You refuse to listen to the words. Deny. Deny. Like mother like daughter.

Another flash

Through a window you see the sun reflect off the stem of a rifle. The aim. The target. An act of mercy. (No, this isn't happening. Not again.) POP!

A flash

You're alone. Somewhere.

As the strange man ejaculates, he moans in ecstasy and the tip of the condom suddenly floods with warm goo. You quickly leave the man's car. Through yellow teeth and a crooked grin he says, "Thanks, baby."

And you're alone. Somewhere.

You've become a blow-up doll of real flesh and tangled hair, a temporary vessel men use for erotic delights.
And you're empty on the inside.

You wish you were nine-years old again. That magical age when you would close your eyes and pretend to be everything. A ballet dancer. An actress. The sky. The stars. A moment in time of pigtails and Barbie dolls. Mother and her cigarettes and perfume. Father and his warm smile. Brother and his headphones. Miley asleep on your lap.

A postcard of tides and sunshine.

A Polaroid of perfection.

Now you are an artist walking the streets of midnight, a sculptor chiseling your masterpiece -- denial.

xx