The pungent smell of iron hangs laboriously in the air, making breathing an unpleasant task. It's confirmation that her period is heavier than usual, which explains the black jelly-like blood clots she's been passing for two days.The smell of blood has never bothered her, but menstrual blood makes her gag. It's a sickly stink, comparable only to rotted meat. Confined to such a small place in ninety three degrees temperature doesn't help matters either... How she wishes she had access to soap and water.
Luckily for her, she's never had regular periods and doesn't have to endure these circumstances every month. She got her first period at age 13 and has had a total of seven cycles in the last two years, eight counting this one. She can't imagine having one every month. As soon as she starts spotting, her mother sends her out to the backyard where a doghouse sits. It's a five foot by five foot box, strategically placed in the only shadeless corner of the yard. Her mother bought it just for her. They've never owned a dog.
In a very twisted way, it feels almost "right" that she sometimes sleeps in the doghouse. Ever since she can remember, her mother has fed her scraps in an actual dog bowl, water too. And up until she was thirteen, if she had committed an especially heinous crime, like leaving spots on a glass after washing the dishes, she was made to spend hours upon hours in a dog cage outside... naked and exposed to the elements. It didn't matter if it was one hundred and ten degrees, or ten below zero. Once when she was seven years old, she spent an agonizing three hours in it during a severe thunderstorm. She just knew lightening was going to strike her at any moment.
She suspects that her mother's decision to quit rendering that particular punishment was due, in part, to the fact that she had started growing breasts and pubic hair, which just happened to coincide with her stepfather's sudden interest in yard work whenever she was sentenced to spend time in the cage. Nevermind that they had a gardener who visited every other Saturday.
"Woof Woof!" She quietly barks at the absurdity of it all, and turns over on her left side. Getting comfortable is hard to do when you can't stretch out.
Having to stay in the doghouse isn't so bad in the spring and fall, but the summer and winter months are unbearable. It's been well over ninety degrees for the last two days and she is soaking wet from all the sweat pouring out of her body like a faucet turned on. She wipes the sweat from her brow with the back of her arm, hoping to prevent anymore from dripping into her eyes. They sting and burn from the salty liquid and she's hoping that tonight will be the last night she has to stay in the hot box. She knows better though. Her periods always last four days, and this one will be no different.
Her stomach is in knots. Unsure of whether it's just cramps or the fear of humiliation she'll undoubtedly have to face tomorrow by her fellow classmates, she tries to ignore it and concentrate on sleep. She dreads going to school. The kids have always picked on her, but it's a lot worse when she's menstruating. They accuse her of smelling and hold their noses when she walks by. It's how she got the nickname Fishy Frances, and that,too, is her mother's fault, since she forbids Frances from taking showers during those four days. She sleeps on a dirt floor in the dog house. Couple that with blood trickling out of her twenty-four / seven, and you've got a nasty mess! Adding insult to injury, her mother makes her wear skirts on those days, and doesn't provide her with sanitary napkins or even toilet paper. It's not uncommon to see dried up blood stuck to her legs. Of course when she arrives at school, she immediately makes a beeline for the girls' restroom and does her best to clean herself up. She uses the schools toilet paper as makeshift pads. If her mother ever found out, she'd most likely take away her underwear. She's surprised that she hasn't thought to do that anyway. Her mother is methodical in her madness. She doesn't miss details like that. She wonders for a brief moment if maybe her mother is showing a little mercy towards her, then dismisses the idea just as briefly.
YOU ARE READING
hurt girl
General FictionFrances Setters earliest memory was of her Mother plucking one strand after another of her long brown hair from her head with tweezers, plucking as slowly as possible near her temple to cause as much pain as she could. She was 5 years old. She had...
