Slut Monologues

chapter 1

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            The first time someone called me pretty, I felt insulted.

It was the 30th birthday of my mother, there was a get-together party of our relatives at our house, half of them I was not familiar with, including Tito Bryce.

Yet, he greeted me with a big smile like he had been praying to see me for a long time. Mother leaned in to my ears, her arms draped on my shoulder, almost hugging me; she then explained that Tito Bryce took care of the baby me whenever she and Papa stayed in my grandparents' house. Even though I couldn't remember any of it, I returned his smile. Because that's what you do when your parents introduce you to someone you do not know: pretend you know them.

My smile somehow gave him the permission to come forward, stare at my face, fake a shocked expression then say the phrase I began to hate since then.

"Wow. When did you start looking pretty?"

I know he meant it as a joke and a compliment but it didn't feel like it, not for me. I was offended not because he acknowledged my beauty only by that time, no, I will never be that type of girl. I was disgusted simply because I was called pretty.

I know, weird, while other girls are practically begging for attention, compliments, recognition, assurance that they are attractive, there's me begging people to stop giving these shits out to me.

That's Jess Adelaide for you: the girl who doesn't act like one.

If it was from another man, perhaps Marcus, the shy but handsome boy in my class, maybe if he was the first one to call me by that word I wouldn't have had detest it so much.

I do this often, I'd think of other possibilities, entertain what ifs just to visualize another version of my life.

But it was the eyes of Tito Bryce that bore into me that day when I first heard the word beautiful. No matter what version I think of, it was always him at the end.

His eyes. There was something there as he stared at me. Something that was unknown to me as a child.

He kept on calling me beautiful. He'd notice my eyes, my face, my skin tone. And I had nothing to do but smile and thank him, even though all I wanted to say was, "I don't want to be called beautiful. Especially not from you."

My thank you's and smiles made him think I was enjoying the attention he was giving me, and so he continued staring, a grin plastered on his face. I had nowhere to go, I couldn't hide anywhere in our house, my mother wouldn't let me go upstairs and lock myself in my room, she said I must stay there, that walking away from my family is disrespectful. She didn't understand that I couldn't, the anxiousness I was feeling was overwhelming and I need to get away.

I stayed, with a heavy heart. I could feel my body burning because of his stares.

My hands started to tremble, then my shoulders, then my legs, until my whole body was shaking. I didn't realize my eyes were swelling, tears were in the verge of falling.

That was when it all started, me hating my face and my body. I hated that I attract men because of my doll-like features. I started to despise what I look like. I know that it was wrong to direct my hate of him, of them, to myself. But I did. It was the phase I most regret because I ruined me, purposely.

I don't want to be called pretty girl or beautiful or attractive woman. But it is important to my mother that people see my outer beauty, it always make her proud, either for me or herself.

After I cried in the comfort room, my mother called my name. "Jess! Come here for a sec!" Beside her stood Tita Desiree with her husband, Tito Bryce.

I hesitated to join them. I just want him far away from me, but my mother was persistent, when I wasn't making a move and remained on where I stand, she brought them to my direction. Once she was facing me, she gripped my arm and whispered, "Don't try to be difficult now, save your attitude for tomorrow."

I wanted to run inside the bathroom and weep. Who was this person? Why was she saying this to me? She was supposed to be my mother, the one who would understand what my actions and gazes meant.

I hate it when she was like this, forcing me to interact with men. Forcing me to be like her. Her opinion of herself is based on men, whatever she does and wears aimed to attract. I don't want to do that to myself.

Funny thing is, I did. Unconciously, I did.

She didn't give me a chance to response. I was forced to smile and greet Tita Desiree.

"Beautiful, isn't she?" Tito Bryce said.

Curse that word.

Tita Desiree and my mother chuckled.

"Indeed. She'll break many hearts, I am sure."

I wasn't part of their conversation but I was there, standing still, faking a nod or smile. I was there but I wished I wasn't.

This is why at such an early age, I didn't believe in freedom. Because if it's real I would have left them without explaining myself, I would have slapped and scratched the ugly face of Tito Bryce. But free choices are good as myths; I had to endure what he was making me feel as they converse. I can feel his gaze at the crown of my head. Every time I'd raise my head our eyes would meet, and then he'd smile. That smile haunted me every time my eyes were close. His face, his eyes, the pounding of my chest, I remember all of it.

I was nine years old and if I couldn't name what his stare looks like by then, now, I can.

He was trying to devour me. It was hunger in his eyes, their eyes. I was a piece of meat to him.

And you know what school taught me? It's natural for men to have that look, it is in their nature. It can't be stopped because it's their goddamn hormones, the thing that makes them men.

I hated it.

I hated it so much one night, I had a nightmare. There were no monsters, no Boogeyman, no Freddy Krueger, no chucky doll, there were men and they had the same faces—Tito Bryce's.

I had known since then humans can be monsters. And it scares me more than white ladies or Sadako, because I know, I know there's no escape from the real world—the place where they reside.