Wings of a Hummingbird

WARNING ⚠️: Contains mature subject matter!!! Rape, gratuitous violence, necrophilia and graphic language!!!

Hi, I'm Maggie—a sweet innocent girl, I'd like to think. At least I used to be before he got ahold of me. I have a smattering of freckles on the bridge of my nose and darling violet eyes. I expect it was my eyes that made him choose me. I'm an average college girl. Slightly ordinary really—the type of girl most guys won't look at twice. I have to remind myself every day of who I am. I lost a piece of myself along the way.

The night I met the man who would later take my virginity— my treasure trove, I went to a local bar to have a few drinks with some girlfriends— roommates really who were ready to go home for the holidays, a luxury I couldn't afford. I needed to stay back and study if I wanted to keep my scholarship. I couldn't imagine going back home ...a failure, my mom's latest boyfriend looking at me with lewd drunken expressions in the whistle stop I'm from. My town bulged with too many cliché girls to count as it was: married or divorced, 3 plus kids, living paycheck to paycheck, being abused daily. I couldn't bear that existence. Maybe this fear led me to talk with him, the new instructor who taught a writing workshop. He published quite a few novels and seemed to get my quirky writing when no one else did.

Perhaps when I breezed through the door of the One Shot Bar, interrupting the icicles, which had crystallized on the frosted window panes, I warmed his heart. But then again, maybe the reddish glint of my tresses in the hazy bar lights caught his attention...angelic— a slight exaggeration, I'm sure. But later he did say that I reminded him of fresh from the oven apple pie. He took me by surprise with this next comment, one that made me blush. He said his hardness formed immediately when he saw me, and he needed to rush out to his truck to masturbate. I was that sexually appealing to him. What girl doesn't want to hear that?

For me, it could've been too many cosmopolitans, Long Islands, or very dirty martinis, which piqued my curiosity and dropped the usual shyness and caution. Bozeman, Montana, dries up into a boring city in the winter, more so during the holidays. And I admit to getting a little homesick and melancholy. Maybe that's why I invited him to the house shared with my now absent roommates. It's irrelevant now, the reason, I mean. I did ask him over, and accepted  the drink he poured from a charming flask, with rose petals on the side, an antique, probably.