FEMANIA

sick and rotten

The sun had long gone- Vivienne asked the two girls to stay.
"You're here already and my mother always keeps extra toothbrushes for guests."

The two girls thought it over, Guin nibbling at the crust of a slice of bread-like a mouse.

"Okay." Angelina rubbed her eyes, smiling wearily.

Guin felt nauseous at the thought of staying over, of letting the two girls see her in that awful state of vulnerability. A sleepover was, in Guin's opinion, no longer enjoyable. The scene would play out in her mind-of herself walking out of Vivienne's en-suite bathroom-of the two girls sitting pleasantly among the pillows, fresh faced and pretty-of Guin silently praying the dim lighting would be a blessing, as the others examined her face. No, they wouldn't say anything. No one would. It would have been rude to comment. But the thought would linger, the unsaid questions, the pity pooling in their eyes, the glances stolen-a bit at a time, snatches-to quell their cravings. Guin would sit hopelessly, sore hands lying in pain, like dying animals in her lap, the remnants of her maddened fury left in patches of red on her skin, because the scrubbing would never be enough, and the lighting was awful in that en-suite bathroom, and the three way mirror displayed a monster-a grotesque, repulsive thing, covered in red lumps and pus, bleeding and scarred, beady eyes staring back saying "This is what we are. This is what we will always be."

"I'll have to pass. My mother would freeeak out. Sorry."

"It's no worries." Vivienne shrugged, lifting herself up from her knees. "I'll get the extra bed."

She got to the door before saying, "Guin, does that mean you have to leave? It's pretty dark outside now."

"Yeah, I'll get going."

---

Guin wandered home, a cigarette lit-stolen from Vivienne's stash with the cheap lighter she had found in lost property earlier that day. She held it out- an outstretched arm, and moved alongside it, like two companions, or walking beside a dog on a leash, two separate entities, one curling smoke into the black sky, and one looking wistfully on, a deep sickness settling itself into her stomach. She had no plan to smoke, watching as the cigarette grew smaller. Guin Boyd would never put her health in jeopardy. But she grew sad as the cigarette extinguished itself- letting out one final measly wisp of smoke before its spark died.

Guin dropped it, watching as it curled inwards on itself, on the cool concrete ground. Guin felt rather like a part of her had died with it, shrivelled up and wrinkled, like a rotting piece of fruit. Smoking was effortless for other girls. They'd casually light a cigarette, spark catching smoothly first time round, before taking a drag, an easy calm resting in their eyes, pooling in their mouths, sitting on their perfect bow lips reddened with rouge or some tacky cheap drug store lipgloss, tasting of plastic and synthetic strawberries. They didn't do it clumsy, twitching fingers, rattling limbs soaked in worry. They were young but experienced, just as they knew other things that Guin didn't, about boys and sex and men and pleasure and kissing and satisfaction. It was clearly not the same for some. How much would she have to give to become that girl? To grow into that woman? To spend every second of the day desired, oozing femininity, and pure, hard sex. To be the stuff of myth, to bring men down on their knees, begging you to love them-to just have them forever. Oh, to be an idol, a treasured goddess or saint, a woman set in marble, an expanse of crafted perfection, of pure rock hard gargantuan beauty, immortal, loved till the end of time, full of both God and the devil.