Marilyn’s Child

I’m wrong. Without warning and as quick as a flash she lunges at me, and before I have a chance to defend myself I’m pinned against the wall, her hand over my mouth, her eyes gleaming with something I haven’t encountered before. Lust.

‘I bet you’re not a virgin, Kate O’Sullivan, you dirty little whore. I bet you let all the boys poke their dirty fingers in you. Stick their things inside, do they? In your mouth?’ Roughly she drags my skirt up, bunching it around my waist, exposing my bare legs and white pants. I wriggle under her strong grip, stretching my mouth under her hand in a silent scream. I feel a great surge of anger as her fingers yank my pubic hair and I bite down as hard as I can into the back of her hand. She lets out an agonized yelp, like a wounded dog. Encouraged, I jump, using my full weight, on to her left foot. Before she has time to recover, I grab her rosary beads and, knotting them at her throat, I pull tight. Tightening my grip I watch with undisguised glee the colour drain from her face. She’s trying to speak but I’ve cut off her windpipe. It’s exhilarating, this adrenaline-pumping power. I can smell her fear, see the terror in her eyes; she thinks she’s going to die. I want to laugh, and wish she could see herself, a sad and pathetic little creature with nothing to live for except abusing innocent kids. With a loud pant I relax my grip. ‘If you ever come near me again, I’ll kill you – that’s a promise.’ I’m not sure she can hear me, so I repeat, ‘I’ll kill you – do you understand?’