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Fiction, LiteratureJanuary 10, 2014

Something Wicked

See the thing of it was that despite Essie’s best efforts — “God you’re such a baby” — Claudette was still a virgin and it had gone on long enough now —she was 19 after all — that she was kind of embarrassed to own it. So she pretended like she knew more than she did and became one of those don’t kiss don’t tell girls. But if she thought about it she’d’ve realized that she and Freed had been dancing to this point for a while now. She sought him out for more than class notes and hung on his every word, and he flirted back. But since he flirted with every girl and, rumour had it, bedded a lot of those, she’d never had cause to think he felt anything for her. That question was answered with his hands between her legs, heavy finger massaging her clitoris just over her panties, her squirming every which way not sure if she wanted to get away or give in to it. She does wish she could stop thinking so damned hard about it.

Oh God, what were they doing? Oh God, what would her mama say? Oh God, wouldn’t Essie just laugh at this? Oh God, what if he realized she was a virgin? Oh God, would it hurt?

Maybe it was that last question that had her pushing back after a few frantic moments of him sliding up on her, his hand between her parted legs, his heavy penis rubbing against her leg through his basketball shorts. Oh yes, he played basketball, maybe that’s why he stayed so fit. Because she could feel his muscles now, the way his stomach muscles clenched as he bucked. She was skinny and soft and suddenly embarrassed by her body. And that had her pushing even harder. But he was heavy. And he didn’t stop. And she didn’t scream. And when he pushed inside her it hurt bad and it never got better, the feeling like her insides were scraping and like she had to take a massive dump. She prayed she didn’t not during the middle of all this; not while she was crying and whispering for him to stop and telling him how it hurt, not when he was shuddering on top of her and finally stilling, breathing hard.

And Oh God, he hadn’t used a condom. And later, when he left as he’d come through the back door, there was blood. But then maybe all girls bled the first time; she was sure she’d read that somewhere.

It always began like this, her smiling up into his face and some kind of glow behind him like sunset making it difficult for her to see his eyes. And at the back of her throat, a scream biding its time to scratch its way out.
When the others returned from their Easter adventures, and the campus came to life again, Claudette dragged herself to the clinic and while the first test turned up negative, they told her she’d need to come back in six months for another go. Meanwhile, she skipped classes and buried herself in her books more than ever, somehow making it through to the end of the term, acing her exams and fleeing to Antigua.

“You lose weight?” was the first thing her mama said.

And of course she noticed that in addition to not eating, she wasn’t sleeping.

Thank God for Essie. That’s what she’d thought when her friend re-inserted herself into her life because Essie, at least, was a distraction.

So here she was, still not fully in control of herself, and unsure of what had her so scared. He hadn’t broken into her room. There was no darkness, no masked man, no broken glass as she leaped to safety as people liked to imagine they would do in situations like that. She hadn’t screamed. She’d just whispered no, over and over and over again, and he hadn’t stopped.

Stupid song. And stupid her for letting it get to her like that.

They parked in the T N Kirnon schoolyard and walked between the other cars lined up in the school yard. And there they were, their dates. Both with their pants down and their chests up, like penguins. Freed didn’t wear his pants down around his knees showing his underwear and he slouched a little bit as if compensating for how tall he was, used to meeting people half way. She’d liked that about him, that she had to look up to talk to him, that he seemed to be leaning toward her.

These nights, when she dreamed about him, it always began like this, her smiling up into his face and some kind of glow behind him like sunset making it difficult for her to see his eyes. And at the back of her throat, a scream biding its time to scratch its way out.

 

Joanne C. Hillhouse is the Antiguan and Barbudan author of The Boy from Willow Bend, Dancing Nude in the Moonlight, Fish Outta Water, and Oh Gad! She’s been published in several anthologies and journals. Joanne runs the Wadadli Pen writing programme to nurture and showcase creative works by young people in Antigua and Barbuda. 

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  1. A & B Writings in Journals and Contests | Wadadli Pen says:
    January 28, 2014 at 8:29 AM

    […] JOANNE C. – Summer 1 – The Missing Slate – 2013 & Something Wicked – The Missing Slate – […]

  2. A & B Writings in Journals and Contests | Wadadli Pen says:
    October 16, 2014 at 9:37 AM

    […] C. – Summer 1 – The Missing Slate – 2013 and Tongues of the Ocean – 2014 & Something Wicked – The Missing Slate – […]

  3. December 2014 is Community Month! Pt. 2 | Digging Through the Fat says:
    December 10, 2014 at 10:01 PM

    […] Something Wicked The Missing Slate January 2014 […]

  4. Opportunities | Wadadli Pen says:
    March 23, 2020 at 4:01 AM

    […] You can still read previous publications like my story, story of the week when it was published, Something Wicked and poem Summer One on their […]

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One last love letter...

April 24, 2021

It has taken us some time and patience to come to this decision. TMS would not have seen the success that it did without our readers and the tireless team that ran the magazine for the better part of eight years.

But… all good things must come to an end, especially when we look at the ever-expanding art and literary landscape in Pakistan, the country of the magazine’s birth.

We are amazed and proud of what the next generation of creators are working with, the themes they are featuring, and their inclusivity in the diversity of voices they are publishing. When TMS began, this was the world we envisioned…

Though the magazine has closed and our submissions shuttered, this website will remain open for the foreseeable future as an archive of the great work we published and the astounding collection of diverse voices we were privileged to feature.

If, however, someone is interested in picking up the baton, please email Maryam Piracha, the editor, at [email protected].

Farewell, fam! It’s been quite a ride.

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