a short short story/prose

I already mentioned that the first chapter of Lucky by Alice Sebold made me so angry. I wrote a little after reading it, to get the anger out of my system. Here's what I wrote. I guess it's like a very short prose piece.

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Every weekend it was the same. She'd sit on the bed in the hotel room, surrounded by those she worked with, her friends, and others who were friends who'd just come along to hang out. They'd laugh, it was late and they'd been drinking and sometimes more. They'd do some hotel pranks that they did in each city, and she'd think about how much fun this was and wish it could never end.

But inevitably, people would slowly fall asleep. Others would retreat to the other room, since two were usually provided free of charge. And the time would come to give up the night and go to sleep.

It's terrible to pray for someone else to pass out, but that's what she would do each and every time. She'd lie there and wish that he'd pass out, stone cold, and she'd be free to sleep without weight. And then she'd feel stupid, it was her own fault. She had every right and freedom to get up and leave. To go to the other room. To sleep on the floor. But for some reason, she just couldn't do it. Later she couldn't explain why. Maybe it's because she was afraid he'd make a scene and she'd be embarrassed. Maybe it was because she didn't want anyone to know anything was going on. Maybe it was because she loved him, or thought she loved him, and didn't know how to marry the emotions with what happened.

So she stayed. And they'd be assigned to the same bed, as usual, which is another reason she assumed it was her fault… why wouldn't they make these informal assignments if there weren't a reason? If it weren't justified?

The last cigarettes would be put out… people would start snoring… and she'd lie on the edge of the bed, as far over as she could go without falling off. Since she was small, just 19, only about 98 pounds, she could occupy a very small space, and felt each time that perhaps if she gave him enough room, he wouldn't touch her.

She was wrong.

Slowly his hands would make their way to her edge of the bed. They'd start exploring, and she'd pretend she was asleep, ignoring them, hoping that if he believed she was sleeping, he'd stop and go to sleep himself.

She was wrong.

Eventually, he would pull her over, force her to face him. At first she'd fight inside her mind, saying, just let it happen and get it over with. This just means that he has feelings for you. But still, she didn't want it to happen. After a few minutes, the suppressed her would come to, realize what was happening, shout NONONONONONO in her head. She'd say STOP out loud, or at least as loud as she dared with two other people passed out in the next bed. She'd whisper, DON'T. Other half-hearted refusals, but nothing that she felt later could be tangible proof that she'd refused. On occasion, she hit. She would throw soft fists at his chest or put her hands out and push, but she was so weak. And she knew that if she made a scene, she'd be out, out of the job, out of the fun, out of the circle, out of his life, and she couldn't think of what she'd do if that happened.

And then she'd just give up. It would only be a short time… she knew if she just gave up it would be over so soon. And she'd hope that this time, things would be different.

She was wrong.