A Disabled Little Girl
A Feminist Horror Story
For all you who have had enough
By Karen Cole
Do you really think she was diabolical? No, she was not. She was extremely pretty. And so, she was the nicest, sweetest, most good-willed person. And she absolutely positively, couldn’t ever walk? No, she could not. In fact, she was quite helpless, and unfortunately she was also very attractive. So very pretty.
So the men would come in to take the job to take care of her. She was very simple care, easy to get along with – and she only had a few of those minor little human impulses that are not so pretty, so very pretty. Hardly any. And some of the men were nice to her, and took care of her. But they had a sad tendency to leave for better jobs and lives of their own. Because the pay was so low, with her.
Do you really think she was faking it and could walk? Good for you, Handsome.
Anyway, one day, her veriest Prince Charming showed up. This old scruffy bearded guy, a chronic longtime boozer, with no income again. There was next to no income in working for her. Do you now sympathize with the guy, oh you Handsome Stud you? Oh how wonderful of you – how very, very wonderful.
Because she was pretty. So very, very pretty. In her very own way.
She was a human being, b’gosh! And you can hurt a vulnerable human being’s deepest feelings, and get away with it, right? Well, not hers. Because her feelings didn’t hurt all that easily. She just kept it bottled up inside her a lot because she thought that all women are disabled next to a big ol’ macho man. But she forgot about all those little scrunched up guys who couldn’t get a kid either. She forgot about all of those other people. One strange day. In her very own way, which was of course very pretty.
So that day came. Along came a big ol’ macho old drunk man who was kind of scrunched up. He was attractive. But as usual, he was bossy. So he raped her. He very, very cruelly raped her. In his own special way. He was the first one to take it that far, although others had hurt her before when they were supposed to be working for her. He was supposed to be working for her, too. He kept saying that he loved her. That he really loved her. And he plunked her down on the bed and began fiddling with her vulnerable doohickey and made her wonder about that. That wasn’t the right guy, though. This old guy finally drank himself to death, and died, right in the middle of the pretty girl needing him to take care of her.
The real guy who got her undivided attention in this shows up later, you see. He’s very handsome, and even young. But he has no income whatsoever, and he really thinks he needs to show off at someone who’s worse off than he is. He somehow knows he’s got some other broad somewhere, somewhere in his upstairs, who’s blonde and pretty and is his total mommy. In fact, maybe it was his mommy, his mental picture of her anyway. He really thinks he deserves that perfect woman, and he never went to look for anyone else. He seems really normal to everyone else. He’s been around. He married someone, and she split after years of pain and suffering and hardship. So it goes.
But she was pretty, so very pretty. The girl in the wheelchair, that is. She was even prettier than his wife had been. But you see, he couldn’t get the woman in his head out of his mind. It was his mental picture of how subservient to him his mother was supposed to be. She was supposed to be all “blonde and blued eyed” – you know, eye die could become the next big thing, and really blind people – and he couldn’t accept anything less out of life. She was supposed to be all perfectly able bodied and able to bear sixty thousand live young. Every day. Of the week. To fend off his imaginary enemies.
Because she was pretty. So very, well – beautiful. Gorgeous. Attractive. Voluptuous. Curvy. Obviously, always twenty and always able to bear live young in droves. Without ever getting pregnant and having that siren wail fill the air. It needs food. Food costs money. Mama in this didn’t have any such money, just a little. Not enough.
Not having money could bend a man’s mind, don’t you think? But he was handsome. So very, very handsome. The handsomest man on the face of the planet. You picture him.
Well, let’s see. Here’s where the heart of this story begins.
He finally got into taking care of her, but she was either anti-Semitic, anti-black, anti-white, this or that, up or down or sideways, even though she was never anything but polite about all other people, and about him. She wasn’t oh my gosh his mom. So he started raping her like that on a daily basis. Because she was pretty and out of reach. They couldn’t have sex at all. She was so out of reach and he was so Daddy, so very Daddy, that he kept trying to tell her to get up out of the wheelchair and walk. It always sounded to her like the utmost in cruelty. He couldn’t get it, the skimp.
Because he was thinking it would be more fun to torment her with her inability to walk, he would dance her around the room, then lie her down on the bed and rape her with his fingers before raping her with other unspeakable means.
And she was always, all through it, so pretty, so very very…aw, I’ll shut up. You know. She stayed that way. Nearly forever, even though he had been hurting her emotionally and physically for years. She finally prayed to God to help her. And then one day, she looked at her helper cum rapist, saying, “Please stop it.”
“Stop what? I’m not doing anything,” he sighed, fingering her area.
“Stop…raping me,” she sighed, in a very pretty way.
“You’re too mentally retarded to know what rape is, my dear. Here, I’ll clean up your bm.” And he did so, for he was only a lowly butt wipe. He cleaned around her perianal area and her anus, but not with a washcloth. He did it with his finger, so very slowly, without really getting around to cleaning her. She was getting infected again, from the poor care she was receiving. But it was hard, so very hard, to find a new attendant. They were always men, and cruel to her.
Because. You know. The Dance of Death is oh so slow. He had to go and make fun of her. He had no choice. He was backed into it by utter circumstances. And he did not have a wife at home because he left her before. Because she was pretty. Oh, she could take good care of herself. And therefore, she had been worthy of being left behind, but not exactly stranded. She was worthy, his first wife there. Of being able bodied. This disabled little girl was clearly not worthy to God. He could do what he wanted, because God did not love her pretty, pretty little body.
And wasn’t his ex-wife the most gorgeously pregnable thing you ever did see? Just an ordinary woman, really, with her little gaggle of male and female friends. And so able bodied and able to work and able to do anything at all she really wanted to do that was within reach. She was a kid in a candy store, no really. She could walk, even, and talk, even, and he left her because she wasn’t his mommy, you know.
So he ended up slowly dissolving and getting a very spurious job that was a bit on the low side. No income in it, you know. But some people depend on their “good” pasts and their own mental pictures of themselves, to the absolute death. They’re twenty in their heads, and they keep thinking disabled people are space fools. Apparently. And that they can have their way with them. Even the guys…I mean, they think that about the guys, too. That they are their kids. So it goes. They think they can correct their “rude behavior” of not going to the bathroom properly or whatever. In gay couples, yet. And they even think they can rape them, both the men and the women, and get clean away with it.
But the lady of the house is the lady of the house, I suppose. The guy crossed the line. Did she call the cops? No. She was too scared to do it. She was very afraid of him. He kept doing that over and over and she simply wasn’t herself anymore. Even though it had happened to her millions upon millions of times before. He, she thought, was just trying to get her pregnant and didn’t know better that she was in charge because he was on his own little superiority trip. It was pretty heavy duty. That’s how pretty it was.
One day, he stooped down to put his face in it and eat her. Mommy saved him, okay? You know what she did? Do you guess what Mommy there did? God muster loved her. He finally smiled on her. She grew a big old whopper red fanged mouth, ten feet tall and twelve feet wide, the size of Manhattan Island, yes, she most certainly did, and her handsome prince there backed off a little. He looked at her, went totally gaga and pranced around a little while locked completely in place by his own mortal terror. Having taken His time, God had finally, finally answered her prayers. He’d merely given the rapist time to feel sorry for what he had done, which had not happened.
The inhumanly large red maw gaped – with a no longer pretty grin. It dripped gallons of saliva down its sides, and then it ROARED as the tongue protruded.
The one scrap of macho dignity left to her obscene rapist was that he couldn’t scream or say stuff high “like a woman.” He did get that, at least, if you like him so much. Then, she ate him, chewing him painfully first, and then swallowing him alive in one big noisy, slurpy and not so pretty – GULP!
Death, it’s pretty abrupt, don’t you think? Her mouth went back to normal size. The next day, she hired a nice young girl who answered her newspaper ad to work for her, and it’s been working out ever since. But maybe it’s only because she warned the new girl about her mouth. How it could get a little big sometimes, if she wasn’t very careful and very nice to her.
She showed the new girl her big mouth only once. It made quite an impression. It made sure she was treated right, even if she had to threaten another innocent young girl. She would probably never feel sorry about it. And thanks to her big mouth, the new pretty girl will perhaps never, ever leave. But she does pray to God sometimes. For answers, and for His help.
Because she is pretty. So very, very pretty…and patient, too.
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