Dusk on an isle

It is dusk on the isle; desolate and dead with no one to witness the gradual settlement of night. The craggy outlay of rocks further enhances the dank gloom of the lighthouse - the wind battered structure solitary, surrounded by a wasteland of water.

There is a man in the corner - he is watching me. His bloodshot eyes pierce the damp darkness of the room, pinning me to the bed like a bug on a board. I sit on the edge of the mattress, my stuttering hands clasped neatly in my lap as my thighs grow heavier, sinking into the indentations I make on the worn blanket - this might be the only mark I leave.

The single light sways to the rhythm of the wind, each unearthly gust barraging the tired building with slews of slat tinged water.

The light sways, and I'm at a table, the chubby hands of my childhood reaching for a second slice of cake. The light sways, and I'm crying to my mother, blood leaking from my body as she tells me I'm a woman now, fear in her voice - I think I stole the ruddiness from her cheeks to feed the torrent of womanhood slipping down my legs; I learnt later, what her apprehension meant. I learnt later what it is to be a woman. The light sways, and I am in the lighthouse, the confirmation of my femininity glaring at me with dull, dead eyes.

I am a woman.

To be a woman is to be at war; with yourself - with the sacrilegious skin which binds your rancid soul to a corpse of dreams; with the insurmountable ambition which lies dormant, buried under the weight of insecurities. To be a woman is to be at war; with the stretch marks which mar us like battle scars - a reminder that time waits for no one; with the constant fluctuation, flow, the proof of our sex - dreading its arrival as viciously as we fear its absence. To be a woman is to be at war; with each other - with the youthful figure who strolls down the street, oblivious to the attention she garners; with the constant ebb and flow, come and go of male affection which we attribute to our circus act of hope - which we attribute to the success of the woman at the opposite desk. To be a woman is to be at war; with the system which fed us insecurities as though it were caviar - hairy legs are an abomination, the water which catches in the divots and dimples of our legs proves the unnatural nature of cellulite; with the men whose attention we abhor, yet whose approbation, recommendation we strive to deserve.

To be a woman is to be at war; we tear our skin to tendrils, hoping in vain to root out our uncertainty as though it were hair just waiting to be pulled, yanked from our heads - if we're lucky our dreams will go with it, dissolving into the ether, leaving us with the unforgiving candor of reality.

I love being a woman, but to be a woman is to be at war.

At war with the leering eyes, the sleazy comments and groping hands, hands that fell with a thud - a thud that resonates in the dark of the night; at war with the body, bracketing you against a dingy brick wall - the body which dropped so easily, a gentle rain mingling with the blood of a pig, painting the cobblestones barbie pink. I am a woman.

There is a man in the corner, his eyes pinning me - a silent accusation carried by on the sound of the wind, the decrepit walls my only source of safety, of solace from his pained gurgling. I only wanted him to look at me; its fun when they look - from afar, only ever from afar - it gives me a sense of power, this feeling that someone wants me, sees me, chose me. And then it passes, and I am happy, content with the split second when their eyes slide over my plucked and primed body like warm grease, resplendent on a night out. I like it when they look, their gazes warming my ego as blown out pupils absorb my light. I only like it when they look, so I demure, I meet their beady little eyes, and look away. Nothing more, nothing less. I do not smile, I do not blush. I meet their bloodshot appraisement, and look away. I give them nothing but a memory to go home with. I give them nothing.

I give them nothing, yet still they take, their superfluous souls staking a claim to what was never theirs.

I met his leering eyes, and looked away. I gave him nothing yet he followed me outside. In the Glasgow rain I could hear him breathing, I could smell the Guinness over the scent of wet pavement - I gave him nothing. Back straight, bitch face on, I walked with purpose, just as mum told me to. I held my purse like a weapon, as though the soft leather could protect me from sweat stained hands. Under the midnight rain I could hear him - his steps even and steady, a contradiction to his ruddy face and rancid breath; I could hear him, his heartbeat slowly picking up pace, like an animal in the midst of the hunt.

Alleys are tricky things, they sneak up on you when least expected, their dark passageways yawning like the hungry maw of a beast. but it is just an illusion, the true monsters lurk in broad daylight, they lurk in busy taverns, their grimy gazes staking a claim, leaving a print as dark as blood, as thick as oil. it was sudden - the monster pushing me into the alley. it was sudden - how my hand found my knife, stowed safely at the top of my purse. it was sudden - when the dull blade found purchase and devoured his neck, his movement, this moment.

To be a woman is to be at war.

There is a man in the corner - his pallid flesh flaking like brisket off a bone. He moves to a jaunty rhythm, his muscles long since seized up - shrivelled like his clawed fingers. The light sways and he is gone. Gone like my naivety. Gone like my life.

The light sways and he is there, leaning over my immobile form, a rancid smell emitting from his decaying flesh.

He smiles.

He smiles and I can see every pit on his tongue, every dip his hateful lips. He smiles and I scream. My wretched voice propels me, inciting me to a stumbling, fumbling movement - my limbs lurching toward the door as if it could save me from myself.

Outside is cold. Wet and cold and as unforgiving as the skeleton in my closet. The wind whips my hair across my eyes, forcing the bleached strands down my throat.

Death calls to me, waiting in the quiet warmth which pulls at my bones. Death blankets me, her tender chill washing over me with every step I take, every breath I steal. Death beckons me, her warm breath travelling to me on the raging wind, dampening the bitter cold which cuts through the flesh of my face.

Death calls to me, and I go.