The Wind in the Willows

(CAUTION: Story includes themes of physical abuse, substance abuse, sexual abuse, miscarriage, and mental health issues. Proceed at your own advisory.)

I do remember being beautiful. I was loved once. I know I was. As a child, the young boys used to throw rocks at me, and my mother always told me that was how a boy would express affection.

"That just means they like you. You're beautiful, my love."

I loved my mother. My father loved her very much as well. I know because her skin was miscolored and often swollen. After all, that is how boys show affection.

When I grew up, the attention was very thin. I knew I was still worth love. I always held true to that. I remember wanting to make myself more appealing to men, just to feel that sought after feeling again of love. That pleasing, bleeding, pleasure-filled, degrading sense of love. This was truly living, it must be. I found a place where I could offer myself to anyone who would love me, and I sold myself into a brothel. Living became less painful and more pleasurable over time with every little drug they would offer me. Man after man I was left weak, brittle even.

The day I was found to be pregnant my master threatened to abandon me to the streets, so I took care of it. There was one night I laid with one of my regulars, prepared for a night of fun and pleasure. Instead of submitting to his way with me, I kicked him instead. I began to fight against him and as confused as he was, he acted as a man in love would. He began to beat me into submission. Over and over the wind was taken from my lungs and my father’s face flashed across the front of my imagination every time I saw that man’s face full of anger and yet, pleasure. He loved me. Knuckles left imprints on my jaw, and bruises were left on my stomach, my hip, and my left leg. He stormed out of that brothel to never return, and my master remained very angry with me for quite some time. It was not long after I buried the corpse of my unborn daughter at the base of a single, young, oak tree, planted by my grandmother, deep in the middle of my mother’s favorite place, a willow tree forest on the outskirts of town. I had done what he wanted. I just wanted to do my job better. That's all. I was good at it. I was very good at it. They loved me. They really loved me. I don't know why they don't love me now. I'm still beautiful. I'm still... beautiful.

Maybe... Maybe it was when that one man came. Gene. Gene wanted me. At one point, I thought I liked 'want' better than I liked 'love'. He was gentle and kind. Maybe I didn't like love at all. My mother always said love was everything, but she never felt the feeling of wanted. He wanted to take me away from my new home, that lovely, little brothel. He promised a quiet life for me, him, and maybe a son or two. Gosh, quiet sounded horrifying. Ironic how ‘quiet’ is all I have now, except for the occasional breeze that sings through. The gentle coos of the wind often remind me of Gene. I wonder sometimes how he is doing. He never visits me anymore like he used to. He was a lovely, yet strange little man.

He took me from that brothel when I finally chose my wants over love. It was quite a jarring experience. He called it peaceful. I was made to make bread and clean while he was gone during the day. This was at least familiar to home. Lovely... Little... Home… My mother spent her days cleaning, making food and tending to me. I remember hearing her breathing heavy, slaving over a freshly made ball of dough as she would swipe her hair behind her ear to reveal love bites down her neck and ears. I haven't made a loaf of bread in a while now. My hands just don't work the way they used to.

Gene spoke often of our future family, so I never told him I could never give that to him. I wanted Gene and I wanted him alone, so I wasn't bothered by my ruined chance of ever having children. I would rather not love a child. The day he found out was the best day ever. I felt like myself again, like I did as a kid. It was exhilarating, like a high I used to get from the opium blunts at the brothel. Maybe I did like love. That was the day I knew he loved me. He called me a whore; I do remember that. I'd much rather replace my name with such a word coming from his lips. He claimed I had used him when I never told him. I don't know why it was such a big deal, but I remember him slapping me. I remember the rush and the blood dripping from my lip. It was like warm honey running down my chin. Oh, the chills from such ecstasy; I can hardly bare! Oh, he truly loved me!

But then, he was horrified. I quickly swiped the blood away from my lip hoping I was still appealing to him. I smiled and smiled at him. I am still beautiful. I am still beautiful. I am... he was wide-eyed and looking at me like I was some monster. And then he called me a witch. And he ran. He was scared. He was scared of me. I don't know what I did wrong. I am still beautiful. I stood there, like I always did as a young girl, and I watched him run. He ran the same way my mother did the day she disappeared, as if something was chasing him with violent intent.

I waited for him on the front porch. I waited and waited until I saw a light. There was my Gene. My lovely, little Gene. He came back. He brought townsfolks and dogs followed suit. There were pitch forks and torches and my Gene led the pack. It was like a surprise birthday party, although I don't remember my own birthday. I don't think I ever had a party for it before. I decided that this day would be my special day. I never resisted as they tied me up with their harsh, sharp chord ropes and carried me off and away to the middle of the weeping willow forest. The ropes left red marks from the friction on my skin, and I welcomed every miniscule sensation I could. If only I knew I would have never gotten another chance.

They brought me to that oak tree, like a time capsule of my life, where a platform was prepared, and I could see the carving I left in the tree the day I buried my mother’s joy. She didn’t have to know I killed her granddaughter. I remember looking at Gene and seeing his face filled with anger, terror, and an emotion I had only ever seen on my mother. I believe they call it sadness, or maybe regret. I smiled at him with my bloody smile and wished I could've waved. He threw me the best party anyone could ever ask for. I loved that man. Oh, how I miss him to this day.

A rope was placed around my neck like a thick, gaudy necklace and the people around me chanted and hollered. I wonder if my mother ever wore a necklace so daunting. She used to dress up. When my father was away as a child, my mother would tell me stories from when she was my age. How she danced with every boy at the town anniversary celebrations. How she’d spend time in this forest and make up stories about little woodland creatures. When she and my father met and fell in love. Her stories didn’t sound like her the way I knew her, but I wanted to be like her.

They took the ropes around my body off, finally giving me freedom to do so. If they wanted a show, I'd give them a show. But I couldn't. I couldn't move once the floor below me went out. I didn't understand. I just wanted to dance. My throat hurt and I couldn't breathe. I felt sick. If only Mother was here; she would know how to help a sore throat. It went silent after that. Before I knew it, the party was over. I stayed there; I couldn't do anything else.

Nobody came back for me, except for Gene. Only a few times, of course. He disappeared after a while, and I haven't seen him through the years I've been here in this lovely, little place. At least I get to dance now. The wind leads the swaying dance, and the willows provide the music. Life was worth moments like these. I wonder if the willows enjoy my company just as much as I enjoy theirs. When people see me now, they don't make a sound. They're silent. I think they're scared of me. Maybe I'm horrifying to look at. No, I’m still beautiful; I must be. It’s all I had left. One can’t have nothing. Can they? Aren’t I still beautiful?

Mother?