Captioned Photograph

Contains references to sexual and physical violence. Also contains strong language.

1

You asked for it, Your Worship; So . . . Here it is.

That was the caption. Even without the legs rendered by the photograph it accompanied, it was still a beast which could crawl on its own belly. Wriggling free from the shackles of prevarication. Of course, the photograph was vivid enough to tell the tale of a thousand sordid words. But that caption . . . it shifted the burden of proof to the accused. How do you deny that you actually meant to send that precise photograph after a logo like that? On the other side of the equation, how do you do a spin on the fact that you were an active recipient? How does one gallop on the high horse of the Lord's pulpit every Sunday while hiding such shameful shenanigans in his own closet? How do you —?

"Morning Jen."

My gaze shifts from the omelette my fork is attempting to transform into the Monalisa one doodle at a time. Gaze stops flapping both wings soon as its legs touch down on my stepsister's sunny-side-up countenance. She's ever jolly. Naïve! But Jen, are you back to calling each other stepsisters? Or ‐? Yep, you heard that right. My mind now needs to consistently register that my DNA is totally disconnected from my perverted guardian's.

"Hey," is my reply.

She starts touching this-and-that with her butter fingers; that-and-this explodes on the porcelain floor. "Fuck."

"That's no language to use under the bishop's ceiling."

Pull the devil's shenanigans from under some dark crevice of your memory and he appears. Advances toward his daughter by blood. Inscribes the 666 on her forehead with his lascivious lips. It's a lingering Judas kiss. And I've got an uneasy feeling that what he really wants to do is ski down her skin with his worse-than-blasphemous tongue. Cross the bridge of her nose. Simultaneously a symbolic Rubicon. Suck on her lips. Ski along her neck. Linger on each one of those "plumper-than-Jen's" melons. Then proceed downward until he reaches the pervert’s proverbial Canaan.

"Morning Jen," says the pitchfork inheritor.

"Morning."

I quickly scramble to my feet. I don't wait for the man to come around the counter to give me one of his famous bear-hugs anymore. Pervert.

"Don't wait on me, I'm gonna be late," I say as I breeze out of the kitchen.

2

I’d a rather weird dream two days ago.

My stepfather bought me a "Trojan horsepower", as a "gift" for my birthday. Much like he did in real life for my sixteenth. Except the dream world’s gift was a new Benz in place of the old, beaten down piece-of-crap Corolla bestowed in tangible existence. Naturally I was happy. Enough to forget the wolf in sheepskin the explicitly captioned photograph has revealed this cunning man to be. I even nodded to the notion of him accompanying me “to break the vehicle’s virginity.”

Imagine that!

We drove floating on giggles. Unloading from our chests our fondest memories of mom. Both of us cussing the tumour that grew until it choked life out of her. Even joked about the elephant in the room: how he never stopped being my daddy regardless of the fact that I was mother’s obligation by blood, but not his.

“Of course I love you girl. I’ll do anything just for you.”

A cumulonimbus of confusion fumigated the carefree butterflies out of my stomach. What kind of love was this man professing? Brotherly love is hardly expressed in that Tinder-genic tone. Let alone a hand which pretends to slip from the stick and splash cold fingers onto my lap. The splash becoming a river flowing up my skirt. Daring to tsunami my island. I veered the car out of the freeway . . .

. . . landing my essence outside the auspices of the so-called cousin of death. Just in time to feel footsteps receding from my door in the hallway. I changed my lockset that self-same afternoon.

3

Mother tortures me about my choice of boyfriend in my sleep; stepfather does the same in real life. “He’s a scumbag,” mother says by night and her hypocritical former spouse by day. “Why?” I ask her; “You’re the scum in the bag,” I say to him. Not to his face, not yet, typically behind his back. “He’s just taking you for a good old ride, can’t you see?” the spirit of the old woman whispers.

"But mom —."

"But NOTHING child. Stay away from that wacko boy."

Wacko boy? Didn't they call Jesus the same thing? Her Jesus. Boyfriend goes to church on Sundays. Mom would want a boy who does that, wouldn't she? Treats me well. Believes there’s a God somewhere. With more fervour than than my scepticism can manage, actually. Of course he’s got his eccentricities, but doesn’t everyone? So what he shouts at me from time to time? So did mother. And just as she professed an undying love for me after each scalding scold, so does he. The slaps are scarcer and softer than those my biological father gifted mom. What it really comes down to is this—he believes there’s a chance for a better life out of this tiny town. So do I, with all the fiber of my being. I think this quality alone neutralizes all the other negatives combined.

Mother’s voice still interrogates me, however, via a throbbing conscience: “You know you can do better than this wackadoodle.”

When the pestering becomes too much I flood it out with a smoke and the ensuing guffaws. Rough intimacy also effectively drowns spiritual reprimand, replacing it with physical bleeding. But a sore vagina is far more familiar for me to deal with than a gushing soul.

---

I’m cuddling with CITYBOY Steve while he smokes. While we smoke.

“What makes you think it’s unreal?"

She’s in the photograph, yes? On her knees, naked to her butt. The man's on his feet, naked to his butt too.

Steve puffs out a generous cord of residue smoke towards my face. Makes me inhale the entire chain. Until I feel it tie warm knots in my chest. And start sputtering.

“We don’t know it’s her for sure. She’s got her back on us,” he says.

“We know it’s him.”

His fingers pinch the screen of my phone to zoom in on the male subject's face. “That face looks real to you?”

It does. “Neither does yours when you’re on the brink of coming.”

Puffs and giggles. He suddenly shifts the focus of the zoom from my guardian’s face to his penis-sucker's tail. Freezes like —.

“Someone’s mesmerized,” I say. I know he’s kind of attracted to her, despite the woman being fifteen years his senior. I've seen how he looks at her botoxed lips and side-eyes her BBL at church. He thinks it's not a BBL, but what does he know, my gut says it is. Then there's the way he savors the pull of her singular deodorant. I caught him winking at her one time. Maybe two. Confronted him about it. Something like that. He apologized. I don't quite remember when and how but I'm sure he did. He doesn’t look at her as much of late.

“You know she used to be a hooker, right? Before she ‘found’ Jesus.”

He’s quiet for a while. “Jealousy is a deadly sin.”

“Keep staring at her ass like that and I’ll turn into a deadly Hulk.”

“I’m only helping you out with some detective work here . . . Look.”

"What?"

“It’s weird, isn’t it?" His speech is a little impaired and his presence distant. He’s high now.

“What?”

“These things are huge, ain’t they?”

I liberate myself from the mutual cuddle. He lets go too. I hate how when he’s high he starts talking to me like I’m one of his buddies. He literally sees me as one of them, vagina-less and everything. One time we’d a whole conversation about me, yes me, a conversation boys have with their buddies about their women. “She did this, what do you think it means?” That kind of stuff. I frigging gave the man frigging advice regarding his relationship with his frigging lady. Which was? Me goddammit! All while my man smoked, giggled and took mental notes.

I get off the bed and tiptoe to the bathroom. His gaze doesn't follow my nude form. BBL added to bucket list.

“They're. So?”

Pause. He's still transfixed?

“Bro, I made a mistake.”

“Whatchu talking about . . . bro?”

“I'm an idiot. Where’s the bloody tattoo?”

I let my pee flush out his semen, hoping it’s not too late.

“What tattoo?”

Flush the toilet.

"Dude, the dragon thing on her left cheek?"

"What about it?"

"Dang it's . . . her?" He meant that to be a whisper. "Oh, never mind."

Dude, how do you know that the woman has got something on her left cheek or right one? But he’s busy on his laptop when I emerge. Headphones plugged in and all. There's no competing with this man's gadgets.

4

Soon-to-be Not-Even-Guardian is waiting on the porch when I get home. Bruno rushes toward me, tail wagging. I shoo him away. Soon-to-be Not-Even-Guardian has his Holy Book open just next to him on his couch. False teachers tend to go big on optics.

"Good evening . . . ummm . . ."

Father. Pops. Bishop. Daddy? There's a whole hat to pick a bloody title from Jen. Swallow the fat frog and take your pick already.

Sorry mate, I can't do this anymore. That ummm is all he gets tonight. Bye-bye is all he gets tomorrow. A resounding one too. My hand stretches toward the door knob. The door's locked.

“Let me guess,” I say as I throw myself on the seat opposite his, “five virgins were wise, five non-virgins foolish?”

Bruno’s instincts notice a new field of white flags; he curls himself at my feet.

“The groom wouldn’t mind spending prime time with one of his girls is all.”

I’m yawning. And so is he. “Why am I locked out?”

He closes his Goliath Bible. Looks squarely at me. “Why’s your father, sister and even the poor dog locked out of your room?”

“Doors come with locks.”

“We’ve never used them in this house.”

“At some point someone was bound to demand some privacy.”

“Our policies regarding privacy have always been fair and clear."

Clear, yes.

1. Knock before you enter.

2. Never enter uninvited.

3. Don’t get in if the host isn’t.

4. Don’t touch anything without the owner's permission.

Fair? Well, I was all for the outdated privacy policy until I discovered that I’ve been living with at least one pervert. If he has the stomach to stick the whole length and girth of his junk down the oesophagus of a desperate sister-in-Christ, Bible in hand, what chance does a dame like me really have?

I pretend a yawn. “Is that all, father?”

Pause. Then: “Your sister and I are worried sick about you Jennifer.”

Then why isn’t the spoilt thing out here with you dude? I want to giggle. Because my imagination sets his pants on fire and makes his nose longer than an elephant’s. I want to call bullshit. And warn him that if he so happens to feel some type of way tonight, he better knock it off by pleasing himself. Because I’m sleeping with a blade under my pillow. I’ll chop, boil and force his baby-manufacturer down Sister Angela’s throat permanently if he attempts anything wayward.

“Why?”

“The smoking. Drinking. Late nights out with that good for nothing boy."

"He's not . . . that."

"Do you even know who he is? What he does? What he's up to?”

Do you? “It’s my life, my rules.”

“It’s my house, my rules.”

If this is what it has come to I might as well announce my intentions now. “I’m out of your house by tomorrow midday, bishop. I just need time to pack my stuff tonight and the opportunity to eat my final sacrament in the morning. At your church, if the rules allow it.”

We stare at each other, then beyond each other.

“It’s the Lord’s house, and his rules really,” he says.

"May I have the keys to your house now. I need to pee before I start packing."

He slides the bunch at me. Springs to his feet as I walk over to unlock the glass door. His arms open. His advance resolute. Like a zombie's. My free hand fiddles for the pepper-spray perched somewhere deep down my handbag's belly.

"I love you Jennifer. I've never stopped loving you just because —."

I slam the door behind me as soon as I get to safety.

Phew.

---

“Mom, don’t try talking me out of this, my mind's set.”

“Listen, you’re making a dangerous mistake child.”

“I know you still have feelings for your sanctimonious soulmate, mother. I know that his demonic spell stretches to caress your sympathies wherever you are now. Believe me, the last thing I want is for your heart to be broken again. But I’ve found out who this man really is. What should I do? Just let it go? Leave it to God? Like we did with dad?"

“You have no business calling that man dad if you can’t call the man who raised you as his own father. Listen child, I realize the mistake I made with your sire. I defended him for far too long as he hurt me. Defended him until he hurt you too. It’s a regret that I died with. It’s one that continues to haunt me in the afterlife. But you're taking out your frustrations out on the wrong people."

“I’m going through with it mother. And I’m getting out of this town. I’m going to the city. With Steven."

“You’re making a terrible mistake my daughter. You’re making . . . Listen, this may be the last one of these. So listen to me carefully. Jennifer? Jen —?"

5

Forgive me mother for I've sinned. By omission for not listening to you when you could yet speak, and by commission for . . . Where do I even begin? Where are you mother? Please talk to me. Open your lips and speak your mind one more time. Even a reprimand. Even an "I told you so."

I saw the photograph in father's phone. I wasn't supposed to open it. I did. Yes, I'm a hypocrite. A shameless one. I messed up pretty bad. I'm a hypocrite. Telling everyone about my right to privacy yet denying others the same. I saw the photograph and started looking at your soulmate the wrong way. Though frankly, I think my loathing for him has its roots before that. Jealousy. Envy. Deadly combination. I wanted him to be wicked so bad I framed that image in my mind. Then went out of my way looking for a Sarajevo . . .

In case it hasn't reached you yet, father's no fornicator, let alone a pervert. He wasn't the one in the photo. It was the creation of a man. A boy. A dirty, worthless one at that. I told you he's good with computers. Remember, when I was trying to sell him to you? You saw nothing in your brief time here, people who’re good with computers can now create realistic images of things that have never been. Something called artificial intelligence. Just heard of it. Another reason I've got to go to the city where everything is current.

The wackadoodle was stalking Sister Angela. Hacking her phone. Sending her ultimatums. That wacko had a lust for women his aunt's age. When this one said no, he threatened to expose them. Them? Who? you might be asking. Sister Angela and daddy, mother. Yes, there's something going on between THEM. But it's nothing like the fake picture depicted. She's got a tattoo, yes. Can't tell you where it is without talking indecent. But tattoos generally wouldn't be an issue with you if they were a remnant of a past life, right? Because she's good now. She's changed. She's turned her life around. Father isn't doing what that photograph depicted with her. He wouldn't hurt a blade of grass, let alone take advantage of a desperate woman.

She sent that picture to show father evidence of the threats she was receiving daily from Wacko. If she didn't sleep with him he'd expose her. I was just a piece of meat for that Wacko too. How did I not see it?

Of course . . . because I wouldn't listen. Right? Right mom? Talk to me mother. I have sinned. But that's no reason to give me a cold shoulder. Where does one go from here? Where do you look after making a fool of yourself during Sunday service?

You went through with it? I imagine you asking, perplexed.

Yes, I did. I beamed the photograph in church. On a fucking projector for goodness sake. Thanks to the wacko's techie genius.

I really thought I had something.

Should've seen how Angela wept. How father bear-hugged her. How sister ran out of the building. Screaming.

How vindicated I felt. Until I wasn't. The wacko confessed to the whole scheme when he got arrested this morning.

I don't know what to do now. I have nobody. I had father. I had sister. I had you. I flushed you all down the drain. Jealousy. Envy. What a deadly combination. Forgive me mother, for I have sinned.