I wrote something! A kind of ficcy something!
As usual, this is all Aly's fault. She asked me, "Also, do you find the idea of topless, sweaty, tattooed women fighting a la Fight Club attractive?" and well. Let me put it like this, I've been writing stories about soldiers since I was in sixth grade. As it turns out, people beating the shit out of each other is something I'm disturbingly familiar with.
And then she showed me this:
So. 350 words ish. Genderswap, of course. And, lo and behold, I'm actually proud of it.
--
The first thing every single girl does after their first night, is cut their nails. All those perfectly manicured fingernails down the drain in a shower of white painted acrylic. They're useless, and it hurts like shit, the fist landing on someone's face with a thick meaty sound and feeling something bend and crack in the palm of your hand, the skin red and bloody from too sharp, too long nails. It's a vanity, something you do for other people. Useless now.
The next thing to go are the piercings. Not completely, no, but the extraneous bits, the dangly earrings and pretty diamonds in the belly buttons. They're useless too, and a hazard. Watching one girl throw up from the pain of a torn out nipple piercing is enough to make a point.
They wear their bruises like a flag. It's more feminine pride in that bruised cheekbone than in any pair of high heels. People give them worried looks, start asking if everything is alright at home.
Jon starts wearing make-up like she never wore make-up before she got to the Club. But instead of feeling like a chore when she smooths foundation and powder over dark blue, purple, green, yellow, red bruises, it kind of feels like she imagines Clark Kent must have felt every time he slipped on those glasses. This isn't her, this girl with the painted face, and if people knew what was beneath it, what she'd done to deserve those bruises, the sting of open cuts, they'd be horrified. That feeling, that she carries something like this inside her... it's powerful. She's powerful. She beat the crap out of a new girl she's pretty sure works as a hairdresser last night, and it never got into her head to feel bad about it, not when the girl, pretty, dark-eyed, lovely in every way, half-naked and spitting blood on the concrete floor, smiled up at her with bloody teeth and clapped a hand on Jon's shoulder after, saying, "Fucking awesome."
Jon felt it too. She always feels it. Even when it's her, spitting blood, head throbbing. This is the best she's felt in years.
And then she showed me this:
So. 350 words ish. Genderswap, of course. And, lo and behold, I'm actually proud of it.
--
The first thing every single girl does after their first night, is cut their nails. All those perfectly manicured fingernails down the drain in a shower of white painted acrylic. They're useless, and it hurts like shit, the fist landing on someone's face with a thick meaty sound and feeling something bend and crack in the palm of your hand, the skin red and bloody from too sharp, too long nails. It's a vanity, something you do for other people. Useless now.
The next thing to go are the piercings. Not completely, no, but the extraneous bits, the dangly earrings and pretty diamonds in the belly buttons. They're useless too, and a hazard. Watching one girl throw up from the pain of a torn out nipple piercing is enough to make a point.
They wear their bruises like a flag. It's more feminine pride in that bruised cheekbone than in any pair of high heels. People give them worried looks, start asking if everything is alright at home.
Jon starts wearing make-up like she never wore make-up before she got to the Club. But instead of feeling like a chore when she smooths foundation and powder over dark blue, purple, green, yellow, red bruises, it kind of feels like she imagines Clark Kent must have felt every time he slipped on those glasses. This isn't her, this girl with the painted face, and if people knew what was beneath it, what she'd done to deserve those bruises, the sting of open cuts, they'd be horrified. That feeling, that she carries something like this inside her... it's powerful. She's powerful. She beat the crap out of a new girl she's pretty sure works as a hairdresser last night, and it never got into her head to feel bad about it, not when the girl, pretty, dark-eyed, lovely in every way, half-naked and spitting blood on the concrete floor, smiled up at her with bloody teeth and clapped a hand on Jon's shoulder after, saying, "Fucking awesome."
Jon felt it too. She always feels it. Even when it's her, spitting blood, head throbbing. This is the best she's felt in years.