Writer, Faux Adult, Nervous Hamster
“'After Mass, I went up to her and told her that because she’d dressed immodestly, I had been unable to receive communion.' When Ray made his comment to me about the woman he’d seen in Mass, he didn’t explicitly say that it was a lesson for me. He didn’t have to."
"My fantasy begins in a dark bar. I’m with friends and currently on my second beer—enough to feel pleasantly buzzed, but not enough to start oversharing about my childhood. The music is loud and I see a man across the room. He glances at me, and then looks away. I take a sip of my beer. Then the song ends and the man across the room looks back at me and calls my name. It’s my turn for karaoke."
All I had were my words, and I didn't think anyone would ever believe me over my abuser. After all, it was my fault they did those things to me.
"You are one sneeze away from total destruction."
“Get in.” I’m fourteen years old and my Catholic school uniform doesn’t feel like a fantasy. I’m alone at the city bus stop near my house and there’s a chill in the air that has nothing to do with the weather. “No, thanks,” I say, so polite despite the fear beating in my chest. “My bus is coming.” “Get in,” he says again, leaning over to open the passenger door. His car is dirty with a stained beige interior, and I want nothing less than to sit in that car.
Emily Regan 