Dirty Habit By Stormy Skies

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​Dirty Habit

I’m the only one sitting too close to the fire, the flames are practically licking my knees. Maybe my jeans will burn, or melt to my skin… Doubtful. The night is growing colder by the minute, and all I want to do is crawl inside our tent. I’m no camper, but when there’s enough peer pressure from your friends to spend the night in the woods, I suppose I mumbled out a yes - afraid to say no. I forgot whose brilliant idea it was to have a party out here. It’s freezing for a night in the middle of October.  The guy to my right keeps spreading his legs and raising his eyebrows at me each time I glance over at him. I’m not sure if I even know him. The cigarette he’s smoking is making me nauseous, so I get up and stand apart from the group. I pretend to check my walkie talkie, making sure it’s turned on so we can hear if someone we know calls. Nobody will call from across the path, nobody ever calls. I start to pick off the dry skin from my lips, the only dirty habit I possess. Behind me, I hear my friend vomit onto the ground after a fit of coughing, I guess she couldn’t handle all the shit she swallowed earlier. That reminded me that I do know the guy with the cigarette. I blew him a few nights ago for money to buy the drugs that everyone around the fire was high on right now. It was my friend’s idea, but now she was wasting my money. I was already numb without it. It wouldn’t be so bad if the cold wasn’t getting to us. I had to pee but was sure if I pulled down my pants, I’d die of hypothermia. “Are you okay?” A voice behind me asked. I was startled, but had to force myself to turn around. “What?” It was the guy with the fucking cigarette. “You dropped the radio,” he said, then nodded down at my feet where it had landed. I guess my hands are numb. Where were my gloves? He picked the radio up and threw it into the woods beside us. I looked after it, unblinking. Now my only lifeline was gone. His eyes tested me, knowing I’d have to retrieve it. The radio was my responsibility, everyone else was too far gone. “Fetch.” He said. He flicked his cigarette butt at me, smirking. “Don’t.” I said. Inside I wished I was covered in kerosene so I’d erupt in flames before his eyes, an image that’d be burned in his mind for the rest of his shitty life. “I’ve never fucked you in the woods before…come show me your cunt…” He trailed off, or maybe I stopped listening. My eyes drifted over to my friend who threw up. She lay on the ground, passed out. Too messed up. Then I felt a hand brush my face. I flinched away. “What are you talking about?” I said to the guy with the cigarette. He reached his hand towards my face again, trying to grab at my cheek. I froze. “Don’t you remember what my basement looks like?” There is a guy on top of my friend now, or two, I think. One is holding her arms above her head, and the other is kneeling between her legs. My hands are shaking now. Shit. I think they are trying to fucking rape her. She’s laying in the dirt, it’s muddy, I think. They’re kneeling in the mud. They’re taking her pants off, and I can see their breath steam in the cold night as they start ripping her underwear from her legs. They’re holding her down but she’s not even awake. How could she try to fight them off if she’s not even fucking awake. I squeezed my eyes shut. I held them shut to make it go away. “Please stop.” I whispered. The guy was talking to me again, some scum whom I should have no affiliation with, his mouth is moving  “I guess you can’t remember since your face was against the wall the whole time.” My face is wet, I think. It’s cold, my tears are frozen. “What if someone calls…” I squeaked, coughing. I couldn’t breathe. “I guess you were too fucked up to remember.” He laughed. “Remember what?” Confused, I forced myself to meet his eyes. He stopped smirking and reached his hand out to grab my hair. I yelped at the pain as he turned me around and threw me to the ground. “This,” he said. It was almost a whisper. I could barely hear him, and then he was on me. I couldn’t move, didn’t want to move. I suddenly imagined that if I tried to resist, he’d kill me. I turned my head to see my friend. Her legs are so white in the cold, the pale standing out between streaks of grime. And there’s blood. They’re fucking taking turns, taking turns raping her. They’re making her bleed but she’s not moving. She’s not moving now.

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Stormy Skies received her Master’s degree in Publishing from The George Washington University. Her works can be found in STRAPPED zine, ABSENCE Literary & Visual Art Review Magazine, Junto Magazine, and Civil Coping Mechanisms. She currently lives in Southwestern Pennsylvania surrounded by wilderness.

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