Depressed Girl

Is she really doing this?

Arianne swallowed, crinkling the ticket for Paris’s most exclusive club in her hand. Her boyfriend’s arm hung heavy around her neck, crushing her against him as he cajoled the bouncer into letting him bring in a plus one. When the ticket was torn out of her hands, Arianne was left to fidget nervously with the buttons on her sleeve, gaze fixed on the ends of her red flats.

Her favorite pair of heels sat at home, hidden away in the back of her shoe closet. It’s been months since she’s last worn them and she misses the pinch and confidence they gave her. But, her boyfriend said she would be too tall if she wore heels. Men are supposed to be taller than women, and her heels would paint a bad look for everyone else.

Arianne knew it already. Girls are supposed to be shorter than their boyfriend. Girls are supposed to listen to their boyfriend. They’re supposed to be small, weak, demure but coy. He was already doing her a favor by dating her—covering her in his normal. So, the heels, fashion magazines, weird eyeliner, ugly stockings, bland coats, anything bad remained hidden.

Her flats shone under the street lights, like a beacon pointing her towards depravity.

Her boyfriend laughed again, sharp and ugly. Arianne tried to hide under the meat of his arm, red lips curving into what she could only hope was a normal smile as he showed her off to the bouncer.

Normal. Normal. She’s normal. She’s just like every other girl with a boyfriend. Like a normal girl. Normal girls like men, right? Normal girls are shorter, normal girls are cute.

The bouncer finally stepped aside, letting them in.

Being inside hurt. Arianne swears she can taste sin in the air, feel it entering her lungs when she breathed and choking her. She held her breath. When she wasn’t collecting sin though every single orifice, her anxiety eased slightly. Then, her knees threatened to buckle from a lack of air, and she instinctively inhaled. Stupid! Eyes watering as she tried to breathe as quietly and infrequently as possible, the strobing lights seared themselves into her retinas, visible even as she shut her eyes. Music filled the remaining space in the air and barely clothed bodies, and her head began to pound in time to the sound, reminding her of the headache she’ll surely wake up with tomorrow.

The arm around her pulled her into a booth. It was darker in the booth, nicer, more bearable.

Her boyfriend curled her around him, shifting her as he pleased.

“Isn’t this nice?” He whispered into her ear, breath wet and raspy.

She remained silent, body locked up in fear and shame.

“I’m paying your rent for you after you lost your job,” His hand squeezed as his voice dropped lower, more dangerous. “The least you can do is nod your head like a good little girl.”

Arianne flinched, jerking her head up and down once. He relaxed, still gripping tightly onto her. “Good.” He said, turning his head towards the stage.

She didn’t move. Didn’t even turn to look.

He shifted again, hand sliding slowly up her arm to grab her chin. “Look,” He pulled at her jaw, turning her head towards the stage.

Arianne opened her mouth to scream—to protest—to do something before she was ruined by whatever was on that stage.

“Why can’t you be more like those girls?”

Her scream, silent and quiet if it had ever left her mouth at all, died.

Three girls danced on stage. Bodies moving sensually around each other and their poles, they commanded the attention of the entire room. Arianne swallowed back a whimper as you seemed to wink at her, bending over to pick up a couple bills other patrons had been mindlessly throwing onstage.

She wanted to feel the dread of shame, the crushing sense of disgust that normal girls would feel. Instead, a traitorious heat settled low in her stomach as her eyes remained glued onto the stage. Arianne blinked, tears rolling down her cheek.

I'm disgusting.