My name is Rosie Everett. I am the faithful and devoted wife of William Everett. I live at 1138 Fairview Lane in Stepford, Connecticut. I cook and I clean, and I have never been happier.
[TRIGGER/CONTENT WARNING: kidnapping, themes of domestic & sexual abuse, (not too graphic) childbirth written inaccurately for the sake of drama sorry about that, misogyny, homophobia, transphobia, mediocre as hell writing]
Once again, more bullshit written by me in an attempt to flesh out the characters outside the script :) Like I say I do have some previous experience performing live with a band – I played bass in a shitty edgelord deathrock band for about seven months until I was kicked out, and I even played four live gigs with them. Unfortunately, two of those gigs were in Milton Keynes lmao.
Anyway, I drew on that experience while developing the character of Rachel Martinez and fleshing out her backstory, and basically I wanted to highlight how completely different she is to the persona she was forced to portray in Stepford. She accidentally became my favourite whoops. I even went the extra mile of writing in-universe Disaffectress songs which I KNOW is a fuckton of effort to go to for a Stepford Wives sequel but I care about these characters a lot aight?
——————
“Thank you, Connecticut! We’ve been Disaffectress, you’ve been the best fucking crowd we’ve ever played for! G’night and get home safe!”
I can’t help but grin from ear to ear as I look over at Hannah, our incredible frontwoman and my gorgeous girlfriend, as she soaks up the love from the crowd for the third night running. She stands with her arms held aloft, her smile lighting up the tiny club brighter than the house lights ever could, and she’s so beautiful, so damn perfect, that I swear I could die just from looking at her. I don’t even bother to stop myself from strolling over to her, flinging my arm over her shoulder and kissing her on the cheek, waving to the crowd as they cheer louder for us. God, I fucking love my life.
Later, I join Hannah and my other two bandmates, Cat and Mel, in the green room to decompress. Cat, our bassist, is busy removing her blood red lipstick, and Mel, the drummer, is going over the setlist for our next show in Rhode Island, chewing on the end of her Sharpie. “You think we should drop ‘Alchemy’?” she says, to nobody in particular. “I just get the feeling that people haven’t really been vibing with it as much as I’d hoped…”
Hannah grabs a bottle of water and brings it to her lips, taking a long, slow swig from the plastic bottle before she replaces the cap. “Fuck that,” she grins, folding her long legs up to her chest and resting her chin on her knees. “If nobody’s vibing with a song against date rape drugs then that’s their fuckin’ problem.”
Even when I’m surrounded by my dearest friends, I still can’t shake the image of that bearded creep staring directly at me from the back of the room, his eyes seeming to drill right into me through his thick-rimmed glasses. I don’t know if he was mad at me or what, if I’d done something to piss him off – whatever’s the case, I’ve never seen or met this guy before in my life, and whatever his problem is with me is no problem of mine. I barely even notice I’m shuddering until Cat points it out, still wiping off the rest of her makeup with a cotton pad soaked in micellar water.
“I’m good, just a little tired,” I sigh as I climb over towards Hannah and curl up in her lap. She nuzzles her face into my shoulder, grinning against my skin, and truth be told I could kinda do with a nap. Preferably in her arms, in the back of our touring van, but I’m not too particularly picky. Someone suggests a late night trip to Denny’s, and holy shit pancakes sound so fucking good right about now.
We load up our gear in the van and prepare to head off to the nearest Denny’s, which is miraculously only a 12 minute drive away from the venue. Mel is still busy poring over the setlist every time we stop at a red light, and I’m somehow getting carsick just from looking at her, so I look out the window, desperately trying to put that creepy guy out of my mind. But somehow, he just won’t leave. Maybe he’s just pissed we never played in his city or something, at least I hope that’s all it is. By the time we pull into the parking lot, I suddenly feel a lot more tired than usual – which I know isn’t because I’ve been roofied. Every drink I ordered at the bar, I always watched the bartender prepare, just to be sure nothing could be slipped into it. It’s something I’ve always done since I was old enough to know just how dangerous men can be.
“You know what, guys? I’m probably gonna take a nap,” I yawn, pulling my coat tighter around me. “You go on ahead, just make sure you bring me some pancakes.”
Cat turns to face me, slightly concerned. “You sure, Rach?” she says. “I don’t think we should leave you alone for too long, y’know, just in case you fall asleep with the keys and lock us outta the van.”
“Nah, nah, I’ll be fine, just knock on the door and that’ll wake me up,” I smile. Hannah is reluctant to leave my side, but I reassure her with a million kisses that I’ll be alright. She looks back at me with those big brown eyes that I swear I just want to fall into forever, and eventually smiles, “Okay, if you’re sure. Have a nice nap, baby. Love you.”
“Love you too, Hannah banana,” I smile back.
I watch from the window as Hannah, Cat and Mel head into the restaurant, their arms linked, then pull my coat over me as a makeshift blanket and curl up beneath it tightly. The back of a van isn’t the most comfortable place to sleep, granted, but it’s a lot better than nothing.
Suddenly, a bang on the door jolts me awake. I sit up, looking out the window for my bandmates, but I don’t see them. I figure they’re still inside, waiting in line, so I attempt to get back to sleep – but before I can, the back doors of the van are flung open, and something is pressed against my mouth before I have a chance to scream.
I breathe in chloroform. I see a beard and glasses. I finally fall asleep.
—-
“Good morning, honey. Hope you slept well.”
What the fuck? Who said that?
I gather all my strength just to be able to open my eyes, and I find that I’m in a dark room, strapped down to a medical gurney, lit by a single spotlight. I look around, trying to discern my surroundings in the darkness, but I quickly realise that I can’t see a fucking thing, and I start to panic. I yank at my restraints, screaming at the top of my lungs until I swear they could burst, but to no avail.
Just then, to my horror, he steps forward. The guy from the venue.
God, he’s even more repulsive than I remember. His cold stare, his sickening smirk, the way his eyes scan me like I’m a fucking piece of meat… I’ve never felt so disgusted in the presence of another human being before. I’m not sure I ever will again.
“Hello there,” he intones. “Allow me to introduce myself. My name is William Everett, and I’ve had my eye on you for quite a while.”
I attempt to lift myself upright, tugging at my restraints. “Well too fucking bad,” I snarl, “I’m taken.”
William chuckles quietly, the same way a parent would chuckle at their kid’s macaroni art before promising to display it on the fridge. “I’m afraid that’s all in the past now,” he grins. “From this moment onward, you are to be my lawfully wedded wife.”
What the fuck…?
Jesus, this is like one of my worst nightmares made horrifying reality. I’d seen weirdos on social media threatening shit like this to outspoken queer women before, but never in my life did I ever think any of them had the means to actually carry it out. But I guess too much money and too much power gives you all the freedom in the fucking world, huh?
“You’ll never get away with this, asshole,” I yell, still attempting to wriggle free as if I haven’t realised how fucking futile it is by now. “Normal people don’t kidnap women and keep them in basements, you fucking psychopath!”
Suddenly he shines a flashlight in my face. “Your name is Rosie Everett,” he says, devoid of a single emotion I could use against him. “You are the faithful and devoted wife of William Everett. You live at 1138 Fairview Lane in Stepford, Connecticut. You cook and you clean, and you have never been happier.”
Holy SHIT, what the fuck is wrong with this guy?? How long is he gonna keep me down here? Will I ever get to see the sunlight again? Sunlight. Sunlight. The sunlight in Hannah’s eyes as we stroll along the boardwalk at Coney Island. Soft ice cream on the tip of her nose. Her laugh. Sunlight. Sunlight. Sunlight. Light. My light. My Hannah banana. My Coney Island baby.
Light.
He just keeps shining the light in my fucking face, repeating those words over and over until I can barely fucking think anymore. I try to spit in his face but my mouth is dry, to claw out his eyes but my arms are weak, to scream out for help but my voice is gone. My name is Rachel Martinez. My name is Rachel Everett. My name is Rachel. Rosie. Rachel Martinez. My name is Rosie Martinez. Rachel Rosie. Rosie Rachel. Rosie Everett. Rachel Mar—
Rosie Everett. I am her and she is me. I am nobody. I am a body. Just a body. Just a vessel.
Just a prison.
—-
The first few weeks of wedded “bliss” I’m just an observer, sitting in a darkened theater, watching in horror as my body cooks, cleans, shops, strips, opens, cums for a man who stole my identity from me. I run down the aisles, bang my fists against the screen, wail and weep until my eyes are red and sore, but still my body services him in any way he sees fit, and there’s not a goddamn thing I can do about it. Every so often, the picture catches sight of something, anything, even if it’s just barely in the corner of my vision, and I feel myself being propelled violently into the screen, back into my body, ready to scream until I can’t scream anymore. I know I should be making plans to escape, but I’m terrified of what he’ll do if he finds out.
It almost feels kind of like a cross between Mystery Science Theater 3000 and the Sunken Place from Get Out, both of which I remember watching with my bandmates in a motel somewhere on the tour, and that one Black Mirror episode with the lady who shares her husband’s conscience, except in this theater I can almost feel everything that happens to me, I can taste the acid in the back of my throat, I can smell the antiseptic sting of cleaning products and the tempting scent of baked goods, I can hear every awful thing William says to me in Dolby Digital Surround Fucking Sound – it’s almost like I’m in my body, but just as a passenger. And I don’t even have any wise-cracking robot friends to keep me company either. I’m stuck here, all alone, and I can’t leave. Just the way William likes it.
Sometimes I catch a glimpse of my body in the mirror. I don’t know how he did it, but William’s stripped me of everything that made me Rachel Martinez – my tattoos are covered up with something, maybe body paint, the dye in my hair rigorously washed out to make way for bleach – and forced me into floral print sundresses with plunging ruffled necklines, like some kind of fucked up sexualised idea of a rural housewife. It’s like he can’t decide if he wants me to look modest or fuckable. He doesn’t beat me, thank god, but his presence alone is threatening enough for me to worry about whatever his intentions are with my body at any given moment, especially since he constantly talks down to it and treats it like a servant instead of a partner, which I guess must be what he had planned for me all along.
William holds meetings in this house with men. They call themselves the Stepford Men’s Association, and the things I hear them say about their wives, about women in general, anyone who isn’t a white straight cis man – make me want to fucking puke into the drinks that my body has to serve to them. I try to visit my neighbours, to make friends despite William’s best efforts, but all my body wants to talk about is cooking, cleaning, and shopping. I’m on my fucking knees, begging, tearing at my hair, tears streaming down my face, hoping somebody can hear me pleading GET ME OUT OF HERE GET ME THE FUCK OUT OF HERE WILLIAM EVERETT IS A LIAR but it’s no use. My body reels off a rehearsed diatribe about fucking Easy-On disinfectant cleaning sprays, lemon scented, so much more effective at removing stains and grease and burnt-on food than the next leading brand, something to spray in William’s eyes next time I regain control of my body.
Until then, all I can do is watch in horror.
And nobody will ever hear me scream.
—-
The first time the screen shows my body throwing up into a toilet my blood runs cold. I’m frozen in my seat, gradually horrified by the sight of the positive test, of its belly growing, of the ultrasound scan, of William’s predatory gaze, the disturbing shit he says about motherhood, the way he puts his hands on my body— Please no, please don’t let it be true I don’t want this–
Before I know it I’m launched back into my body again. I find myself in a bleached and sterilised delivery room, dressed only in a hospital gown, my feet in stirrups and my belly swollen and grotesque. I bolt upright, my eyes darting back and forth about the room. Just then, to my horror, William enters dressed in surgical scrubs and a face mask.
“Wh-where the hell am I?” I whimper. “What’s h-happening to me?”
A couple of nurses follow behind him, visibly concerned. “You’re about to become a mother, Rosie,” he says, his voice as cold and flat and awful as ever. “You’re going to give birth to my child. I can’t wait to meet our son.”
“My name’s not Rosie, you fucking asshole, it’s Rachel Mar—” I growl, just before I’m hit by a blinding pain in the base of my spine. The nurses rush to assist me, and all is noise and confusion and pain and terror and blinding FUCKING PAIN—
“Mr Everett, your wife needs an emergency caesarean!” one of the nurses stammers, desperately attempting to reason with him. “If we don’t prep her for surgery now, she could—”
“No. She’ll do it naturally. Properly. It’s what her body is made for.”
God, for the first time in my life, I want so badly to be yanked back into that fucking theater. I don’t wanna feel this, I don’t want to have to go through this, I want him gone I WANT HIM FUCKING DEAD I WANT TO FUCKING DIE MAKE IT STOP MAKE IT STOP MAKE IT STOP finally, after some pleading from the nurses, he at least lets them administer an epidural, but it barely has time to kick in as something threatens to tear me in half from the inside out, which is when William turns to me and simply says,
“Push.”
The nurses plead with him that I’m not ready yet, but before I know it I’m being crushed inwards, and I scream as this thing tries to force itself out of me, but it’s barely enough. Oh god, it’s barely enough. Please don’t let me die here, I should be in the studio by now hearing Hannah sing my words so damn beautifully, the smile tugging at the corners of her lovely kissable mouth as she sways from side to side, so gorgeous I almost forget what chords to play next and I try to—
I try to imagine Hannah is by my side, stroking my hair, holding my hand, kissing my forehead, telling me I’m doing so well and she’s so proud of me and that I’m gonna be okay, but she’s so faint, gradually fading until her sweet voice is barely a whisper, a signal breaking up until she’s gone, gone away, and now it’s just these scared nurses and this man who STOLE MY FUCKING LIFE watching with almost sadistic glee as I cry and scream and bleed, seizing forward, bearing down, over and over again. Even in this tiny room filled with people, I’m all alone.
“I can see the head!” William says, and his joy is so fucking perverse I think I might puke. He’s literally staring between my legs and salivating, the sick fuck. “Hurry up, Rosie, push! Give me my son!”
I have no choice. This is all I can do. The one time my body isn’t on autopilot, and it’s fucking this. This fucking sucks.
Hannah’s voice fades in and out, like she’s on the other end of a phone call and I’m speeding through a tunnel. “Rachel, ba— doing so good, I love you so fu—chel, I’m so proud—” But just the faintest trace of her voice is the well I draw all my strength from, and it all surges forward at once, until I hear a second cry alongside my own. And there he is, my son, bloodied and squealing in a nurse’s arms, like a tumour excised from me.
I… I did this?
I can almost feel Hannah pressing a kiss to my knuckles, still white from the strain, and I swear I can see her smiling back at me – and suddenly I realise that I don’t even remember what colour her hair is anymore. “H-Hannah…?” I wail, reaching out for her as she fades, delirious from the pain, even though I know she was never here. “Hannah, come back— Hannah?!”
“Her vitals are spiking! She’s going into shock!”
“Give her [insert medical jargon here], stat!”
The gas mask is placed over my nose, and I wake up back in the theater again.
I curl up into a ball on the floor and cry.
God, I fucking miss Hannah.
—-
I met Hannah on our first day of high school. She was sitting alone at a table in the cafeteria, scribbling in a journal, and when I asked if I could sit with her she looked up at me with those big brown eyes of hers, smiling, and before I knew it I’d fallen in love. She was listening to The Germs, and I almost couldn’t believe that someone else knew them at this school other than me, so she shared her earbuds with me and the rest was history. We immediately bonded over our mutual love of punk rock, our queer identities, feminist ideals and Hispanic upbringings – my parents were Mexican, while Hannah’s dad was Puerto Rican – and not long after that, the seeds that would eventually become Disaffectress were sown in my parents’ garage. We felt like the queercore Lennon and McCartney in a way, as dumb and clichéd as that probably sounds, and it was almost as if our whole future was in front of us, close enough to grasp and hold with both hands.
High school as a queer alternative Latina was rough, and I didn’t have many other friends, but Hannah and I had each other’s backs. Every time I took a swing at the guys – usually meathead jock types – who followed me through the hallways making gross objectifying comments about me, Hannah was always in my corner, cheering me on. But whatever bullshit I had to deal with, Hannah was facing tenfold, not just from the other kids, but sometimes our teachers too. Whenever we shared classes and a teacher would call her by the wrong name, I was there to back her up when she had to correct them, and obviously I got in a few physical fights with creeps and bigots who didn’t understand or respect her, which usually ended with me getting sent to the principal’s office and a phone call to my parents. I knew Hannah could hold her own in a fight if the situation called for it, but the consequences would have been way worse for her than they would have been for me, and I was more than willing to take the fall however I could.
The first time I worked up the nerve to kiss her, we were in my bedroom writing what eventually became the first track on our first self-released EP. We’d had a few edibles and we were laughing about some dumb in-joke we had, and as Hannah tucked a stray hair behind her ear and looked back at me with that beautiful smile of hers, I suddenly felt my mouth go dry. At that moment it felt like now or never, so I leaned in carefully to brush my lips against hers, ever so slightly, only to quickly pull away, my cheeks burning with embarrassment. What if I’d got it all wrong? What if she didn’t feel the same way? Just then, as if in answer to my prayers to whatever higher being was up there, Hannah took my face in her hands and kissed me full on the mouth. God, it felt like fireworks were exploding in my head and in my heart.
Cat joined the band not long after we first met her outside a Hot Topic, and eventually Mel came aboard after hearing about us through a mutual friend. Our first show as Disaffectress was in some DIY punk basement before any of us were old enough to drink. We were the first band on the bill and we got paid $40 between the four of us, which immediately went towards a celebratory trip to the nearest Denny’s. We had mutual friends and family members offering to be part of our touring crew, mostly without expecting payment in return, though we did have to kick one of Cat’s cousins to the kerb when we caught him trying to steal money from us to support his meth habit. It was painful to have to make that decision among the four of us, but as an unsigned punk band playing small venues we were barely making that much money as it was. Despite that, though, it was all for the love of the music and our sincere passion for the causes we believed in. No matter what kind of bullshit life threw at us, playing in a band with my three best friends in the whole world, one of whom was my girlfriend, felt like a dream come true.
In 2019 we went on a small tour of the East Coast to promote the release of our first album. The setlist was mostly made up of material from that album and the EP before it, plus a couple of non-album singles we’d released within the past two years. It wasn’t exactly a headlining tour and we’d only just been signed to a small independent label, but we did our best with whatever we had, which was our own instruments, pedals and amps, the venues’ drum kits and PA systems, and our small but appreciative fan base that we’d picked up along the way. We saved money on hotel rooms by sleeping in our van or crashing at some nearby squat, but there was one time we had to check into a motel when the van broke down after a show in Philadelphia, where Hannah ate me out while Cat and Mel went on a quick snack run. I came so hard against her mouth that I thought I was gonna die, and we’d fallen asleep in each other’s arms by the time our two bandmates came back with enough instant noodle pots and Clif bars to sustain us for the rest of the tour.
Even with all the financial bullshit, the occasional drunk hecklers, and the inevitable technical issues, it was always worth it to look over to my left and see Hannah smiling from ear to ear at the end of each show, glowing with adrenaline, like the sun was shining right beneath her skin.
Until William Everett took that away from me.
—-
The picture comes back, and my body is holding a baby in its arms, cooing to him lovingly. God, I almost don’t remember going through that whole shitty experience. But then William barges into the room and simply says, “Who is Hannah?”
My body says it doesn’t know.
William just narrows his eyes and says, “Good.”
Then he leaves the room.
My body weeps.
I swear, once I get out of here, I’m going to kill this motherfucker so he can never make another woman feel as shitty as I do ever again.
—-
My name is Rosie Everett. I am the faithful and devoted wife of William Everett. I live at 1138 Fairview Lane in Stepford, Connecticut. I cook and I clean, and I have never been happier.
My body is stuck inside this big house, with nothing to do all day but look after its squalling son. It tries so fucking hard to get him to quiet down, but nothing seems to work. His name is Tobias, I guess. My body tries not to cry.
My body is down on its hands and knees in the hallway, scrubbing at a stubborn spot on the hardwood floor that won’t come out. It tries every combination of products it can think of, but nothing seems to work. William looks at it like it’s stupid, then locks himself in his study. My body tries not to cry.
My body lies back on the bed, trying to cling to William as he thrusts in and out of it aggressively. He stares at its breasts, at his own hands on its hips, down at himself ravaging its poor vagina, but never at its face. It tries to get him to slow down, to not be so rough, but to no avail. He spills inside it with a shuddering groan, but it never gets to cum. My body tries not to cry.
My body removes a tray of freshly baked chocolate chip cookies from an oven… oh my fucking god, they smell so good. I run towards the screen, clawing at the fabric, pounding on the wall, screaming to be let back into the world because I’M SO FUCKING HUNGRY I NEVER EVEN GOT THOSE DENNY’S PANCAKES GODDAMMIT LET ME OUT OF HERE LET ME OUT LET ME OUT LET ME THE FUCK OUT—
I’m in control again. Slowly, I pick up a cookie, and take the smallest bite. I don’t remember the last time anything tasted as good as this… why did I even bake these anyway? Who do I have to bake for? That miserable fucking prick William? I replace the cookie back on its tray, trying not to cry.
My body tries not to cry.
My name is Rosie Everett. I am the faithful and devoted wife of William Everett. I live at 1138 Fairview Lane in Stepford, Connecticut. I cook and I clean and I birth and I shop and I get fucked, and I have to try not to cry.
—-
For the next few years it’s just an endless fucking cycle of having to watch as my body cooks dinner for its husband but never for itself, keeps the kitchen sparkling clean and the living room dust-free, mops and polishes the hardwood floors, says “Welcome home, William” in a sugar-sweet voice that isn’t even fucking mine, offers its pussy up to a man who just takes and takes until it can’t walk right for days, shops for groceries and cleaning supplies while passing several other dead-eyed women who — wait… it’s not just me?
How many other women is this happening to? How do I get them out?
The one saving grace is that I’m not present for the birth of my second son. The worst thing about it is that I still have to watch. Thankfully the nurses send William out of the room, telling him - in much politer terms than he deserves - not to be such a fucking disruptive creep while they’re trying to do their fucking jobs, and they look after my body, make sure it’s comfortable, while it pants and labours and pushes and strains, and god I wish I could throw my arms around all of them right now and thank them for being so fucking nice to me. William names our second son Jacob. He’s calmer than his brother.
I guess there’s one upside to William barely even bothering to help raise the kids; they learn how to be kind, to be gentle, selfless, helpful, loving, caring, ultimately good. They learn to share, to say please and thank you, to count to ten, all the letters of the alphabet, about stars and trees and butterflies and sunshine and just how fucking good it could be to live. My body brings its sons to the local coffee shop, where they eat fruit slices while it enjoys a vanilla latte made by Arthur the barista and maybe a croissant, then it takes them to the local playground, watches them play with the other kids on the swings and slides and monkey bars, smiling softly. My body tucks its sons into bed, tells them it loves them, kisses them goodnight, then returns to the master bedroom so William can use it to get off.
Rosie Everett will have her revenge on Stepford, Connecticut. And someday I’ll have mine too.
—-
I’m swimming in and out of consciousness by the time I meet Zach Taylor. My body has gone out on a last minute shopping trip, and as it’s walking home with two paper grocery bags in its arms, a skinny, anxious-looking guy suddenly bumps straight into it, knocking it to the ground and me briefly back into the screen. He apologises profusely, helping me up to my feet and asking me if I’m not too hurt.
My mouth is reeling off the usual bullshit of my husband being jealous of him and needing to be home for dinner, but he reassures me that he’s gay, and therefore not interested in me romantically or sexually. God, I don’t remember the last time I spoke to another queer person. I don’t even remember the last time I felt like a queer person. I recall vague memories of pigtails, a beauty mark, a winning smile… memories I’ve tried to cling to for the last five years. Memories that keep slipping between my fingers like grains of sand.
Like the sand at the beach on Coney Island.
But remember the princess who lived on the hill
Who loved you even though she knew you was wrong
And right now she just might come shining through
And the glory of love just might come through
He tells me he’s a journalist, writes his name and number onto a piece of paper, and my body takes it, holds it up for me to see, then folds it up and puts it in with the groceries before it sends me back home. It puts the bags on the countertop, finds the note, and I’m catapulted back into my body for just one single blissful moment, but then I’m dragged back into the theater just in time for William to come home, read the note, berate my body, grab its arm tight enough to bruise, and lock it in the basement to cry itself to sleep.
Somehow, I think that Zach Taylor might just be my ticket out of here.
—-
William apologises to my body in the morning, attempts to placate it with kisses and pleasantries, and all I can do is sit in this theater and try not to throw up. He takes it to the supermarket, and suddenly it sees Zach Taylor, sprawled upon a bench by the bakery, smoking a cigarette and talking to a guy – a friend of his, maybe? They look close, but not boyfriends close, but comfortable enough with each other’s company to be this physically close.
“I thought I told you not to speak to that man, Rosie,” William hisses, yanking my body by the arm back to his side.
“Can’t we at least have him over for dinner?” my body frowns. “I haven’t had a chance to bake any of my cookies in a while!”
Before William can say a word my body runs over, holding onto its sun hat and waving its free arm about. Zach Taylor jolts upright, asks me if I’ve thought about the interview, and my body asks him if he can be at 1138 Fairview Lane for 2 o’clock. His friend’s name is Omar, and he has the best fucking eyeliner I’ve seen in years. They’re both up here from New York, and maybe in another life, if we’d met earlier we could have been friends.
My body says goodbye to Zach and Omar and returns to William, much to my dismay. I can’t even look at his face on the screen anymore. I cover my eyes, hide my face, curl up in my seat, plug my ears, just to get away from him. Just because my body has to look at and listen to him doesn’t mean I have to.
“I told you, Rosie,” he says, coldly. “People like that are dangerous. They will stop at nothing to turn you against me and destroy our marriage.”
“I don’t know, they seemed kind of nice,” my body replies. From my seat in the theater I can almost hear William seething silently, and I can’t stop fearing the worst for my body, but he eventually just says “We’ll discuss this later,” and turns to walk into the supermarket. My body falls in step behind him, gliding across the parking lot like it’s made of fucking air. We stock up on cereals and detergent powder.
—-
Back at home, William retreats into his study while my body puts a tray of cookies into the oven. At 2 o’clock it goes to the window, watching as a car pulls up outside our house, and Zach Taylor gets out and walks up to our front door. He seems a lot more nervous than I remember. Even so, I still trust him so much more than any of the men in this shitty town.
“Hello? Mrs Everett? You there?” he calls as he knocks on the door a couple times.
My body clings to the edge of the countertop, trying to keep me out.
He tries the buzzer. “It’s me, Zach Taylor! You know, the writer?” he asks again. “The guy who knocked you over on your ass yesterday?”
Finally my body takes action, opens the door, invites him inside with a smile. Zach walks into the lounge to get set up for the interview, and my body takes the tray of cookies out of the oven. It doesn’t wear oven gloves, what the fuck? How are its hands not getting burnt? It brings the tray into the lounge and holy shit, I keep forgetting how fucking ugly this room is. It’s like every shitty thing about houses from the 50’s up to the 70’s was thrown into a blender, digested, and then regurgitated onto the plate. The cosiness is manufactured, artificial, a sick parody of a perfect family home.
The interview starts off pretty straight forward. Zach asks my body about the town, about an average day in its life, and every answer it gives makes me sick to my stomach. I run towards the screen, trying to leap back into my body, to tell him that I’ve never loved William Everett, that he’s keeping me prisoner in this town, in this house, in this body, that my name is Rachel Martinez and I write queer left-wing feminist punk songs and I miss my girlfriend and I—
“How much do you know about the Men’s Association?”
Holy shit, he’s so close to figuring it out.
William doesn’t tell my body a damn thing about the Men’s Association. But here, in this theater, I know they have something to do with what happens to the women in this town. They’ve got to be the reason for the blankness behind our eyes, our perfect empty smiles, our predetermined loving speeches about cleaning supplies as if we’re auditioning for an ad read, our utter subservience to the men who forced us into their lives. I’ve tried to leap back in before, while he’s at one of his meetings, to grab my kids and get the fuck out of here, but it never quite goes to plan, and I’m forced back out before I make it to their shared bedroom. One day, though, I’ll get out, and I’ll be back in Hannah’s arms, writing songs with her again, hearing her laugh like the sunlight on my face.
But Rosie Everett doesn’t have a fucking clue what the Men’s Association does.
Zach gets up out of his seat, grabs my body by the shoulders, his expression frantic. “Rosie, listen to me,” he urges. “I know there’s something up with the women in this town. It’s like you’re being pulled back into the 50’s, and I don’t know if that's really what you want, but I’m gonna find out why… and I’m gonna stop it from happening to my friend Cece.”
Cece…? Surely he doesn’t mean…
“Cece Thomas!” Zach cries out. “Cecilia Winterborough!! Do you know her?!”
Oh my god. That’s Jim Winterborough’s wife. I saw them both at the grocery store just last week, and I couldn’t help but think she was way out of his league. It makes sense that he’s one of those assholes.
I’m pulled back into the screen again, back into my own body, but all I can do right now is freak the fuck out. Zach apologises for yelling at me, at least, even though nothing he could say to me will ever be as bad as everything I’ve had to hear from William over the years. I thought I’d gotten over my panic attacks when I first started performing with my band, but… it feels so fucking painful. I don’t wanna die here. I don’t wanna die.
Before I can calm down and talk to him like a normal human being instead of a housewife from a 50s TV commercial, William stomps into the room, picks me up and tells poor terrified Zach that I’m just being hysterical. I scream that William is lying, that he stole my fucking life, but William scolds me like a child before he carries me upstairs. As Zach escapes I scream after him;
“MY NAME’S NOT FUCKING ROSIE!!!”
William silently takes me into the master bedroom, places me on the bed, injects me with a sedative, and I’m launched back into the theater, sobbing so much I can barely breathe. The last thing my body sees before the theater goes dark is William’s awful cold expression, his eyes filled with disdain.
Goddammit, Zach Taylor, I’m counting on you, man. Get me the fuck out of here.
—-
William wakes my body in the evening, attempts to interrogate it about what went on in the interview. All he gets in the way of answers is sleepy, oblivious statements, so he sighs in annoyance and leaves the room. Probably to go jack off or something. I don’t give a fuck.
Maybe my body is actually protecting me from a worse fate? This whole time I thought Rosie Everett was my prison, but right now I realise she must be my armour.
The next morning we take another trip to the supermarket. William approaches Zach and Omar, bringing my body in tow. He makes it apologise to Zach for freaking out on him, and it reels off some self-aggrandising bullshit about how it embarrassed itself and brought shame on William and the community. When William’s satisfied, he invites Zach to sit in on one of his fucking asshole meetings, and Zach seems wary – I don’t blame him. It could be a trap. I want so badly to warn him against it, but before I can jump back into my own body, William pulls it close against his side with the most disgusting smarmy smirk.
When we walk away, I hear Omar call William a douche. God, if only he knew the half of it. The stick-on studs around his eyes were so fucking cool, I couldn’t stop staring at them from here. My body is still hung up on those cookies from yesterday.
“Don’t you worry, Rosie,” William says as we head towards the fresh produce aisle. “I’ll see to it that Mr Taylor doesn’t bother us again.”
And I’ll see to it that you choke on your own dick, you piece of shit.
—-
Later that evening, William returns from his meeting, looking way too fucking proud of himself. My body greets him warmly as he walks through the door, heads to his study, and sinks into his favourite chair.
“Mr Taylor is the most depraved individual I have ever met,” he says, taking a sip of his scotch. “From what Chief Coba told us about the fight the two of them got into, the man is evidently a homosexual.”
So am I, you fucking bigoted asshole.
“Aw, I thought he was quite nice,” my body replies as it massages his shoulders. “At least you won’t have to worry about me running off with him, honey.”
He doesn’t even turn his head. “Was that supposed to be funny, Rosie?” he says coldly. “Lucky for us, Chief Coba has been enlisted to do some… research into Mr Taylor. I believe there may be something in his past that we can use to silence him. We just have to find out what it is.”
DIE YOU FUCKER I’LL KILL YOU I’LL KILL YOU I’LL KILL YOU DIE DIE DIE
Later that night, William presses my body back to the bed, shoves his nasty dick into it and fucks it hard enough to bruise. Thank God I can’t feel this.
He doesn’t use a condom. My first order of business whenever I get back to Brooklyn is to schedule an abortion.
—-
The kids come down for breakfast, and my body serves them pancakes. Fuck, I miss pancakes. I’m still thinking about those pancakes I could have gotten from Denny’s after that last show in Bristol, if William hadn’t stolen me away from my friends and my life.
“Mommy, Jacob’s hitting me!” Tobias whines.
My body is nice to our sons, at least. “Come on, boys, stop fighting,” it coos gently. “You’ve gotta eat your breakfast so you have lots of energy at preschool today! You don’t wanna get too tired out from playing, right?”
William walks in from upstairs, wraps his arms around my body’s waist, kisses it on the cheek. He’s beaming. I better fucking not find out why.
—-
In the middle of the night, my body wakes up from a nap to find an empty space beside it on the bed.
It rises, turns on the light, gets to its feet and puts on some cream-coloured heels. It tiptoes down the steps, quietly opens the door, and walks out into the night. I sit here in this theater, my eyes glued to the screen, as it makes an entire journey on foot to the mansion on the top of the hill. Is this… where the meetings happen?
As it wanders through the hallway, I get the feeling I’ve been there before. If I had to guess, I’d say this is where I was first brought to be reconditioned into this fucking thing. My body calls out for William, asks if he’s alright, wonders why he didn’t come home an hour ago like he said he would. And then, suddenly, like a guardian angel sent down from heaven, Zach Taylor drops down in front of me from a railing above, wincing as he lands on his tailbone.
My body runs over to him, kneels beside him, asking if he’s okay. He ignores his own pain to grab it by the shoulders again, much like he did back at the house. Just barely in the corner of the screen I see Cece Thomas leaning over the railing, and beside her there’s… Arthur from the cafe? Why is he here? Fuck, I don’t even want to think about it.
“Rosie, listen to me,” Zach says, holding my body’s gaze with his own. “I know who you are. Your name is Rachel Martinez, you’re from Brooklyn, and you play guitar in a queer punk band called Disaffectress. Your marriage to William Everett is a lie.”
Poor, oblivious Rosie Everett has no idea what the hell he’s talking about. But I do. I’ve been trying to get him to see this for days, and he’s finally fucking got it. “You took quite a tumble there, Mr Taylor,” my body says, concerned, “are you sure you’re okay?”
Zach doesn’t waste any more time. “Let me just ask you one thing, Rosie. Do you even remember your own wedding day?”
And to my relief, he confirms everything I know to be true about how I came to be here. I learn that the sick fuck who calls himself my husband had papers forged to be able to pass me off as his wife. I learn that my band’s been on hiatus since I was abducted. I learn that my girlfriend still misses me. That I haven’t been forgotten. And then Zach takes out his phone.
“Let me play you something,” he says. “Trust me.”
My body glances at the phone, sees him hit Play on a video recorded in a cramped punk club, and immediately, in this theater, I recognise the song. Holy shit. That’s ‘Alchemy’. One of the last songs I wrote with Disaffectress. I hear Mel’s frenetic yet steady drumming, Cat’s galloping bass lines, a spiky guitar riff which I quickly realise is mine, Hannah’s voice— holy shit, Hannah, her incredible beautiful voice, bellowing above the racket as she leaps and stomps about the tiny stage, channelling the collective rage of women everywhere who’ve been roofied at bars and clubs. She has peachy pink hair in the video, and it looks so fucking good against her olive skin. Hannah. My angel. My babygirl. The name above my heart, my reason to stay alive. Hannah fucking Havoc.
“You wanna know who wrote this song?” Zach smiles, angling the phone towards my line of sight. “You did. This is all you, Rachel.”
And then I’m back in the real world to stay. Goodbye, Rosie. Thank you for protecting me. Your work is done now.
“Wh-where am I?” I gasp, my breath unsteady.
Zach Taylor, my goddamn saviour, angles my face towards his own. “You’re in Stepford, Connecticut,” he says. “Some sick fuck using a fake name kidnapped you, brought you here, and forced you to marry him and have his kids.”
Fuck, I barely even remembered any of it before now. All the memories of being launched from the theater into my own body rush forward at once; taking an anxious bite of a cookie, Tobias’s difficult birth, all those times I tried to run away… and I can’t stop the tears from welling up in my eyes. At this point I don’t want to.
“Rachel, I’m so sorry this happened to you.”
I try to find the words to tell him that he saved me, that meeting him was the best thing that ever happened to me in five years, but somehow they just won’t come, so I hug him tight, clinging to him like I’m afraid to let go… and in a way, I guess I am. “Where is he?” I whisper, only for Zach to hear. “I wanna be the one to kill him.”
“What are you doing here, honey?” Fuck. It’s him.
If William notices the change in my demeanour as I slip off one of my shoes, he doesn’t say anything. “Get away from the journalist, sweetheart,” he intones coldly. Finally, my path to freedom is laid ahead of me, and I’ll gladly walk along it with my head held high and his blood on my hands.
I pretend to be Rosie again, his faithful, submissive wife, and I run to him eagerly, flying into his arms. He holds me back after a moment, looking me in the eye.
“Rosie, I’m so sorry,” he says, his concern for me as false as my affection for him. “This man has been lying to you from the beginning.”
What would Rosie do? How would she keep me safe? “Oh no, not Mr Taylor!” I gasp in mock surprise.
William rests his hands on my waist. “It’s true, I’m afraid,” he sighs, sadly. “Not only is he an investigative journalist out to destroy our way of life, but… ‘he’ was never a man to start with.”
Oh, he better fucking not. “How do you mean?” I ask, hoping my mask of obliviousness will lead him to reveal his true nature.
He points past me, directly at Zach, who’s getting to his feet. “This interfering cunt has irreparably damaged her body with experimental medical procedures in an effort to deny her own biology,” William snarls, his voice full of barely disguised hatred. “She is a disturbed individual who threw away the opportunity to become a dutiful wife and mother, Rosie, and I’m willing to see to it myself that you do not fall prey to her influence.”
My hand curls tightly around the shoe behind my back. Oh, so he’s THAT kind of bigot, huh? Little does he know, Hannah had just celebrated her fifth anniversary of being on hormones before we headed out on our East Coast tour. Mel, Cat and I took her to Junior’s Cheesecake and then out dancing at Strangelove. The girl I love is an out and proud trans woman, and I’m not gonna stand here and listen to this poison about people like her and Zach being spoken aloud in my presence. This man has to die.
“He’s more of a man than you’ll ever be,” I say, revealing my true face, turning his own disgust against him, “you bastard.”
William’s face freezes in shock, and I take advantage of the opportunity to stab him in the eye with the heel of my shoe. He screams out loud, blood pouring from his eye, his hands shaking, and right now this is the most wonderful thing I could ever hope to witness. I remove the shoe before he has a chance to retaliate, and ram the heel point blank into the center of his skull. For a moment he stands there, his expression as blank as the other wives he and his little buddies have manipulated over the years, before he falls down to the floor, finally dead.
I lean down, digging both my hands into William’s ruined eye socket, then stand up straight and smear the blood of my captor across my face and spit on his dead body as a farewell. I never knew divorce could feel so fucking good.
Zach springs into action, urges me to grab my kids and get them out of here, and I happily accept, telling him that if he finds any other wives, that they can meet me at Wilton Station. All these people deserve so much better than fucking Stepford. “You expect me to run in these fuckin’ things?” I grin as I kick off my other shoe.
“Fuck yeah, I knew Roxxi Riot was still in there somewhere!” he cheers, patting me on the shoulder. “You go ahead. I’ve got a feeling you won’t need my help bringing those women home.” Then, with a smile, he finally says, “Good luck, Rachel.”
Immediately I head down toward the hallway, but just before I make it out of the door I stop to look back over my shoulder, at the guy who saved my life. “Zach?” I call out to him, smiling. “Thank you.”
I run off into the night, trying to recall the path Rosie took here, asphalt scratching my bare feet, but I don’t give a fuck. God, it feels so fucking good to feel again, to taste the midnight air, to hear the wind rustling the leaves on the trees. When I reach the house, the prison I was kept in for half a decade, I’m pretty much out of breath, but still I gather my strength and walk in for the first time as a free woman.
—-
First, I mix hair conditioner with Kool-Aid. Then I take a shower. Flesh-coloured body paint sloughs off of my skin underneath the hot spray, and I see all my tattoos for the first time in years. A dagger on my wrist, a sprig of lavender on my shoulder, Hannah’s name just above my left breast, the Black Flag logo on my arm, La Virgen de Guadalupe on my thigh, a TV show reference I’d forgotten about on my calf, all the things that make me who I am slowly coming back to the surface. The paint swirls down the drain, mixed with William’s blood, and when I’m done I switch off the shower and step out, wrapping a towel around my chest.
I catch sight of my reflection in the mirror. I barely even recognise myself, and if it weren’t for my tattoos I would have sworn I was looking at a stranger. My damp hair falls down past my shoulders, stripped of all colour and lightened to resemble a natural blonde, and my makeup, now running down my face, looks way too fucking “natural” for my liking. I’ve got to fix this somehow.
I reach for a pair of scissors, chop off my hair up to my chin, and massage the Kool-Aid and conditioner mix into my scalp.
When it’s done I creep silently into Tobias and Jacob’s shared bedroom. They sleep soundly in their beds, looking ever so peaceful, and I almost don’t wanna wake them from their slumber, as much as I know I have to. I tiptoe over to Tobias’s bed and wake him gently with a kiss to his cheek, whispering, “Wake up, sleepyhead.”
It takes him a little while to fully wake up, and he stirs slightly, slowly opening his eyes, and rubbing the sleep away from them as he sits up.
“Mommy…?” he says.
I switch on the bedside lamp, illuminating his sweet face. “Hi, sweetheart,” I smile. “You and your brother wanna come on an adventure with me?”
Tobias tilts his head to one side. “Is Daddy coming with us?” he asks me. Oh, my sweet boy. If only he knew.
“Oh, baby, I’m so sorry,” I say as I stroke his hair. “He had to go away on a business trip. I’ll explain everything when we get there, I promise.”
“What’re all those drawings on your arms?” Tobias asks me as he points at one of my tattoos, his eyes wide in amazement. “And why does your hair smell like Kool-Aid?”
I can’t stop smiling at my sweet baby boy, and I hope to god that he and his brother will grow up to be nothing like their father. “They’re my tattoos that I got long before I met your dad,” I tell him. “I thought I’d lost them forever.”
There’s a teddy bear tucked in beside him, and I lean over and place it into Tobias’s arms. “C’mon, get dressed and grab your things,” I say as I pat him gently on the shoulder. “See if you can wake your brother. I’ll meet you downstairs.”
He’s still looking at me with those huge blue eyes, and all the love in my heart for these boys who I bore and raised for four years rushes to my surface, spills over, and I can’t help but pull him into my arms for a big hug. Tears well up in my eyes, one of them escapes and rolls down my cheek, and I whisper to him, but also to myself,
“It’s gonna be alright.”
—-
We head out the door, my two beautiful sons and I, with as much of our things as we can carry in suitcases, William’s wallet and car keys, and some money that I’ve taken from the safe in his study. The stupid fuck chose the easiest combination there is, so it was pretty easy to break it open and grab everything I could. I hope his PIN numbers are this easy too. I carry Jacob in my arms and hold onto Tobias’s hand, having already loaded our suitcases into the trunk, and I shepherd the boys into the back of the car and make sure they have their seatbelts on before I shut the door after them. Just then, I hear a car pulling up outside, and for a second my blood runs cold.
I turn toward the source of the noise, watching intently as the window is wound down, and I breathe a sigh of relief as Omar leans out on the driver’s side, blasting some music I must have missed while I’ve been here, his eyelids glittering in the dark. “Hey, have you seen Zach?” he calls out. “I really chewed him out earlier and, well… I feel like I owe him an apology.”
“He’s up at the mansion!” I reply, pointing towards the direction of the Men’s Association building. “I think he’s gonna need your help getting out of there. Arthur and Cece are up there too. You better have space for all of ‘em in that thing!”
Omar’s eyes go wide as he exclaims under his breath. Obviously he’s only ever known me as Rosie Everett, so I’m guessing this is a hell of a lot for him to take in at once. “You do something new with your hair?” he says. “It looks cool.”
“Thanks, Omar,” I smile. “I feel like I should reintroduce myself. I’m Rachel, and I play guitar for Disaffectress, if they’ll still have me.” Then I turn to my sons and ask them, “Boys, do you wanna say hi to Mr Shahbazi before we go?”
They reach up and stick their sweet little faces out of the windows, smiling and waving in Omar’s direction. “Hi, Mr Shazam!” Tobias says, and they’re both so goddamn cute I can’t stop myself from grinning. Omar smiles back and says, “You raise those kids to be better than their dad, you hear?”
“Will do,” I reply with a nod. “I just hope my girlfriend will understand. Good luck, Omar.”
Omar nods with a smile and a wave, then winds the window back up and starts his car back up again. I watch as he speeds off towards the direction of the mansion, and I don’t think I could wipe the smile from my face even if I wanted to. I head over to Tobias, ruffle his hair and press a kiss to his forehead, then gently urge him and his brother back into the car before I get inside and start the engine, rolling up the windows.
“Who wants pancakes?” I smile.
—-
The wives of Stepford are all waiting for the train to New York when I leave them at Wilton Station. I think I did a pretty good job rallying them here, and I just hope they’ll make it out okay. They deserve another chance at freedom. With the information Kim Eberhart from the B&B gave me I was able to release them from the same spell that once held me in its grasp, and I feel like it’s the least I could do, but I’m glad I was able to at least do something.
It takes us about 2 hours to reach Brooklyn. We take a detour along the way and stop at a Denny’s in Jackson Heights, much to the kids’ delight. I order three different types of pancakes for all of us, and when I take that first sweet syrupy bite of freedom, it tastes so fucking good I can’t hold back my tears.
“Are you okay, Mommy?” Tobias asks me, patting my arm.
I wipe the tears from my eyes, sniffling. “I’m fine, Toby, honey,” I smile. “I feel better than ever.”
—-
In Brooklyn I call up a couple of friends on a payphone while Jacob and Tobias sit on a bench comparing Happy Meal toys. I even call my mom and dad, who weep openly when they hear my voice on the phone. They say I can stay with them for a little while until I can get back on my feet, and I accept, but I’ve got to make one more stop first.
“Mommy, what are we doing here?” Tobias asks me as we linger across the street from Junior’s Cheesecake on Flatbush Avenue, blinking in the sunlight, his little head tilted up to the sky as he clings to my leg.
I ruffle his hair gently, balancing Jacob on my hip. “I’ve got some friends I’d like you to meet,” I smile. “They should be here soon.”
And sure enough, there they are.
My three best friends in the whole world exit the restaurant, talking amongst themselves, until Cat freezes in her tracks, pointing in my direction. Slowly, all three heads turn towards me, and I wave back at them with my free arm, genuinely smiling for what must be the first time in years.
Hannah, Cat, and Mel hold onto one another’s hands as they race across the street towards me, dodging cars and cyclists, risking their lives just to see me again. Three pairs of arms throw themselves around me as my friends weep with joy.
“Rachel, holy shit, is that really you?!” Mel sobs as she squeezes my face in her hands, pressing kisses all over my cheeks. She’s shaved her entire head since the last time I saw her, and she looks so fucking badass. “I missed you so fucking much, babe, you have no idea—”
“Oh, I missed you too, goddammit,” I laugh through my tears. “I missed all of you so much.”
While Cat kneels down to introduce herself to Tobias, who’s shy but still polite and friendly, I immediately turn towards the girl whose memory I’ve kept close to my heart all this time. Hannah. She’s about ten years on estrogen by now, her hair is split-dyed bubblegum pink and lime green, and she’s even more beautiful than I remember.
“Hannah,” I whisper.
Hannah just smiles back at me, wraps me in her arms and kisses me like she’ll die if she doesn’t. I hold on tightly to her, clinging for dear life, and I can taste her tears as they spill down her cheeks and crawl into my mouth. My angel, my sunlight, my Coney Island Baby. My Hannah banana.
When we finally break apart, Hannah turns toward Jacob with the most gorgeous lucky grin. “Oh, who’s this? He’s so cute!” she giggles. “Lookit those lil’ chubby cheeks, oooh I just wanna squish ‘em!”
“Do you wanna be a mom?” I ask Hannah with a smile, reaching for Tobias’s little hand.
Hannah gazes back at me, tears welling up in her eyes as she tries not to think about what must have happened to me while I was gone, but still she smiles, takes my face in her hands and kisses me again.
“Fuck yes,” she whispers.
—-
Hannah and I move into a little apartment overlooking Prospect Park. She’s so good with Tobias and Jacob, and every time I watch her interact with them I can’t help but smile. I write the first Disaffectress song in five years, a song about what I went through in Stepford. As much as I try not to dwell on it, I’ve found that the best way to deal with my anger about everything that happened to me is to turn it into song. We record it immediately and release it as a single, and it gets loving reviews from pretty much every underground music outlet and alt/punk musician out there - hell, even Henry Rollins likes it - with a couple people saying it helped them leave their abusers or heal from their own traumas. And honestly? That means more to me than any overhyped corporate statuette ever could.
Zach Taylor’s exposé on Stepford and the Men’s Association goes out online two months later, featuring some black and white portraits that I sat for with Tobias and Jacob, along with the other wives who made it out of there. It soon comes out that William Everett was never who he said he was. Jake LaCosta, born and raised in San Diego, was facing criminal charges in Virginia for assaulting a police officer and a couple of counter-protestors at the Unite the Right Rally in Charlottesville, so he skipped town, changed his name, cut his hair and grew a beard, then settled in Stepford within a year and dedicated himself to some bullshit “traditional” lifestyle. No fucking shit it wasn’t the great schools that attracted him to that town. He liked that all the guys there had feminine and subservient wives, and he wanted a piece of that. So, obviously, he kidnapped me. The Men’s Association’s mansion had burned down shortly after I got out of Stepford, so his body was never recovered.
I could come forward and say I did the world a favour, that I acted in self defence, but I’m scared I could still face criminal charges and lose everything I love. So for two months, I keep it to myself. Thankfully, Zach makes it clear in his article that the death of Jake LaCosta at my hands was indeed an act of self defence. He’s put a link at the bottom of the article to buy and stream Stepford Wife, Disaffectress’ new single, and to the Stepford Wives Support Network, a Facebook group I made to help support people who’ve gone through similar experiences to myself. I share a link on the band’s Facebook page, with a note saying I wouldn’t have made it out of there without him.
My name is Rachel Martinez, aka Roxxi Riot. I’m the guitarist and lead songwriter of the Brooklyn-based queercore band Disaffectress. My bandmate, Hannah Lopez aka Hannah Havoc, is my long-time girlfriend, and we’re raising two little boys together. I write songs, I play guitar, I help people, and I’ve never been happier.
I’d like to send this one out to Roxxi and Hannah
And all the women from Stepford, Connecticut
Coney Island Baby, I swear I’d give the whole thing up for you
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