Don’t look down, Annie. It’s easier if you just look straight ahead.
[TRIGGER/CONTENT WARNING: implied rape, I’m serious about this one, mentions of racist microaggressions]
——————
One more to go and that’s it I swear!!! And of course being a massive fucking goth I have to put goths and goth music in pretty much everything I do. Yeah, the song mentioned is exactly the one you think it is, it’s Michelle by Clan of Xymox. There’s also a delightful turn of phrase in here which I credit solely to Charlie Brooker in his bit from Screenwipe about how to get your idea on TV – specifically how if you’re lucky it’ll never happen and if it does it’ll be a NIGHTMARE – and I do feel a little called out hahaha. Annieway,
——————
Annie, The Last
“Errr… Lone Nuh-gooyin?”
“It’s… pronounced Loan Nguyen…”
“I didn’t ask you how your name is pronounced, I asked if you were present.”
“Sorry, Mr Hoffman. Present.”
Annie Nguyen presses her lips tightly together to hold back any sounds of pain or encouragement. She’s back in her own body, but at what cost? It may as well have thrown her under the bus.
An older man lies on top of Annie with his chest pressed right up against hers, spearing her with his Viagra-enhanced dick, his breath hard and ragged against her shoulder. His rough hands are groping blindly, almost ravenously, at her boobs and tummy, and it makes her want to throw up until her guts fly out of her mouth and hit him in the eye. She doesn’t even remember his name, nor does she care to learn it again.
“Take it, honey,” he wheezes. “Take it all the way.”
“Um… is it okay if I call myself Annie?”
Her parents had been shocked and dismayed to learn that she’d been made to feel ashamed of her name – not from the other kids, but from her teachers, the next responsible adults who should have had her best interests at heart. They held her tightly, comforted her, and reassured her that if white people could effortlessly pronounce Ludwig Van Beethoven or Arnold Schwarzenegger, they should have no problem learning how to say Nguyễn Thị Loan.
She was Annie at school, at the corner store, at the mall, at the FDR Skatepark, where she’d meet up with her friends to get high under the bridge and record dumb prank videos, which she knew her ông and bà nội hated but her Uncle Dinky – short for beaucoup dien cai dau – found fucking hilarious, and she was Loan during more formal or traditional occasions, such as weddings or funerals. Occasionally she’d switch it up and go by Loan at the skatepark, or Annie during visits to Little Saigon for Tết celebrations, but whatever the situation she refused to be whitewashed, distilled into something easy for white people to digest. Annie knew exactly who she was, where she was from, and wouldn’t settle for anything less. Sure, it was humiliating to have every other kid in her 10th grade History class staring right at her when they learned about the Vietnam War, but even when she got sent to the principal’s office for punching a kid in the face after he wouldn’t stop making “me so horny, me love you long time” jokes at her, she always stood her ground.
She extends her arm to one side, grasping around for a heavy and solid object from the nightstand, and she lets out a soft gasp as her fingers brush against a table lamp. “Yes— that’s right, you love this, makes you feel good, don’t it?” the man is grunting as he squeezes her thighs and pushes them up against her sides. “Little pink pussy loves it, huh?”
Don’t look down, Annie. It’s easier if you just look straight ahead.
She’s tried to resist what they call the Coba Technique at all turns, with varying results, her body choosing the absolute worst moments to give back control to her – ones like this, or at the supermarket. It can take it back from her at any moment too, like at the supermarket.
It’s the same as riding a bike or climbing on the monkey bars in the park. Don’t look down. It’s easier if you look straight ahead.
Annie glides out of the seasoning aisle and towards the fresh produce, staring straight ahead with a faint and vacant smile. Mrs Cornell passes by with a polite hello, which she echoes in turn, then does the same with Mrs Everett, and Mrs Miller, and Mrs Sundersen, and Mrs Van Sant, Mrs Huntington, Mrs Delancey, Mrs Buckley, Mrs—
A girl dressed in all black, with teased-high hair and makeup to match, suddenly materialises from the confectionery aisle. Her pointed boots tap out a rhythm on the linoleum as she sings a song to herself – “Michelle-elle-elle, I heard your lurid howling” – the basket in her hand filled with giant plastic skulls and pumpkins, black cats and spiders, witches and ghosts, black lace and velvet trailing behind her with every step she takes.
Time seems to slow down as she and Annie pass each other by.
The girl glances over at Annie, an impish smile spreading across her black-painted lips.
Annie’s breath leaves her in a soft gasp.
The girl walks straight into a column, mutters something under her breath, looks back at Annie again with a chuckle and a shrug, presumably blushing through white face paint, then bounds off into another aisle.
Annie isn’t quite sure whether she wants to kiss the girl or be her. There’s virtually no distinction as far as she can tell.
Maybe this would be more tolerable if that girl was in bed with her right now, serenading her with Baudelaire, instead of this monster who knocked her out and stole her from her family, from Philadelphia, from the only life she’s ever known, brainwashed her into cooking and cleaning and shopping for him, added insult to injury by rewarding her with rough, degrading, unenjoyable sex a few nights a month. Annie’s fingers curl tighter around the base of the lamp. He’s reciting his usual delirious fetishistic monologue about getting her pregnant – that’s how she knows he’s close.
Annie thanks god for that low sperm count he’s been complaining so much about.
“You’re gonna get big, honey– belly, tits, hips, swollen all over… your pussy’s gonna open up real nice–ACK!”
He suddenly topples off of Annie and onto the floor beside the bed, twitching and gurgling, blood oozing from an open wound on the back of his head, and Annie doesn’t even register that she’s still holding the lamp until it slips from her hand and falls onto the mattress. The sound of her heartbeat thunders loudly in her ears, mixed with her own panting breaths, and she can’t move – almost doesn’t want to for fear that he could raise himself up with a roar and wrap his hands around her throat – watching helplessly as he gulps for air, staining the carpet with his blood. Then her instinct for survival takes over, and she picks up a pillow, climbs off of the bed to kneel beside him, and presses it tightly over his nose and mouth.
“I’m sorry, honey,” Annie sighs, feigning sadness. “It’s the kindest thing to do.”
She doesn’t remove the pillow for a long time, at least not until she’s absolutely certain he’s stopped breathing, then tosses it aside and stands up to her full height. Still naked, she walks mechanically into the en suite bathroom and steps into the shower to wash away his touch and his blood from her skin.
———
Annie is wrapping a towel around her chest, having used it to wring out the last drops of water from her hair, when the doorbell rings from downstairs. “Hello? Anybody home?” a woman’s voice calls out from outside, and Annie heads down the staircase with a groan. “Goddammit, I’m coming! Hang on!” she yells as she goes to open the door.
Rachel Martinez, the girl she’s heard whispers about among terrified Men’s Association members on cellphones and two-way radios, stands at the doorstep, blushing. “Shit, I’m so sorry,” she stammers out apologetically, “if it’s a bad time I can circle back to you later—”
“I need your help to move a body,” Annie says matter-of-factly.
Soon the two women stand in the bedroom, staring down at the dead man lying at their feet. Rachel places her hands on her hips and rocks back and forth on her heels, whistling, then looks back up at Annie inquisitively.
“Yep. Viagra dick,” Annie sighs. “I’m so sorry, I should’ve warned you–”
“Babe, I stabbed a guy in the brain with my own shoe,” Rachel smiles. “I’ve seen a lot of shit tonight. So how do you wanna do this?”
Annie glances back toward the en suite bathroom. “I just got out of the shower,” she replies, “so I’m thinking maybe we put him in the tub, make it look like he slipped?”
Rachel nods silently, then crouches down to the floor to grab at the corpse’s wrists, while Annie takes hold of its ankles. “On the count of three, right?”
They lift the body up off of the carpet, their combined effort easing the strain of carrying dead weight, and manoeuvre it carefully through the doorway and into the bathroom. Annie slides it into the tub, while Rachel slips on a pair of driving gloves from her coat pocket, then moves the corpse’s wrist to the back of its head to smear the blood across its palm. With a glint in her eye and an upward curve of her lips, Rachel presses the corpse’s palm against the tiled wall, still damp with condensation from the shower Annie took earlier, then drags it downward to leave a trail suggesting that the man lifted his hand to the back of his head, saw the blood on his palm, then tried desperately in vain to crawl out of the bathtub, only to lose his grip on the slippery tiles as the life faded from his eyes.
“Holy shit,” Annie gasps, “you’re a fucking genius.”
Rachel chuckles modestly, slipping off her gloves. “What can I say? When you spend five years trapped in a marriage to a guy who doesn’t even like you,” she explains as she gets up to her feet, “you start coming up with ways to kill him and make it look like an accident. That or suicide.”
Annie nods in understanding. God, how long has it been since she last held a conversation with another woman that wasn’t about casserole recipes or cleaning sprays? The Men’s Association had spent all that time drilling a new set of etiquette rules into her – don’t talk to other men unless your husband specifically says so; don’t talk to other women unless it’s about cooking, cleaning, or pleasing your husband; don’t talk back to your husband, don’t speak to him unless he speaks to you first, don’t talk, don’t speak, stay soft, stay sweet, stay suppliant, stay. Stay. Go fetch, sit, good girl. It was like she was being treated worse than a dog. “Seriously, I don’t know how else to thank you,” she laughs.
“How about you let me give you a ride to the station?” Rachel smiles. “Your house is literally my last stop on my way back to Brooklyn, it’s seriously no problem. And I kinda promised my boys we’d get pancakes, I think they’re getting impatient…”
“Wait, for real? You’d do that?” Annie gasps, so overwhelmed with gratitude she could burst into tears. “Oh my god, thank you so much!”
The smile hasn’t left Rachel’s face this whole time. “Any time,” she says. “You go ahead, get dressed and pack a bag. My car’s parked outside, I’ll see you there.”
———
Later, dressed in all black, her hair teased toward her scalp and her eyes smudged with kohl, Annie Nguyen, also known as Nguyễn Thị Loan, steps out of the house and walks toward the station wagon parked in the driveway, slinging a backpack over her shoulders. The window winds down on the driver’s side, and Rachel leans out with a gasp. “Holy shit, you look so cool!!” she beams. “Just like Siouxsie Sioux!”
“Who’s Siouxsie Sioux?” asks Annie as she opens the door on the passenger side and climbs inside.
“Never mind, it’s a long story,” Rachel says as she turns to face the back of the car. “Look her up when you get home. Jay, Toby, this is my new friend Annie!”
Annie turns her head to see two little boys in the backseat, around four and two years old respectively, still dressed in their pyjamas and waving back at her with big smiles on their faces. “Hello!!” they both grin in unison, the youngest one pronouncing it ‘heyyo’ and the oldest shuffling in his booster seat impatiently.
“Are we getting pancakes yet?” he pouts.
Rachel laughs softly, reaching back for her son’s little hand. “I’ve just gotta drive Annie to the train station, then I promise we’re gonna start our pancake adventure stat,” she smiles. Turning the key in the ignition, she turns toward Annie and says, “Ready to go?”
Annie gazes through the windshield, chewing on her lower lip. She knows she should be glad to be finally getting the hell out of Stepford, far away from the man who kept her prisoner and the Men’s Association who enabled him to do it, but it’s only just then that’s she’s realised that if she leaves, there’s no way she’ll ever see the grocery store girl again. But if she stays a moment longer the Men’s Association could come after her again, hunt her down and trap her, lock her up in a brand new cage – and Annie isn’t willing to risk that. With a heavy sigh, she turns to face Rachel and nods silently.
“Hey,” Rachel smiles, reaching out for Annie’s hand to take it in hers, giving it a gentle squeeze. “I know. It’s okay.”
Annie swallows the lump in her throat. “Let’s just go,” she says, and Rachel starts the car, pulls out of the driveway, and zooms off down the road.
Leaning out of the window, the midnight wind rushing through her hair, Annie swears she can see a raging fire light up the night sky from somewhere in the distance, and when she realises it’s coming from the direction of that huge mansion on the hill, the one where her abductor took her to brainwash her for the first time, she can’t help but smile. Maybe, when it’s safer, when every last member of the Men’s Association is dead and buried, she’ll come back to Stepford one day to find the grocery store girl.
Maybe one day, under the glow of a full moon, they’ll kiss on her kidnapper’s grave.
Comments
Post a Comment