[ genderswitched barroom blitz 001?] scum of the earth
Eames didn't understand what was going on the first time until it was too late.
At 13, just discovering what her body could do, she never expected, when she'd been sat next to her father's 'friend', what his arm around her shoulders, his hand on leg, would end up as until her father left the room, and suddenly there was being crushed to his chest, a hand up her skirt.
She was almost too shocked to fight, assaulted by new feelings down there, but when he'd pulled her down to fuck her she'd started struggling. He was bigger, much bigger, and she felt the shame and fought back tears when he'd fucked into her, hands on her wrists.
Later, lying curled up on the couch, her father had come by and stroked her hair. That had let out the tears.
It didn't take her long to figure out that this wasn't happening behind his back, that he was complacent in this, his little deal-sealer, and she'd felt such anger. It was always him dragging her out to the living room, always him leaving.
She started taking birth control when she skipped a period, breathing a sigh of relief when she started again. She thought that made her complacent in the rape, too, but she couldn't get away. The police would take her back. And she didn't think anyone would notice. No one had noticed her mother, the way she had wasted away until she didn't even know what had happened to her own daughter.
(She had no idea of knowing that her mother had gone through the same abuse, and that her father had decided she wasn't useful enough now that she was older.)
Eames had to learn how to lie there and let it happen. She learned how to go limp, how to let her eyes glaze over and retreat into her head when she was pushed down or pulled into laps. The only time she was shocked out of it was when someone had made her go down on them, and then it had been terrifying all over again, eyes squeezed shut and hands in her hair.
She learned how to retreat into her head for that too.
When she was older, she craved casual contact. The few boyfriends she had she adored, until it came to the point that they wanted sex. Under them, she was terrified, tense and frozen. The first one didn't notice, and she had cried afterward. He thought he'd had her virginity. He was so terribly wrong.
The second, she slid on top of him, and he'd liked it well enough. She'd almost been able to enjoy herself, until he'd tried to flip them over and she'd punched him in the face. He broke up with her, but she was okay with that.
She had a girlfriend, for a while, but it never got past nervous necking. She liked the difference, the curves, the softness and the gentleness.
The last boyfriend she'd had had let her top, but liked it rough. When he wanted Eames' hands on him, scratching and biting, she'd ended up trying to choke him, envisioning one of her father's friends underneath her, and had ended thrown off.
She stopped trying to have boyfriends and girlfriends after that.
And at 18, after her graduation where she'd pulled her hair in front of her face, had watched her stony-faced, gangster father and drugged-out mother sit five rows back, she decided she'd had enough.
He'd been out picking up payment that day. His wallet was fat, much like how she thought his gut was nowadays, and she'd been trying to slip it out of his pocket as he sat on the large recliner, snoring. When he woke up, he grabbed her wrist, hard enough to bruise, hissing at her.
He'd called her a thieving whore.
All the anger she'd been ignoring, trying to shove down, burst out in red behind her eyes. She'd jerked her hand out of his grip, and he'd gotten up to go after her.
In the hallway, he'd caught up to her, but she'd had her hands around a baseball bat from when he liked to go play 'with the boys' and she'd clocked him across the face. He'd hit the wall and gone down. She'd screamed, then, once, hitting him in the shoulder, the side, again and again.
Then Eames had stopped, heaving, gripping the bat. He lay unconscious. Maybe she'd killed him. (She later found out she wasn't nearly that lucky.) Shaking, she'd dropped the bat, rifled through his pockets, and went upstairs.
She shoved all she could fit into a bag, anything she thought she would need. Then she'd called a cab, and headed to the nearest airport. Her passport was already in order. She chose the farthest place she could think of; America. Anywhere in America. The nearest flight, please.
She could only stay legally for so long with the passport, the woman reminded her. Eames had nodded dutifully. She would drop off the grid once it expired, she'd decided.
And she'd waited three hours for the plane, with her little bag, and curled up and slept the whole way there, still dizzy with the adrenaline.