#38 - Trigger

Today’s words: Phobic, Distribution, Waste, Probe

Word count: 623

Completion time: [exactly] 1 hour

Summary: Instead of telling women to watch the way they dress, tell guys to watch how they treat women

(Picture provided by my friend Chelsea!)

I have almost phobic anxiety towards men, but that just makes me sexist, apparently.

I don’t feel safe in my favourite dress, my favourite shade of lipstick, or even my casual jeans or jumper because I’d be harassed for looking like or apparently being a slut by men. I didn’t even have to look at them (“Hey gorgeous, where you going, eh? Look at me when I’m talking to you, woman! Whatever, you’re a waste, not worthy to suck this dick”) to prompt a reaction; it was like I had pulled a trigger in my sleep and gotten done for voluntary manslaughter.

My sister decided to probe me one night after I had come home sober and puffy-eyed. My foundation had probably long lost its even distribution and I’m sure that my mascara had decided to say hello to my cheekbones.

“Hey.” She called out to me, standing up and putting a hand on my shoulder to keep me from walking away. “Are you okay?”

“Never better.” I just wanted to go to bed and wash away targets that were evidently stamped all over my body.

“That bullshit was as clear as the Caribbean Sea, babe.”

I hated the word ‘babe’; I’m not a baby.

“C’mon.”

She wasn’t taking ‘no’ for an answer so I followed her into the small living room with the fluffy cream rug, the dusty unlit fireplace, and the brown almost-leather sofa.

“You’re not okay.”

She could be a detective. Instantly I pictured her with a pipe and a deerstalker, narrowing her eyes and nodding her head like she’d solved the mystery of the Bermuda Triangle.

I didn’t feel like playing along. “Okay - I’m not okay. Are we done?”

She sighed. “When are you going to stop?”

“Stop what?”

“Stop dressing like...” she gestured towards me like she’d just ask our little brother to take the trash out because it was starting to smell and attract flies, “this.”

My breath caught in my throat. “....Pardon me, what?”

“I’m just saying that, we have a reputation in this neighbourhood and if you’re going to--”

I laughed, nay, guffawed out loud before looking at her, deadpan. “The problem is not with me. Explain to me what misdemeanour I’ve committed,” I encouraged, eyebrows raised.

“You wear revealing clothes.” The way she looked at me, it was like she was embarrassed.

“Forgive me your royal Highness of Essex; don’t send me to the stocks because of the way I choose to express myself.” The sarcasm was too potent to hold back. “Is it wrong to wear a dress? What exactly is the issue here? Is it my problem that people sexualise short skirts and brand people as ‘sluts’? That is beyond my control.” I wanted to rub my mascara away but I refrained. “I’m not draping myself over guys and begging for a fuck, I’m walking down the fucking street and dancing with my girlfriends in the club! Guys think that it’s their right as men to jeer, touch, and spit at me; is that fair? I have not shown any indication of being ‘up for it’, not by a long shot!”

“I-If you didn’t wear such clothes, then they wouldn’t.”

“If this society didn't thrive with misogyny like The Black Death, then they wouldn’t. Why are you more outraged by my behaviour – looking damn fine – than the guys who harass girls every day for choosing to look a certain way? If I punched you because your face pissed me off, would you try to change your face or would you tell me not to punch you?”

A hand instinctively went up to her cheek. “That’s not the issue here.”

“That’s very much the issue here. Think before you open your mouth.”