Last night Hotlanta was having a Friday the 13th/Bloody Valentine theme night, and so I wanted to find something sufficiently gory for my skin. I had a freebie arrow I had gotten as a gift, which pierced the torso and dripped particle blood drops from either end. But I wanted a little bit more blood around it.
I asked around, and an acquaintance suggested one place she knew of and gave a LM. Someone else spoke up and said “I’ve been to that place. It’s sick.” I replied “Sweet!” thinking she meant “sick” in the visual/horror movie effects kind of way.
I was wrong, she was right. This place was disgusting. Not in the visual way; in the core of my being what the fuck is WRONG with these people kind of way. The shop featured a dozen or more skins (women only, I quickly observed) which were beaten, bruised, lashed, branded, carved in all manner of ways. They had such names as “Bad girl” and “Lashed”. One had a gouge on her abdomen reminiscent of a back-alley abortion or hysterectomy. Women’s faces with blackened eyes and bloodied lips and noses. These weren’t fun horror-movie-Halloween-costume type skins; these were skins, apparently, for use in “RP” (read: slave play).
I got the hell out of there and fast.
I know someone in my real life who was beaten and battered by someone who believed by legal right that he owned her. He was careful most of the time to not hit her in the face, so that people wouldn’t see any visual marks. She cried alone, a lot. He controlled the money, the vehicle… the power. And he said to her, “If you want to leave, fine. But you take my kids [note “my” kids, not “our” kids], and I’ll fucking kill you.”
The threat was enough to deter her for a little while. She wasn’t about to leave her 2 daughters alone with him. But came the day when she realized: if she stayed, she was teaching those girls that it was all right to be treated this way. And the thought of some man striking her daughters–the way she’d been so many times–made her blood boil. Her first attempt at escape was thwarted; he was a clever man after all. To teach her a lesson, he choked her to the point of unconsciousness and threw her from a moving vehicle. Her nose was broken, permanently disfiguring her, but she survived, more determined than ever. The second escape was a success; she had the help of the neighbors and a local shelter, she had secured plane tickets halfway across the country and was there before he noticed she and “his” kids were gone.
I was four. My sister was just about a year old. She doesn’t remember a thing; I remember a lot and learned the rest when I was old enough.
Shame. Shame beyond words upon this shop which not only promotes violence against women, but profits from it. Shame upon each and every individual who has given a red linden to such a shop. Shame upon those who choose to “live” in such a way. You have no idea what true power and true courage are.