how I died and a reborn as a cunt

Summary:A story of a poor, trailer trash girl, Cindy, and how a violent rape shatters the core of her being and sets her on a path for herself that she would have never expected, as the person she was is snuffed out forever, leaving a new person behind.

Notes:Read the tags, always read the tags. Contact info for me can be found in my profile.

Chapter 1Chapter TextI've always heard that good stories should start at the beginning or jump straight into the action. That way, the reader instantly connects and understands what is going on. I guess that means I could tell you my life story or jump to some hot, depraved sex scene. But I think I'll do a little bit of both. I'll start with the day I "died." At least the day the old me died.

My name is Cindy, or at least that's close enough to my real name as to make no difference. At the time of this story, I was 14, growing up, and I thought I actually knew shit. I lived on the outskirts of the largest city in Kentucky, which isn't exactly saying much if you've ever been to a real city. We, by which I mean my mom and I, lived in a shitty but serviceable 2 bedroom trailer in a shitty trailer park not far from the Outer Loop and I-65. It wasn't much, but it was enough to be a home. I grew up mostly normal, at least for the people around there. I never knew my dad and barely knew most of the stream of men my mom "dated" as I was growing up, but besides glances and a couple drunken gropes, no one ever hurt me.

Things took a turn, for good and bad, when Mom started dating Teddy. He did kinda seem to care for her, but he was a toxic son of a bitch and a dealer to boot. Around when I hit 12, we had "money," which should have meant something but didn't. We still lived in the same shitty trailer. It just suddenly had overpriced shit in it that belonged in a much better house. Also, Mom went from being a "light" alcoholic to being often strung out or drunk all the damn time, and it was all I could do to keep the home in order. Teddy's "friends" were over at all hours, and as I started hitting puberty, I got lots more glances, comments, and gropes. Again, that was it. Sure, it was crappy, but I dealt, well, not like Teddy dealt, but you get the picture.

I kept myself mostly occupied at school or with my friends. I wasn't a bookworm by any means, but it kept me out of the house, and I often walked to another much nicer trailer park a bit away. I had a couple friends over there, Tabitha and Justine, that I usually spent time with, especially when mom was drugged out and had lost her tenth job in a row by not showing up. They were both good friends to me. Tabitha was the "mature" one, dating a 16-year-old and had "gone all the way," while Justine and I hadn't graduated past handies and blow jobs and barely any of those at that. But before you think we talked about sex or had naked pillow fights - we didn't. Things were normal. We were poor, but we didn't really do anything wild. We'd sneak beers or wine coolers occasionally and pot a couple times, but mostly we just talked, watched shit on Netflix, and laughed at our stupid parents.

It was a normal, maybe a bit below normal life, but it was ours, or mine, I should say. At 14, I was coming along nicely, and puberty was almost done with me. I had smallish breasts, B cups, and at 120 lbs and 5'4, I wasn't the smallest nor the biggest girl in school (Justine had me and Tabitha beat combined there, with 36D's already but she was curvier), but I knew from the attention of Teddy's friends that I was "hot" or "fuckable". Not that I thought about it too much, especially with those guys, but I knew my way around my body and enjoyed it. While I hated the creepers that Teddy's business brought in, I only mostly hated the attention. I never tried to flaunt it or flirt with them, but I knew the attention was there, and that was more than enough.

Anyway, I had been at Tabitha's house since Thursday, spending a couple days there to avoid the current drama with Mom's drinking and her fighting with Teddy. He was cutting her off again (in his own fucked up way, he loved her, I think), and she wasn't dealing well. So I crashed, but I had only brought enough clothes for a couple days, and while her parents were pretty cool, I was wearing out my welcome. So I decided to head back home. Summer was in full bloom, and it was hot as hell outside, even when the sun finally sank. Despite being told I could stay another night (with very reluctant parent voices), I headed back home. I had my shit in my backpack, and since it was so hot, I just had a stupid little white tee and some jean shorts on. I was a good girl, though. My shirt just barely revealed my belly button, and I had my bra and panties on. A cheap pair of Walmart tennis shoes completed the ensemble as I headed back for the short walk home.

Tabitha lived at the back of a dead-end street. While I could cross through a couple dozen trailer park "yards" on my way back to my house or zig-zag through the trailer park roads, there was a tiny bit of woods that ran along the edge of the trailer parks and I-65. Not pretty woods, just run-down shit with some trails the kids used to cut around or just get out of sight of their parents or pretend they were somewhere else than the shitty edge of Louisville. I pulled my backpack with my clothes and shit and headed out, and hit the trails there. The moon was out, and having walked them a hundred times at all hours, I wasn't worried about anything. I was just dreading heading home and what bullshit I would find there. I had walked maybe a third of the way through my short little trip when I heard the creek. Mud Creek is usually just that, mud, but thanks to some recent rain, it was living a bit more up to the creek part, and you could hear it and the drone of the cars on the interstate. I was dreading heading home when I heard a sound behind me. I started to turn but felt a sharp pain in the back of my head and briefly thought, "What?" before I blacked out and hit the ground.

Chapter 2: Dazed and ConfusedSummary:Things escalate as Cindy wakes up to confusion, pain, and what will soon be the worst night of her young life.

Notes:Read the tags!

If you want to contact me, my information is in my profile. I'm always happy to say hi, chat, and if you're a bad man, maybe do even more.

Chapter TextIf you've ever seen a movie, you'll know that in them, when someone whacks someone upside the head enough to knock them out, they seem to be a bit groggy, then they shake their head and are ready to get back into it. Well, I hate to tell you, but real life isn't like that. Never having been knocked out before, I didn't know that, but I learned that quickly as I slowly came to. At first, I didn't even know where I was or what the fuck was going on. I was walking, in starts and stops, but the ground didn't feel right, and my back kept hurting. It took what felt like 30 seconds to realize despite my walking, I was staring at the tops of trees. Slowly, I realized that my legs weren't moving, but I was. The brilliant detective that I was then realized the reason why my back was burning was that I was being dragged by someone holding my feet.

Now, in the movies, this would be where I heroically kick the villain and try to make my escape. Nope. I instead wondered why he didn't have me up on his shoulder if he was helping me. I still hadn't quite figured out what the fuck was going on. I started mumbling, barely coherently, trying to ask the man if he was taking me to my trailer. Suddenly, he spun and kicked me upside the head, and I almost blacked out again. I did go limp and piss myself a bit. My left ear was hurting as he started dragging me faster. I started sobbing, still not understanding what the situation was, just confused, dizzy, and hurting.

He pulled me hard one last time, and from what little I could make out in the dark and dizziness, we were in a tiny clearing around a few trees. A couple of beer bottles and trash were on the ground nearby, but that was it, and I didn't recognize it as anything on the trails. Suddenly, my feet hit the ground, and the man was over me. I couldn't focus worth shit, and all I can tell you was that he was a big man. I don't mean football big, but more like "fat biker" big. You know, that weird mix of strong and out-of-shape that some guys have. I felt his breath as he knelt over me, and I started crying more as I noticed he was wearing my backpack. I don't know why that scared me, but something about it did. He snorted and said something, and I whimpered a feeble "What?" as I tried to understand what was happening.

"I said you're just like all the other cunts, aren't you?"

I whimpered as my slow, confused brain started to realize what was going on. "N... no... please... just take my stuff."

At that, he laughed, grabbed my face in his left hand, and put his other meaty hand right on my left tit. My chin hurt from his squeezing it, and my chest and tit felt smushed under his weight. He smiled again. "There are only a couple things worth taking from a worthless cunt like you." He then grabbed my head, lifted it up, and hit it on the ground, which was at least "softish" from the rain. Still hurt and left me dazed as he stood up again over me. He then threw my backpack to the ground and pulled out a scary knife that, if you asked me at the time, I would have said was a foot long. I don't know how long it actually was, but it made me freeze. He smiled again when he saw that and whispered, "Smart girl."

He then pointed it at me and said, "Move, and I'll kill you," and I was still so dazed and unable to think straight, I did as he said. He then unzipped his pants and pulled his cock out, and, again, waved the knife at me. "Get on your fucking knees cunt and suck this. Try anything, and I will fucking cut a hole in your chest and fuck you to death with it". I was hysterical by now, sobbing, but I tried to keep quiet as I didn't doubt him. I had never seen the look he gave me before. It was cold and scared me in a way I had never been scared before. I struggled to get to my knees, and he decided to help me by grabbing my short brown hair and jerking me up. I had only sucked 2 cocks before, and neither smelled like this one nor were they as big. He wasn't huge, but he was thicker than I'd ever seen in person.

Before I knew what was happening, he shoved himself in my mouth and put the flat of his knife against my cheek, and said, "Suck you piece of shit whore," and I started to. It tasted wrong, dirty, but I didn't have long to worry about the taste as he shoved it in deeper, gagging me hard as my eyes teared up and snot flew from my nose. He quickly started ramming my throat, and every time I tried to pull back, I felt that knife again, but this time at my neck. I struggled there, on my knees, as he pumped my throat for what felt like forever. I retched once, and he backhanded me and went back to raping my throat. Then, without warning, I was pushed off his cock, kicked hard in the chest, and hit the ground painfully. Coughing desperately for air, I sobbed, holding my chest. My back burned from dozens of scrapes and minor cuts as he leaned over me again and asked me if I wanted him to make me beautiful.

I felt that cold steel drag across my skin and felt a sudden warmth as he lightly cut my right cheek. I didn't know that it was light at the time, I just started to scream, and he covered my mouth and waved "no" with the knife. I sobbed, limp and terrified as he did that. Then he took the knife, slid it under my shirt, and as he lay over me, cut it away. I instinctively tried to cover myself, but he just said, "Don't," in such a calm and cold way I just stopped. He then cut off my bra, jerked it off me, and threw it by my backpack. I whimpered and pleaded with him, and he stared that same cold stare and said, "I think it's time to improve you."

Chapter 3: My "Death"Summary:Cindy's night gets worse, as her body is scarred forever through violent abuse while she faces the very real prospect of her death.

Notes:Read the tags!

If you want to contact me, my information is in my profile. I'm always happy to say hi and chat, and if you're a bad man, maybe do even more.

Chapter Text"I think it's time to improve you."

Those are not the words you ever want to hear from a 250+ pound man on top of you with a knife in their hand. I didn't know what would happen and didn't want to find out. I started to scream, and I say started because the second I began, a fist slammed into my face, and I went limp again. I was conscious, but not much more than that. I felt blood leaking heavily out my nose, and I just lay there as he started playing with my left nipple. I whimpered and whined under him, too weak to do much else as he massaged it stiff, pinched it hard, but when I started to scream again, he put the knife against my face and whispered, "It's quiet time, cunt".

Somehow, I held the scream in as he squeezed and pulled my nipple painfully hard, and I felt like he was going to tear it off. After playing with it for a minute, he leaned in and asked me, "Vertical or Horizontal?" I honestly had no idea what he was talking about. I was running off a concussion, adrenaline, and fear. I muttered, "Vertical?" as in, "What the fuck do you mean by vertical?" but as I was barely there mentally, apparently that was enough for him.

The next thing I knew, he held my nipple firmly in his fingers as he took his knife and sliced it right down the middle. I just screamed wordlessly as some inhuman sound came out of my mouth. I watched in terror as my nipple parted in two as his razor-sharp knife split it to the base and started bleeding. I began to thrash, and he covered my mouth with his hand and held me down as he leaned in and sucked and tongued my torn, sliced nipple. He lapped up the blood and parted it with his tongue while I almost went in shock. He then raised up, put his hand on my belly, and said something I would wake up crying to for the rest of my life.

"What a beautiful, smooth belly, cunt. Let's ruin it."

I started fighting as hard as I could, but he outweighed me by more than two to one, and he just grabbed my head and slammed it into the dirt again. Then, once I was "calm," he jerked my head up so I could see him work. I watched in silent terror, too numb and scared to do more than grunt, as he quickly sliced my stomach, not deep, but god, was it long and bloody. He made a second quick slash, and I just blacked out after watching two red gashes appear above and below my belly button. It was too much. My only thought was, "He's gutted me," and though that wasn't true, my mind didn't know that. I just shut down, and everything turned black for a minute.

When I came to, my pants and panties were gone, my face felt both warm and cold from the cut to my cheek, and my stomach was a bloody mess. He was just finishing taking off his pants, and I moaned in fear as he approached me. That was when I realized where my missing panties were, shoved deep in my mouth. I started to pull them out when pain shot through my arm as he kicked it hard and said keep my hands down. I cried and nodded as he knelt down, flipped my legs up, and slammed against my pussy with no warning. My eyes bulged, and I screamed as he pulled back and rammed again and again. He then pulled back, stood up, and kicked me in the pussy so hard that I curled up, shaking in agony. He then knelt again and spread my legs, but this time he smeared my pussy with the blood from my stomach and slammed inside me. This time, my hymen tore, and he went most of the way in. He then grabbed my hips, pulled me close, ramming in deeper and deeper, holding my mouth and the panties in them shut as he just fucked the shit out of me. I thought I had been in pain before, but between my pussy being raped and the ground beneath me scratching the shit out of my back, I was in agony. His eyes burned into mine as he slammed balls deep again and again as he muttered nonstop.

"Take it, you whore. Take it, you piece of shit. You're like all of them! You're shit, you're shit!" he screamed at me.

I sobbed as he raped my pussy, wishing that I could pass out when he finally pulled out of me. I foolishly thought maybe he had cum, and was trying to beg him to leave me alone when he spun me over. His hand was rough on my cut cheek as he shoved my head against the ground and jerked my hips up. I felt his spit hit my ass as I squirmed. He let go of my head for a second, and I hoped to run, but instead, I suddenly screamed as he punched me right in my lower back. I just whimpered and drooled around my panties as he raised my ass up again and started pushing. Though the pressure hurt me terribly, he couldn't get in. After a short bit of trying, he hit my back and kidneys and kicked me away. I lay there, crying and shaking violently, as he smiled at me. He leaned down, kissed my cheek, and said, "I guess I need to loosen you up first."

He then walked away outside my view. It wasn't far as I could hear him, but I hurt too much to attempt to do anything except cry. I heard him return and then felt him lifting my hips up, and this time, he jerked my head off the ground and told me to relax before the worst pain in my life started.

He had grabbed a wooden stick about 8 inches long, rough and jagged, and started forcing it in my ass. I screamed in agony, and this time, even when he hit me, I couldn't stop. He started jabbing it inside me, and I could feel something tear, and suddenly my ass got looser as the stick plunged in deeper. I was in agony and hysterical as he raped my ass with the stick, and when I looked back, all I could see was the blood running down my legs. After a minute or two (fuck, it might have been fifteen seconds), I felt another sharp pain as he pulled it out. By that point, I was indeed in shock. I couldn't accept what was going on. I knew I was going to die.

He knelt behind me again, and this time the pain was lower as he shoved the stick deep into my pussy in a single thrust. I tried to crawl away, but he jabbed it a few more times as he mounted me again, ramming his cock into my ass on the first try as he reamed the bloody mess. I just jerked and spasmed under him as he punched my head, back, and sides again and again. Sometimes, he would pause to ram the stick in and out of my bleeding pussy, then he'd start again on my ass. I just was numb. I hurt so bad. Part of me wanted him to kill me. To finish me off. To end it. He was ramming me hard when he leaned over me, wrapped his arm around my neck, and squeezed.

"Relax cunt. Relax. It'll soon be all over."

He repeated those words again and again as he raped my busted ass, choking the air out of me, and letting no more in. I honestly wanted to die at that moment, but no matter how much I wanted to, my body wanted air, and it couldn't choose to stop breathing. So I fought, flailed, spasmed, and screamed around wet panties as he pounded me harder and choked me tighter. He kept telling me to relax. And I did. I hit a point where I couldn't fight; I just hurt. That was all I was, a ball of hurt, and even the need to breathe disappeared. I felt my bladder and bowels release as I came. As I did so, my eyes rolled back, and I hated myself more than my rapist as the orgasm tore through me, and at that moment, I quit. Oh, he kept choking and fucking me harder, but I was already dead. About a minute later, my body caught up with my mind, and everything went black, and I died.

Chapter 4: The Next MorningSummary:Cindy wakes up to realize she's not dead, but her "body" has been dumped, and she has to struggle to make it back home.

Notes:Read the tags!

If you want to contact me, my information is in my profile. I'm always happy to say hi and chat, and if you're a bad man, maybe do even more.

Chapter TextCold. Wet. Pain.

Those were the only things I first understood as the world and life seeped back into me. I had no idea where I was or what was going on. I didn't even know what had happened. There was no real awareness. The concussion had seen to that. That, coupled with the lack of air, had robbed me of coherent thoughts, at least for the moment. Just pain. Just cold. Just wet.

Even the thought of movement brought agony and fresh whimpers to me. Somewhere, I vaguely heard cars driving by and saw the flash of headlights. I think I tried to move, and something grabbed at me, and I curled up more, whimpering, confused, as I remembered what had happened. Things slowly came back into focus, and I hated that. I hated waking up. If I had been a better, stronger, or more worthwhile person, this would have been when I struggled, stood, and proclaimed that I would get revenge or that this wouldn't break me. If I was a better person. Instead, as realization hit me, I only had one thought.

Why wasn't I fucking dead?

I actually hated that I wasn't. I was shit. I was ruined. I had came. I deserved it. I had fucking let go.

Why the fuck wasn't I dead?

I shifted a bit and felt something grabbing at me again. I whimpered, but this time, I was focused enough to see by the moonlight and cars passing by that I was in a bush. The many small branches and leaves were what was "grabbing" me. I shuddered as another car passed by. I couldn't see well but was much closer to the interstate than before. I could hear the creek nearby even though I couldn't see it in the dark. Every part of my body ached. I started to sit up to get my bearings when I screamed in pain. I spasmed, sobbing, as I reached down and felt it.

I was apparently naked. He had dragged to this bush and dumped in it. I was away from the trails and trailers, and while close to the interstate, the bank was so steep that unless someone stopped to piss, I'd likely not be noticed. Had he known? Had he meant to let me live? I cried and reached down again and touched it. "My" stick. He'd left it in me or had shoved it in again. When I tried to sit up, I'd leaned on it and jabbed myself. I started to pull it out, and the pain overwhelmed me, so I lay on my side, wracked with sobs.

Why hadn't he killed me? I was supposed to have died. I knew it. It wasn't fair. To go through all that and fucking live? I should have hated him, but I hated myself more at the moment in my pain. Trying again, I grabbed and slowly pulled it out, shaking violently in the cold wetness. Wetness? Fuck, was I still bleeding? I quickly felt around, the bush and darkness making it hard, but no, I wasn't gushing blood. I felt the two long scars on my stomach. I swear he had gutted me, but while they were long, they weren't deep. They burned and felt swollen but seemed to have mostly stopped bleeding. I thought about my nipple and decided against even touching it as I reached down and felt my pussy. It was swollen and was a mess, blood, both wet and dried, all on my lips. I cried for a minute, then slowly dragged myself, inch by inch, out of the bush, finally collapsing in the muddy edge of the small creek. Sometime after he had "killed" me, it had rained for a short bit. That was why I was so wet, or at least most of it. It was still dark outside; I could tell that as I stared at the sky. My face ached; I could tell my lip was busted, and my nose was swollen, too. Nothing felt broken there. But any quick head movement made me want to throw up, and things kept moving even when I thought I wasn't. I lay there for probably ten minutes in the dark, half hoping he'd return and pounce on me like a cat torturing a bird. Hopefully, he would end the pain this time.

But he didn't. He wasn't there. All there was was just what was left of me.

I glanced slowly around as cars drove by above me, but I saw no trace of him or my clothing. My backpack, clothes, even my socks and shoes were gone. I sobbed again and tried to sit up, my crotch and ass hurting so bad I would have believed they were literally on fire. It took me another ten minutes to move and crawl to a rock to help me get up on my feet.

I puked hard then and almost fell down again. Everything wouldn't stop spinning, and I tried to focus on something. And there it was, in the flashes of light, as the cars passed by, was the stick. I could see the red-stained bark. I could only imagine what it had done to me. A stronger person would have broken or spat at it.

I just couldn't understand why I was alive.

I finally started back towards my trailer. The ground should have hurt my feet and probably did, but I was too far gone to notice. The act of walking was painful enough, and I was in such a dark place; pretty much anything I did was just a cruel reminder that I was still alive. Still drawing breath. I don't know if it took me five minutes or fifty to get back to the trailer. I just knew I started walking and, at some point, realized I was in what little of a backyard we had. No one had seen me, at least as far as I knew. If they had, they'd avoided the naked, bloody girl. I slumped at the back door and struggled to open it. No matter what I tried, the door knob wouldn't work. I was just crying there, trying to work it (It was simply locked and in my shape, and I didn't even realize that A) it was locked and B) I no longer had the key), when suddenly the door opened, and I nearly fell flat inside the trailer.

"Where the fuck have...," Teddy stammered as he saw the nearly dead thing before him. He grabbed me and pulled me in quickly. I don't think it was because Teddy felt he had to help. He was a dealer and simply didn't want attention from the police.

I vaguely heard my mom drunkenly scream as Teddy grabbed me, shaking my shoulders and asking me what had happened. But I just let go again and fell back into the black.

Chapter 5: RecoverySummary:Cindy wakes up two days later, finding herself still at home, not in the hospital as needed, as her family chose to protect themselves over taking care of her.

Notes:Read the tags!

If you want to contact me, my information is in my profile. I'm always happy to say hi and chat, and if you're a bad man, maybe do even more.

Chapter TextI know, dear reader, if you're here, that you've read rape stories. Don't try to deny it. You didn't accidentally fall here. I've read them, too. No matter how hot, almost all of them have the same problem. Much like how people in movies act like getting knocked out is no big thing, rape stories, at least the violent ones, act like a body can take all kinds of torture and just instantly rebound. Seriously, read a super hot story like "Beaten Broken Josie," which is brutally amazing, and tell me you bounce back from that.

Real life, sadly, isn't that simple. Especially when you have an alcoholic mom and her drug-dealing boyfriend there for you. I can only tell you bits and pieces about what happened during those first two days. See, my friend Justine never got why, in movies and TV, kids would wail about how they wanted their parents to stay together. To not get divorced. Justine, however, was cut from a different cloth. Her parents, both individually decent people as parents go, were toxic together. Justine, running against tradition in every family show sense, couldn't wait for her parents to divorce. She hated seeing unhappy people on TV, yet she begged for them to stay despite it all.

Sorry, I was rambling. Anyway, I didn't understand it at the time, but now I do. It's the same way I felt whenever I saw some perfect family on TV. See, when I had last left us, I had made it to my home and collapsed with what I guess you would call my family—those closest to me and who were there to protect me.

So, imagine my surprise when I woke up later that day, confused as to why I was in my bed and not in the hospital. Or maybe not, because I was in and out of it so much that first couple of days that it really didn't hit me how fucked up that was until later. Despite my obvious bad state, good ol' Teddy decided it was best to "not attract attention" unless things got bad. Yeah, apparently, what I had been through was not enough. He was scared the cops might think he might have been involved, and they might find out his profession. So, instead, they cleaned me up. He called a military nurse who supplied him with drugs on the side to stitch me up and help me "recover."

Again, I barely remembered any of this. I was pushing a 103 fever and could barely function. Finally, around Tuesday, I started to function with some semblance. I was eating again, could get up unassisted, and was no longer throwing up due to the room constantly spinning. Of course, that also brought me back to the reality of what had happened to me.

I stepped into the shower, the first one I'd taken since the rape. They'd given me baths and cleaned my wounds, but it wasn't the same as letting the hot water hit my body. I quickly learned, though, that no amount of heat could clean me. Or, more accurately, feel clean. All I did was make myself dizzy. So I turned down the heat and just washed myself. Afterward, I stepped out and stared at the mirror as it slowly defogged.

To call myself a mess was an understatement. I still had a knot on the side of my head and a small gash on the back where he'd hit me. I could feel it as I ran my hands through my hair, careful not to pull any stitches there or on my body.

My nose was still swollen, and my upper lip was split, but I had been lucky there. Nothing broke, and it would likely heal just fine. My neck was covered by a massive bruise, but it was also mostly fine. My hand drifted to my cheek, and there was a small scar there. Teddy's military friend had told him it might heal fully. I hoped he was right.

I then looked at my back in the mirror as best as possible. It was a mass of scratches and ugly bruises, but nothing serious. My chest, on the other hand, was. I'd lost half of my left nipple, and the angry nub that remained looked weird. But it was nothing compared to my stomach. Two long, red, swollen bits of stitched gashes remained to remind me of what had happened. Unlike the cut on my cheek, these were going to leave scars. I didn't even realize I was crying until I thought I heard a sound and realized it was me. I jerked, wiped my eyes, and leaned on the sink, trying not to hyperventilate.

After a couple minutes, I calmed down and reached down to my holes. I didn't realize it then, but I thought of them as that. Holes. My pussy, though still swollen, was ok, at least on the outside. I winced as I parted my lips, and I could feel the damage. Where I had once felt smooth and slick, I felt bumpy and jagged. I knew he had hurt me inside, but beyond slathering me with cream and keeping me clean, nothing had been done to fix it. It was hidden, but of all the wounds I had, even more than the cuts on my stomach, it reminded me I was ruined. Once again, I hated the fact that I had had the audacity to live. I Hated myself for breathing. I suddenly had to sit on the toilet, which hurt, but I just collapsed into sobs.

I didn't explore my ass, but I knew it was just as fucked up as my pussy, if not worse. It was why I had been so sick for two days. It was also the source of one major argument. While I flickered in and out of consciousness as the army nurse told them it was serious. Instead, triple antibiotic cream, animal medicine, warm baths, and cleaning were the "solutions" they had chosen. Even two days out, I had to have a pad or tampon to keep from bleeding, especially after going to the bathroom. God, that hurt more than anything.

I got up again and looked at myself in the mirror. I had survived. I was going to live. But those eyes staring back at me seemed so empty, just like how I now felt.

Chapter 6: Time moves onSummary:As Cindy begins to heal physically, she starts retreating from the world mentally as she starts drinking and using drugs. She loses her friends and detaches from the world.

Notes:Read the tags!

If you want to contact me, my information is in my profile. I'm always happy to say hi, chat, and if you're a bad man, maybe do even more.

Chapter TextThe next couple of weeks mainly dealt with me recovering, at least physically. Using the bathroom still hurt, sometimes so much that I cried. But slowly, my body began to mend. Despite that, however, mentally, I pulled away from everything. My friends came by to visit as by now they had heard about my "mugging," as Mom and Teddy described it, with their bullshit anecdotes about how "incompetent" the police were in getting any leads. I barely engaged with them or anyone else. How could they know? How could I describe it? They were literally visiting a stranger. Their friend had died and never gotten back up. Me? I was an impostor. Just a cold, empty husk that shuffled around and sometimes cried for no reason.

It didn't take me long to pick up my mom's habit or take, at least as much as I could get away with, advantage of Teddy's profession. Most days, I was drunk or stoned out of my mind. It was the only thing that shut off my brain. I existed in a state of either emptiness, self-loathing, or wasted beyond belief. Empty hurt in a way I never thought could exist. I mean, empty sounds like it should be nothing, a total void. And it was, but it's also like opening the door and expecting to see your dog waiting for you when you get home and then remembering he had died at the start of summer and would never be there again. That awareness, that hole - hurt as bad as any of the scars.

Self-loathing was there as well, mostly when I didn't feel empty. When I had a nightmare and woke up screaming and hating, fucking hating, that it was just a dream, and I was still alive. That I had cum. That I'd fucking refused to just quit and die. The hate flew easily then, as well. Even as painful as those moments were - they still hurt less than when I felt nothing.

So, I started stealing my mom's vodka. She sometimes seemed, I don't know, content when drunk. It never made me content, but it turned off my brain if I drank enough, and I couldn't hear the silence, and I didn't hate the dead bitch in the mirror. It had led to some big fights at first; even the raging alcoholic that was my mom opposed me drinking, but they soon realized they couldn't stop me. They weren't heroes. They were shitty people, and their best was quite lacking.

Teddy, on the other hand, fought me harder about raiding his pot stash, but again, it turned into him giving up and just limiting my access. Still, I blazed until I was furniture as much as I could. Between the two drugs, I did my best to make IKEA proud. Fuck, I didn't even need assembly.

Weeks turned into a month, and school started again. By now, my friends had basically written me off. Oh, don't think bad of them. They really did try. But they were trying to reach a girl who didn't exist anymore. My teachers mostly didn't care as I was quiet in class and rarely too messed up to be so obvious they had to do something. A couple did try to talk to me. They had remembered the cute, if unremarkable, poor girl who didn't do so hot in class but tried. This new girl, well, she was something different. She constantly wore dirty clothes or sometimes the same clothes a couple days in a row. She usually smelled. Not that nasty smell you get from some of those people at Walmart or on the street, but that "I haven't had a shower in a couple days" smell that sneaks up on you when you get close to a person. Teddy or Mom could get me to do my work, but only with heavy prodding. Mostly, I'd just grab a fifth, go into the bedroom, and try to escape. Hiding shit until I at least "tried" did the job good enough for them, though.

One month flew by, then another. I staggered through each day, pretty much the same as the one before it. We'd settled on a routine at home. Mom tried her best to keep whatever temp job she currently had, Teddy dealt, and I did the bare minimum I had to at school, and that was about it. Both of them had basically given up and just ignored me, which was fine as I sure as fuck ignored them. Trying to ignore Teddy's "friends" who'd stop by or sometimes come to parties was harder. Getting groped had always been an issue, but when you slapped a guy who goosed you or pushed a guy who hugged you in the wrong way and told him to fuck off, you kept it to joke status. You know, the "I was just horsing around" type of shit.

The dead bitch didn't do that, though. She hid away better, to be sure, but even she had to go pee sometimes. It still wasn't much, and most ignored me when they swatted my ass and got a drunk stare as I stumbled back into my room. At least, that's how it went until it didn't.

Chapter 7: Crash and burnSummary:Cindy wakes up the morning after Teddy's Halloween party and discovers she's been raped. That breaks her as she runs out to the site of her first rape, self harming herself for the first time.

Notes:Read the tags!

If you want to contact me, my information is in my profile. I'm always happy to say hi and chat, and if you're a bad man, maybe do even more.

Chapter TextYou'd think a person would remember the second time they were raped. I mean, the first time, maybe someone spiked your drink or something. But your second time? You definitely should be aware of it. It's the moment that defines you after being a victim. You should fight desperately, swearing you will never let a man hurt you again. Or maybe you try to, but that first rape unleashed something inside you, and your inner whore is free now, and you completely submit. At least those would be dramatic and entertaining to the reader.

I didn't even know I had been until I woke up the next day. November 1st.

Let me rewind a bit to the "party" Teddy had had for Halloween. Not any kind of "sexy" Halloween party. Just some of his friends, some of his buyers, and a few others who were there outside and in our shitty home. While he grilled, they drank, smoked, or did some blow. Like most of the time, I'd avoided anyone other than to get a fifth to nurse while I vegged to Netflix until I fell asleep. By all accounts, the party was a complete success. Teddy kept everyone happy with food, liquor, or drugs. Mom managed to not get blitzed until the late hours, and everyone had fun, made out, played some poker, or enjoyed each other's company.

And, at some point during that, someone decided that they would enjoy my blackout-drunk teen body's company. Whoever they were, they didn't seem to want to damage me. But I woke up, and though hungover, I knew something was wrong.

The first tipoff was that I was at the base of the bed with my legs hanging off the edge. This is not, nor has it ever been, the way I slept, even while drunk. The ache in my pussy was the next hint as I raised up and saw my sweats and panties were around my knees. Someone had wanted my 14-year-old pussy and had taken it. I'd like to say when I felt down there and saw the dried cum, and the stain on the bed, I cried. Or I got angry. I didn't do any of that. I wish I had. If I had reacted in any healthy or expected way, maybe things would have turned out differently. Instead, I touched it, felt the mess still in me and my scars, and laughed. Nothing big, not psychotically, just a chuckle. Who wouldn't have laughed? If I'd had a gun, I would have killed myself right there. I might have tried a different vertical cut if I wasn't terrified of knives. But I didn't. I was too empty. There was nothing there. So I sat there for half an hour, just rubbing myself. Not really sexually, just feeling the scars inside my cunt and smearing the cum in me.

Finally, I stood up. I don't know why. I didn't have a plan or anything. I went out. It was just turning into morning, and those who worked regular jobs were at or heading to work or at least waking up. The kids, they were waiting for the bus, pissed about the start of the week. Going to school that Monday didn't even occur to me. I had slippers, a ratty pair of sweatpants, a dirty pair of panties, a pussy full of cum, and a t-shirt so faded I had no idea what was originally printed on it.

On some level, though, I did have a goal in mind. My internal GPS had a destination. Why I was going there, though, I didn't know. I hadn't stepped into that slim batch of woods behind our trailer park since the rape a few months ago. Now? Now, I was rushing into it. The world spun some as I had drunk too much last night, but I knew my destination. I found the general area easy enough. It was not that big of woods and was the only "clearish" spot off the short trail. I simply paced around as a wave of anger finally built up in me. Here was the point in the story where the heroine screams in fury and swears revenge, right?

Sorry, this wasn't one of those stories. Instead, I started to hyperventilate. I staggered, almost growling, as I grabbed at small trees, bushes, and branches and ripped at them, tearing them free, throwing them down, and ruining anything I could get a hold of, including my own hands. I didn't care about scratching them as I tore at anything I could get my hands on until I finally stumbled against a tree on the edge of the clearing. I clung to it briefly, then slammed my fist into it as hard as possible. I jerked my hand back in pain, my knuckles bleeding, then screamed, "Fuck" as I punched it again. And again. I stepped back from it, having hurt the tree in no way, shape, or form. My hands, though, were bleeding on the palm, and my knuckles had lost some skin and were bleeding more. They hurt. God, the hurt was so fucking good. For the first time, as I fell to my knees, crying, not that I knew I was, I felt something. Not emptiness, not self-hatred, not wasted.

I felt alive. I knew I was alive. I screamed and hit the tree again. I kicked it and fell down on my ass, but even though I was sobbing, I was laughing. I got a broken branch and slammed it against the tree. Again and again, until it cracked and splintered and was just a hunk of wood in my hand as I fell off balance and fell down. I lay on the cold ground, half wild, crying and clinging to the wood in my hands as they bled. I reached down and felt my pussy through my sweats. An urge, a need, bottled-up teenage hormones mixed with pain and release surged through me. I laughed, the wrong kind of laugh, the scary kind, and rubbed myself and then swung my hand down, swatting my cunt. I screamed and delighted in the pain that it brought me.

Then I made a mistake.

I started to toss the stick aside, but I hesitated. I held it in my hand, and memories flooded back as I cried more and harder than I had in months. I should have tossed, smashed, or broken it.

I didn't.

I pulled down my sweats and panties, and though it was jagged, I shoved it in my pussy and fucked it. I fucked it like I wanted to be torn apart. Like I wanted to be destroyed. Like I felt I deserved.

Mostly, the pain just reminded me I was still fucking alive. I jabbed the damn thing in me, and I was on fire, mentally and physically. I was already scratching and cutting my tender flesh, but nothing mattered except the stick and the pain. I shoved again and again, crying and making, I am sure, quite psychotic looks as I did my best to impale myself on the 6-inch piece of wood. My pussy was drenched, and not only from blood, as I bucked and quivered against it. In no time flat, I felt myself shudder, spasming as I came in the early morning light. I lay there, body still twitching as I "basked" in the afterglow of my self-abuse.

But from that high came the awareness of what I had done. I sobbed wildly as I reached down and pulled the broken stick out of my bleeding pussy. I stared at the blood on it and felt ashamed of what I had done. Again, a healthy, reasonable person would have thrown that stick away.

I clung to it. I cried and held the stick as a reminder of now, not only the day that anything decent about me had died but as now a reminder that I have fucking lived. That I was alive.

I slowly got up, my crotch burning as I walked back home. My panties were ruined from the bleeding as I went back inside the trailer. Mom and Teddy were nowhere to be seen but were likely asleep. I knew I had injured myself. I hated myself, but I knew I had to clean my wounds. I halted as I went past my room. I looked down, and I saw I still held that damn stick. I thought about a great many things, but throwing it away never occurred to me. I went to my dresser, stashed it, and absently rubbed my bloody pussy. Nothing felt too bad. Just my most tender and intimate skin scratched and cut. I staggered into the bathroom, still rubbing and touching what would be new scars, and I felt different. Not better. There was no "better" about what had just happened. But maybe, that night, there hadn't been just a death. Maybe there had been a birth as well.

If I had known of what, I would have killed myself in the tub right then. But I'm getting ahead of myself.

Chapter 8: What I wasSummary:Cindy, injured from her self-abuse, decides to keep the stick, smoothing and blunting it a bit. Using it again, she gets lost in the pain, not aware that her life is about to change once more.

Notes:Read the tags!

If you want to contact me, my information is in my profile. I'm always happy to say hi and chat, and if you're a bad man, maybe do even more.

Chapter TextI imagine everyone who gets raped feels guilty. I mean, you have to, right? Some other person took hold of you and made you an object to use for their pleasure. They told you, in no uncertain terms, "Fuck you bitch, your holes are mine." So, I get that and understand it fully. You carry that guilt because part of you feels that if you had tried harder and been stronger, they wouldn't have "marked" you as their territory. That's why no matter how scalding hot the water is, you can't get rid of that feeling.

I knew, without a doubt, anyone who cums while being raped feels like shit. Again, you had to. Not only did another person violate your body for their pleasure, but some part of you, whether instinctive or primal, felt pleasure as well. It didn't matter if it was to protect you by lubricating your cunt. You still came. You still orgasmed. Not only were you marked as territory and used, but they made you enjoy it. I mean, what kind of sick fuck cums while someone hurts and treats you as less than human while their cock slides in your bleeding pussy or ass, filling it with their cum? Try finding water hot enough to burn that fucking guilt away.

And what did it say about a person who couldn't breathe, was told it would all be over soon, was in agony, and knew without a doubt that they were going to die? And they still came. What fucking defense or excuse could you have when that was what happened? You knew he was not only going to use you but dispose of you. Because you're fucking trash. Nothing but a piece of shit rapebait whore who came as she was dying? What defense and rationalization could you bring forward to justify your reactions? There were none. Part of you still felt like you deserved to die. Most of you believed the rapist was right, that you were just a cunt, a thing to use. Because no decent person or woman would feel the way you did and do, nor would they have done the things you have done.

Three days ago, I was raped again at a party. It wasn't violent or humiliating, at least in the traditional sense. I wasn't even awake for it. I had drunk myself into another stupor, passed out, and one of Teddy's shitty dope friends had thought no one would notice. The bitch barely talks to anyone anyway, right? Well, no one did notice, and likely no one would have cared anyway. Wait, that's unfair. There were people who would have cared, but I had pushed them all away. I was a sinking ship, and in my own twisted way, despite feeling like I deserved to go down, I didn't want to take them with me. So I pushed them away. I ignored them, hung up on them, and yelled at them. Whatever it took to run them off so I could self-destruct in solitude. But it wasn't really about protecting them either. Some maybe, but honestly, not much. It was mostly about making sure they didn't see their friend was dead and some "thing" had replaced her. I'd rather have been raped 100 times than risk, even for a second, them knowing what a disgusting fuck I was.

Now, dear reader, you're probably making excuses at this very moment for my actions. That it was "reasonable" and that people "often react this way" to trauma. Maybe, but I don't fucking care. Why?

Because only a disgusting fuck would have a fucking bloody stick in a drawer beside her bed. After I had gotten out of the tub Monday morning, I had sworn to myself I would throw it away. I had cleaned myself off, put cream inside my injured pussy, hoped I wouldn't get an infection or something, and headed back to my room. Outside, the sun was coming up. School and work were starting for decent people, and I sat beside my bed with the drawer open. I stared at the drawer. In it lay wood and blood. In me lay anger, lust, and self-loathing.

I hated it so much as I reached my hand in and drew it out. I had spent months being empty. Just feeling fucking completely empty. And this... thing. It had briefly let me feel alive. I wanted to toss it, but if I did, I would have been throwing what life I had in me away. I didn't understand it yet, but I needed something that it gave me. Hope? Fuck that. I had lost that completely. Happiness? I had drunk any chance of that away. No, it represented the future. Again, at this time, I didn't know any of that. I had instead cradled it and cried in bed. Later that night, after arguing with Mom about why I hadn't gone to school, I returned to it. Not to fuck it, no. I was still too hurt for that. I was still applying cream to my injured pussy and had wrapped my hands after cleaning them. Then, I took it to the bathroom and cleaned it a bit.

It was about 6 inches, give or take, and phallic only in the sense it was straight. In all other ways, it looked just like a broken, jagged branch. I could relate to the broken feeling. But I knew I had to fix it if I ever decided to use it again. I grabbed some sandpaper and one of Teddy's knives and cleaned it. I shaved off the bark and smoothed the jaggies. Don't get the mental image of me carving a wooden dildo. That wasn't what I was trying to do. I wasn't planning on polishing it. Fuck, I barely had any plan. I just blunted the sharp bits and smoothed away any rough bark. Fucking it would still hurt. But it wouldn't likely make me bleed unless I went crazy. Ha. "Went crazy". I think once you start fixing a piece of wood to fuck, you're not allowed to think or talk about going crazy. Crazy has probably already moved in, but you've just not realized it.

After fidgeting with it for a couple days, I came home from school and found that Teddy was gone and Mom was working. I was alone. I was "healed" enough. I wanted to see if I could feel something again. Just anything that reminded me I was still fucking alive. Something that could fill that emptiness. School had just... existed all Wednesday, and I was home. And I was back beside the bed, cradling the stick like a baby. Like it was something special. I sure as hell knew I wasn't special. I hated myself so much for wanting that stick. It represented everything I had lost. But as I stood up and headed to the bathroom, that hatred just enhanced the primal pathetic need inside me. I knew what I wanted. The bathroom had everything I needed. Baby oil. Triple antibiotic cream. Bandages. A shower to wash off any blood. I avoided the fucking mirror, though. I knew what I was planning, and the last thing I wanted to see was that dead-eyed bitch looking back at me and judging.

No, instead, I stripped. I ran my hands along my ruined nipple, then down to the two long scars on my stomach. I then bent over the counter, so the bitch couldn't see me. I spread my legs and felt the small scars along my lips, moaning as I pushed two fingers into my already-soaked pussy and felt the scars along my vaginal walls. I started to cry, hating myself so much as I fingered myself roughly while my other hand flipped the cap up on the baby oil. I pulled my fingers out easily, and though I was soaked, I still had no plans to seriously injure myself. I just wanted, no scratch that, I fucking needed to hurt. I poured the baby oil into my cupped right hand and slathered it on and in my pussy, pumping my fingers inside furiously. I grunted animalistically as my fingers thrust inside me while my left hand grabbed the stick. I pressed my face to the cold counter and screamed as I shoved the modified stick inside me in a single thrust. Its rough edges still hurt and grabbed at my tender skin, but it no longer tore. It was still painfully unyielding, but it no longer ripped me. And though I did start to bleed, likely from not being fully healed up from Monday, it was minor. I panted and growled as I shoved it in me again and again, as deep as it would go. I cried, sobbing and bucking like a bronco, as I raped myself. In my mind, I was in the woods again. In my mind, he was ruining me as I humped that stick.

My oily right hand started fingering my ass. I had never really done any butt play before the rape, but it felt right. A piece of shit whore needed her ass to hurt, I thought, my mind racing, feeling lost and hysterical. I fingered it as I pushed the stick in again and again. It wasn't enough, though. I needed more, so I pulled out that stick and shoved it against my ass, screaming in pain as it fought my sphincter. My ring had never really recovered from what the rapist had done with the stick, so it wasn't too hard a struggle, but the pain was real. The hurt was so good that I was lost in myself. Pumping it, wanting to feel. I was so far from reality that I hadn't heard anything in the trailer. I hadn't heard its door open. I hadn't heard anyone step in. And while I was screaming, I hadn't heard someone mutter my name.

I did hear the bathroom door get kicked in as it flew open, barely missing me. I jerked up and watched in terror as Teddy stared at me with a stick shoved up my ass, half wild as my worst fear came true. Teddy saw me for what I was.