Dragonfly/Damselfly (IC Diary for Zujenia)

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Profile photo of Zujenia Bihari

lovepox resident

said

He used to call me his Damselfly.

"Skinny and quick and hard to catch whenever (I ran)," was his reasoning, as he'd tell me all the time. Fucking cliche asswipe. I'm a human fucking being, and if anything else, I'd be a god damn Dragonfly. He took me when I was too young to realize what was going on, what was happening to me, why my father was pushing me into that car. Everything after that is just a fucking black hole of shit I don't want to write down, or remember, so fuck that. Maybe that's why I've always refused therapists in prison.

I've been out for about a month now. Left Jersey's ass-end for, I guess, Louisiana's ass-end. Just can't afford to live above the navel line, I guess. Hathian's a shitty place, but I'm fucking used to shitty places, so what's the difference? I've slept on bed bugs and prison cots for the past decade. I know nobody here. Not anymore. My cousin was killed here, so I guess I've had some ties here, but other than that... nothing. I never knew her. It doesn't matter.

Nothing really matters now, honestly. I have nothing but booze. The first god damn thing I did when I got out is take a taxi to the nearest liquor store in my shitty prison-given outfit. The driver asked if I was homeless. I pretended to be put off, but it was fucking true. Wasn't his business anyway. Hell, I'm not sure if I ever could be anything but angry anymore. I thought revenge would make it go away and maybe I'd be able to feel feelings again, but no, it hasn't. At least the alcohol numbs the anger a bit. Maybe one day I'll feel peace, or anything other than anger and boredom, but I've yet to see it. I served my time, but I feel no regret, no repentance. I did what was right. It didn't have to serve any emotional purpose - it served a realistic one. They can't hurt any more little girls and women like they did to me. I guess, at the end of the day, I was kind of my own martyr. A shitty one. But now that's over. That part of my life is over, and now I'm lost. I'm sitting on the floor in a cheap motel and writing on the back of a hepatitis info flier.

I thought I'd be dead by now. I guess I'm heading towards it, like we all are, but maybe (hopefully?) at a faster pace. The booze will help. I could be looking for a real job, but I have no real job experience. I can't make a resume. The one thing they don't tell you about sex slavery is that, if you get out, you won't be able to write a god damn cover letter to save your fucking life.

Anyway... that's enough of this shit.

June 12, 2017 at 11:19 pm
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