The dull blue of the urban night slowly lightened as the sun made its final approach. Genny slept soundly, recently numbed and gently hushed back into her peaceful, well-deserved slumber. Sunny sat at her side in the bed, having taken over from Fi once the night ramped up. She had returned at every opportunity to the side of that bed—her own bed—the very same bed which had once belonged to the married mobsters who’d taken her in.
Here, in this bed, lay the only tenderness anyone could ask for in this world. She gently stroked Genny’s hair, slumped to the side from exhaustion and unshakeable ambivalence. They had no choice in this life, not really. Nobody got a choice, did they? But she could pay it forward. She could be the one to comfort her kids, just as Mamusha and Tata had occasionally comforted her in the very same bed in their own ways, on the days after terrible nights such as this. Even if it was still under her watch that they were made to need that comfort.
At least Genny would be in a good school. At least she might use that potential she still had to find a better life than this one through that education. At least she’d never have to go to that man’s house. That much, Sunny could tell her, and tell herself.
It’s important that we remember what it was like, back when we were around that age. It’s all we can do.
It was a feeling like no other. Every pill, every dose—they each added a new individually overwhelming sensation to the pulsing mass within. Blasted. Gone. Strung out. Zapped. Each term might have captured some fragment of the impossible whole, but none could sufficiently articulate it. It was a paradoxical mixture, as though she were at once thoroughly sedated and yet also quivering in hyperstimulated excitement, fit to bursting with a writhing mass of fuzzy pink caterpillars gorging themselves on the nauseous erotic rainbows that churned in the pit of her stomach.
Cookie protested vehemently when Miss Orta pulled Sunny off of him. His cheeks were flushed, for having been so close to being done when they were rudely interrupted. Miss Orta, without a second look, reddened them further by shutting his back-talk down with a firm smack to the cheek. She gently led Sunny away and sat her down on the bed. As she wiped away Sunny’s smeared makeup with a handkerchief, she delivered a firm little lecture reminding Sunny not to make a mess. The young girl slurred and sputtered out, “Yes, ma’am,” several times, until Miss Orta finished wiping her clean. Miss Orta gripped her by the mouth, her long nails squishing into the young girl’s cheeks as she did. A curt reminder of diction accompanied it.
Her mouth was wet and then dry again. Its state oscillated frequently, sometimes for no reason at all, others because Sunny’s jaw sometimes slackened and tensed independently of whatever part of her brain ought to have been controlling it. Yet she was only a mouth-breather insofar as a routine gasp demanded—and they were often. Gasps of excitement, shock, and God only knows what else—certainly not Sunny—insisted upon themselves. The fire inside her was packed with all manner of flavor. It erupted into passionate excitement with the smallest kindling, and yet could be mellowed just as quickly by a hand, be it gentle or firm. She was an electrified putty, bristling with itchy arousal while melting into sticky, shapeable cheer all at once.
Miss Orta ordered Sunny to the mirror, and advised her on how to do herself up. Interspersed with these directions was the night’s briefing. Sunny, so Miss Orta indicated, would be taking on one Mister Andrew Radowicz after Cookie had finally gotten a bite in on him. Cookie’s sudden cackle at the proposition was shattered by the crack of a backhand across his head. He grumbled something unintelligible as he slunk down. Miss Orta snapped at him to fetch an outfit of his for her from the laundry. Sunny looked in the mirror. She’d been guided into rosy cheeks and mascara, but no lipstick. Who didn’t like lipstick? All of the colors looked so nice wherever they ended up. Miss Orta responded as though Sunny had said it out loud. Well, her mouth was its own person after all; maybe it did. Mister Radowicz didn’t like trollops. Apparently, he was a schoolteacher.
“Oh Mamusha, I won’t have to study for this, will I?”
Sunny already knew everything she needed to know. Just be polite. Just be good. And try, really try, damnit, to be a real boy for a little while. Doesn’t have to be the whole night. But there aren’t any other options for boys. Yes, Sunny, you can be a pretty boy. And remember, boys don’t wear dresses.
Cookie returned with the clothes.
Ties weren’t as bad as Sunny remembered. They weren’t too tight anymore. If anything, it was hardly noticeable. They weren’t as heavy as some chokers or collars. But didn’t it look wrong? When Sunny was dressed, she looked to Miss Orta with a skeptical expression. Wasn’t it silly, she wondered, to put her in such a dowdy uniform? It was like putting a bouquet of blooming lilies in a brown clay pot instead of a lovely vase. Maybe Sunny hadn’t said it out loud; maybe she thought she did and she hadn’t. Sunny wouldn’t have known whether she’d spoken as she thought or imagined herself speaking, as Miss Orta read her mind well enough either way. An outfit can complement one’s figure, certainly, but as Marilyn Monroe once did a photo shoot in a potato sack, so too could the figure make the clothes into a complement. They fit, at least, well enough that a few pins and stitches fit the outfit in short order.
Getting pricked with a needle was meant to hurt, wasn’t it? It was meant to be a sharp little sting, a jolt of awareness indicating the body’s desire to keep its insides protected under the skin. Sunny was aware, no doubt, but under some twist of fate, these days pricks, shocks—the little kicks of energy in life—had their edge removed. She was already a pincushion full of glitter. She could feel new pricks—not immediately, mind you—but the release from the needle’s swift exit still sent goosebumps down her spine. The little bud of blood had this sort of faint sting that kept her eyes wide and ready. Sometimes, Sunny wondered if there was a way to be truly sewn into an outfit. It wouldn’t have been a bother, really. It could even be fun. Nobody could rip it off and steal it easily. Well, probably not.
Once they finished, Sunny had made it halfway to the stairs before Miss Orta reminded her she’d be spending the night with Mr. Radowicz. All night. Until the morning, a bit past normal wake-up time. Sunny swung back and beelined for her little treasure chest full of serums cast off by the older whores. Miss Orta redirected her quickly to choose a “sexy little number.” There weren’t many choices of nightgown, admittedly, but it was always a hard choice. Miss Orta didn’t allow for the indecision for long. She neatly plucked a set of Cookie’s pyjamas from the drawer, then held them up to the nightgowns. She picked the best match for Sunny, and had the young girl pack a small bag with them.
Soon, Sunny was dropped from Miss Orta to the palm of a burly enforcer, who met doe-eyes, strung-out babble, and habitually creeping fingers with stern reminders that he was neither a paying customer nor intended to become one.
Why, oh why? Did he not know she’d do her best? Would he really be so happy to be gentle and protective for pay and pay alone? And fuzzy arms were fun to touch! The prickles and twists felt like phones ringing on her fingerprints whenever she got a stroke in. The back seat? Of course, she could move to the back seat, since they were still parked. But why would he stay up front? Didn’t he have any heart? It was probably because Miss Orta had put her in light lip gloss instead of something prettier. How high his standards were! A real catch!
Sunny felt like velcro in a room of sheep. She had no way not to stick to everything she touched. No matter the texture of the carpet, she could be stuck on firmly and then peeled off effectively with only a bit of tearing and fuss.
The bodyguard peeled her out of her seat and then steadied her. He spun her and sent her promenading in the rough direction of Mr. Radowicz’s door. With slight verbal correction to keep her on target, the bodyguard guided her through the dark into the backyard and to the back door. The tired man summoned the client, and Mr. Radowicz paid in full as asked of him. Sunny’s flopping enthusiastic greeting landed on a raised brow. After a polite introduction, Mr. Radowicz requested a word with the bodyguard, and suddenly grasped Sunny’s head, covering her ears. The bodyguard listened to whatever he had to say, then thought for a moment. Mr. Radowicz released Sunny and reached for his wallet.
“I assure you, that won’t be necessary, but very well.”
He produced a wad perhaps half the thickness of the first, handed it off, then gently ushered Sunny inside. He locked the door, led her into the kitchen, sat her at the table, then fixed himself a stiff drink. All the while, he engaged her in routine, polite small talk. Sunny, for her part, thought she did well, but Mr. Radowicz oddly seemed to find a few of her remarks amusing. As he finished preparing his drink, he offered Sunny a choice as well. She could have chocolate milk, yes, or he could add something to it. Some kind of liquor. If, of course, she wasn’t the pukey sort.
Sunny had plenty of experience with drinks and holding back vomit. Not because she was a heavy drinker—not in the sense that she drank on purpose, anyway. But like a great many things, it often found its way into her and she wasn’t inclined to protest. Really, it was its own sort of exciting. For one, it contributed to a magnificent blush that Sunny found herself drawn to admire whenever she passed a mirror. Equally importantly, though, was how it added to the potent mix inside of her. With her normal regimen, Sunny was a mess of grins and giggles in the head, certainly, but had managed to bootstrap a sort of romantic gait, like a ballroom dancer gliding about from suitor to suitor. But with alcohol, she eventually got too light, and past a certain point, ended up striding and spinning about, intermittently making dramatic little stumbles, like a newborn deer on party drugs. And when she fell over, even a double chin could look flattering through her eyes. At the bottom of every bottle were wonderful lenses, lenses that made everyone, her included, all the more beautiful.
But a choice of beverage? The novelty compelled an enthusiastic giggle. Nobody ever asked; why would they? A surprise—a wonderful surprise from a wiser adult—that’s what should go in the chocolate milk. And Mr. Radowicz looked back at her with incredulity, and, though Sunny scarcely had the sense to register it, a touch of disappointment. Sunny’s eyes wandered quickly as Mr. Radowicz considered the options presented by his shockingly free hand.
Her gaze eventually happened upon the pictures. It was strange that Mr. Radowicz would be alone tonight. He had a wonderful family. The kids—those darling kids—Sunny beamed at their colorful Christmas clothes. His wife was so pretty; what a privilege to be in a picture with her! Mr. Radowicz agreed. He, after all, was in the very same picture.
He soon set a glass in front of Sunny. It was a towering glass of milk, mirrored in turn by the heavy pour he’d given himself. When Sunny took a polite sip, it became apparent that he poured strong for her too. To Sunny’s surprise, he took a seat and continued their conversation. For the most part, his questions were more detailed than any answers he gave.
Even as novel as such a conversation was these days, Sunny still found herself struggling to stay in her chair. She always did. She was filled with three or four different flavors of jitter, the sum of which could only be temporarily stymied by a firm grip on the underside of the table and tensed leg muscles. But every sip made her grip weaken.
As the glass drained, she melted forward onto the table, slowly pooling in Mr. Radowicz’s general direction. He was such a curious man—in both senses of the word. How dramatic was Cookie, acting like this was hard! It was lovely! It was like a little date!
Mr. Radowicz finished his drink in short order. Sunny hadn’t. He stood. She moved to rise. He ordered her to stay. Make eye contact. He began to quiz her on the previous conversation. It came to resemble some mixture of an interview and an interrogation. It was strange, Sunny thought, to be so much food for thought. She beamed along and finished her drink as they continued talking. Mr. Radowicz paced around the room, eyeing her up. He coaxed her story out, pricking at details, and called her by her old name as soon as he learned it. When they came to her departure, he smiled and chuckled. He picked her apart with his eyes as he did.
“So you’re not just somebody’s little science experiment, are you, boy?”
Sunny shook her head. Mr. Radowicz clarified. She, or rather “he,” was many things, wasn’t she? A troublemaker. A miscreant. A thief and a vandal. Sunny softly mumbled a disagreement. Mr. Radowicz called her on it. Sunny just wanted to do good, did she? Had she?
He cracked his hand across her face. She fell from the chair and slammed into the floor. She scurried to stand. He kicked her back down several times before she stayed. Disobedient, really. That’s what all of these brats were. Really, she wasn’t so special—not in the way she thought, anyway. He taught plenty of rowdy kids, brats and fags among them. When she stayed put, looking up at him like a deer in headlights, he planted another jab with his foot in her stomach. Maybe she was normally just a slow little good-for-nothing fairy, but here, she was actually picking things up.
Imagine if she’d actually learned something productive.
Mr. Radowicz continued on, occasionally planting little reminders with his foot while he tore at Sunny. At first, he had a cool smile on his face as he did. But as Sunny kept looking up at him with plain doe eyes, his smile faded. His kicks slowed. His eyes narrowed. He sighed. He snapped at her, told her to stand up, then told her how to stand. Sunny hobbled to her legs. He smacked her again for failing to function.
Mr. Radowicz pivoted. So this little nancy boy thought it could be a real woman, did it? He went down the list. Sunny failed to muster an answer to the first question, thinking it was “retardical.” He played a few schoolyard bully tricks on her before delivering a simple conclusion. Broads could be dumb as a brick—just as much as boys could. In fact, she did look the part of some dumb little nothing of a girl shoved into her older brother’s proper school uniform and left woefully unprepared for much of anything. She acted it too.
But that wasn’t true, was it? What man—a real, non-homo one—would ever love her as a woman in any real tangible way? She couldn’t have kids. And look at that face. Those weren’t the long lashes of a woman, but those of the softest, spoiledest little shitstain abortion of a boy. And even if she did find a fairy fucking godmother, the ship of decency had long sailed.
Nothing? Really? Just a little frown of protest and some baby headshakes?
Mr. Radowicz suddenly led her into his daughter’s room. He pulled out the very same outfit from last year’s Christmas photo. Runtish as Sunny was, there was still no way clothes meant for a kindergartener would fit her. Not well, anyway. She protested. It was such a cute little getup, and it’d be a shame to stretch it, wouldn’t it? Wouldn’t his lovely wife wonder what had happened to—
Mr. Radowicz gripped her by the throat, lifted her up, and declared that she was not to speak unless asked a question. He ordered her to get up and get it on before she even hit the ground when he dropped her.
She tried. He forced it on when she struggled, and the top ripped at the arms and along the back as soon as she moved. The little skirt was closer to a belt. The fit made Sunny look like she’d suddenly doubled in size while wearing it. He mocked her as she wore it, only to grow frustrated and violent once more when he observed her growing preoccupation with the damaged outfit itself. He ripped it clean off of her and tossed it in the trash without another thought. He dragged her out of the room, and slammed the door behind them.
He went on to experiment in a variety of different ways, each time coming away frustrated with the results. He progressively reddened in the face. Occasionally, as he drank more, he missed a strike, and then went in for a second with greater force. Sunny groaned and buckled every now and again, but each pain flashed away quickly, just as Miss Orta’s needle did. Bruises grew on her skin, and she furrowed her brow not at the soreness she should have felt, but at the passing recognition that they were bad enough that they’d hang around for quite a while. She did, however, slowly lose her smile. A pleading, pathetic expression grew in its place, and on occasion, her eyes watered at the moment of impact. She kept getting distracted, though, even as Mr. Radowicz grew more erratic. And whenever these tears dried and her gaze drifted off into space, it seemed that his upset intensified.
Finally, Mr. Radowicz went silent. He finished another drink. He gazed at Sunny as she lay half-up on the floor, still quivering and frightened, looking nowhere in particular, like a sedated sheep awaiting slaughter. He looked down at his empty glass for a moment, then shrugged and flung it at her head. The cheap glass shattered along the top of her forehead, skipping and spraying shards all over. Sunny’s vision went black for a moment, and she collapsed onto her face. She slowly rose and made terrified eye contact with him. Stony rage stared back at her. Her forehead felt warm. Wet. So did her nose. A lazy stream of blood entered her right eye. She hesitated for a moment, then tried to stand. Mr. Radowicz rose and approached her. She struggled against him, truly, for the first time. His expression softened. He let her escape.
Sunny darted straight for the bathroom and looked in the mirror. Little shards of glass were embedded along her forehead, in her eyebrows, on her nose, and into her hair. Mr. Radowicz entered behind her. Sunny screamed. He grinned. He wrestled her down. She screamed more, begging for help, mercy—anything. He went in with tweezers and began to pluck shards. She steadied herself just enough to babble out a plea that he be careful. He chuckled. Even if she did scar, lose some hair—something like that—it was only advancing the inevitable, wasn’t it? One day, one way or another, she’d end up broken and worthless. That was the only fate any little piece of trash could expect, be they little thugs, little whores, or some other sort of postnatal abortion.
Pluck by pluck, he broke down the slowly-sobering child in his grasps. Whimpers became yelps as he continued picking at the physical and verbal wounds he’d opened. Yelps became individual sobs, and those sobs slowly blended together into a whole that brought a new smile to his face. Mr. Radowicz was ready to collect on his hard-earned prize, now that he’d primed it just right.
That night collapsed into a singularity of dumbstruck agony coursing along those same drugged pathways as the numb nirvana meant to be there. It was impossible to fish out a single sensation. She was blinded by her own tears. She couldn’t think. She had no idea when she was and wasn’t breathing. She melted under the heat into a heavy haze of salted, soaked perdition. And when the end of eternity came, it took her some time to even remember what—never mind who—she even was.
There were many more nights like it.
Mr. Radowicz’s job only got easier. Sunny’s only got harder.
No substance on God’s Green Earth could have dulled the pain. Not that night. Not the next one. Not ever. Sixteen years on, and those nights still brought back the very same burning tears.
