Doctor Who_ The Sleep of Reason - Martin Day [5]
but she threw her whole weight behind the thrust.
A surging, sharp fire bit into Caroline’s arm. She looked down to see that Donna’s épée had somehow found a gap between glove and sleeve that shouldn’t have been there. The very tip of the weapon had bent, and this had gouged a deep weal into her arm. Caroline stared at the sword, still stuck underneath her sleeve, and watched the blood begin to slide down her arm. She heard the cries of alarm from around her – even the muffled oath of surprise as Donna tore off her mask – then a shouted warning from the instructor. It was a fluke, an awful accident – no one had been injured before, or since, to the best of Caroline’s knowledge.
But Caroline had watched, mute, as the blood bloomed into the pure white sleeve.
Caroline remembered all the times she’d cut herself, from that first exploration in the bathroom to the inadvertent fencing injury. She stared at her body, framed in the medicine cabinet mirror. It sliced off her face and thick neck, 7
and clumsy feet and swollen ankles, leaving just the sexless pornography of chest, groin and legs.
Not that there was much here to get a man aroused: there was too much fat just over her hips, and her lower arms seemed huge, making her look unbalanced. Pendulous tits hung either side of a chest that freckled with the merest hint of sunlight. Pubic hair bristled in all directions, despite every attempt to keep the black, vile jungle under control.
She glanced at the shaver balanced on the edge of the sink. No, you mustn’t touch, darling. You might hurt yourself. If only it were that simple.
She extended her arms, saw the crisscross of scars towards her wrists, mostly lateral – her cries for help, the psychologist had said – but occasionally down the artery, from those moments when she was ill enough to really want something serious to happen. Her fencing scar, less pronounced than the others: a reminder of the power of spite and jealousy. And the half-moon on her finger, a memento of what life had once offered.
The deep ache washed over her again, throbbing outwards from her womb, her guts. She tried to knead the pain away with her skinny fingers, but the pain kept growing. If it was merely a physical ache she could have taken something for it, but this was truly internalised pain – emotional, psychological, sexual. Spiritual.
Some other memory washed over her without warning – the first time. We didn’t make love, she reminded herself. She hadn’t even lost her virginity –
not really. She’d just let him screw her.
If you loved me, you would.
This has got nothing to do with love.
All the other girls –
I don’t care about them!
I’ve seen you looking at me. That look in your eyes. I know you’d like it.
Then, when her resolve had crumbled, when she couldn’t even remember all the arguments she’d rehearsed, all the things she’d said so many times before, he lumbered on top of her like she was an assault course to be con-quered.
Tell me how much you like it.
And then, afterwards –
I love your bum. Gives me something to hold on to!
He had tried to make light of what had just happened, as if perhaps he dimly recognised the importance of the event – in her life, at least. To him it was little more than an unusually complicated wank, an explosion of hormonal, mind-bending crap that would sort him out for, oh, a few hours at least.
But for her. For her. . .
8
She rubbed her stomach again, feeling sick. Then she made herself turn around, looking over her shoulder. Her buttocks – were they really. . . ? She’d always wanted to control her body, to show it who was boss. The minute her dad ceded authority, she had rings put through her nose, her eyebrow, her tongue, both nipples – trying desperately to force this lump of matter, this mass of biological stuff, to do her will. She thought she was in control – but all the time she’d been a victim.
She remembered that, the day after she lost her virginity, she’d started to make