[deep breath]

Recently I wrote a post that essentially expressed my frustration with the idea that fictional literary characters must die/suffer in order to achieve the pinacle of the literary art form or true character growth.

The poem included a stanza referencing the rape of female characters as well, which while NOT the intent of the original “make your characters suffer!” Challenge AT ALL got included because one of my biggest frustrations in fictional character suffering is the rape of female characters. As even typing the word “rape” elicits really strong gut queasiness in me - and likely others - I felt I needed to perhaps clarify my thinking on the issue in a half-assed attempt to address any offense caused by my post.

Does rape have a place in literary fiction? And let me stress the fiction part of that sentence. I’m not talking about nonfiction; nonfiction follows real life and facts so of course - sadly - it has a place there. Fiction, however, is whatever we make of it; to me this means we have a greater obligation to ensure we don’t do a disservice to reality.

So my answer to this question is yes - but with several caveats.

To clarify, my recent literary reads are mostly graphic novels; I am a comic book nerd and as I’ve grown older and discovered the wonderful renaissance of this art form over the past decades it’s been my favorite genre. However, several of the graphic novels I’ve read wield not only heavy violence but sex as well; and while I’m not squeamish to either it is the intersection of the two that really sets me off. There are several instances I’ve come across which will completely ruin the tone/feel of a book to me - not only because it’s jarring, but because some of my fellow comic enthusiasts don’t find it jarring.

Case in point: I was in a group discussing a graphic novel whose name has been burned from memory. The overall plot of the book was that humans had found a way to travel between multiverses. The main character of the book ends up abusing the system to avoid his own life’s drudgery, triggering the ire of a very evil, zombie/cannibal version of himself who then violently rapes and eats one of his other multiverse selves in a set of panels that was disturbing to say the least. The comic continues with the standard trope of guy defeats monster, gets his girl, saves the multiverses. It ended on a particularly cheesy pickup line.

As our group discussed it with enthusiasm I raised my hand and was like, “Uh, yeah, I hate this book. I felt the rape/murder scene where he talked about fucking neck holes was unnecessary and over the top.”

And the group looked back, blinked, and literally went, “Wait, what??”

Nearly half the group had forgotten that part of the book.

A couple other readers definitely felt where I came from. As the rest of the group started to question their memories and frantically flip through their volumes I then pulled the jerk card, “Well, if the character being raped had been female, would you maybe feel more bothered?”

Cue awkward silence.

If we worry about the desensitization of violence due to its overuse in fiction, I honestly worry more about the desensitization of rape. Maybe that’s not merited, but it still bothers me enough to elicit 1000 word posts on a Friday.

Part of my complaints on this topic are because I feel rape shades the act of sex in its most negative light. It portrays it as something women suffer, and something men use to assert dominance. This view is not only wholly unhealthy but absolutely detrimental to both sexes. Women shouldn’t fear sex or feel lessened/victimized for having it; and men shouldn’t see sexual urges only as an evil or unnatural force that threatens to turn them into storybook villains.

Do these views exist? Yes, sadly, and rape is still an awful fact of our existence. However I don’t want to give it more power by relegating it to the toolbox of literary woe.

For me, the rules for rape in a fictional piece should be a twist on an old adage:

1) Is it kind?

And by this I mean to say is the way the rape is portrayed cognizant of the victim’s feelings and dignity? Is it portrayed solemnly or is it just part of the overall splash of death and gore? Does it elicit the response of outrage / empathy it should, or is it only being used for more shock effect?

2) Is it necessary?

Does the rape really further your damn plot? Easy way to test this - take it out. Does your story fall apart? And I mean absolutely fall apart? Is the rape contributing to the raped characters’ personal development - not just the hero supposedly saving them, or the villain supposedly showing how awful they truly are? [another comic reference - “women in refrigerators” - exists for a reason]

3) Is it true?

Is the act of rape in your story described realistically? Is it pulling from real influences that you’re conveying through your story? Would it have actually happened, or is it just what you assumed would happen because obviously all evil characters are sexual predators, or all female victims must face not only physical abuse but sexual abuse too?

Good examples of rape in fiction would include this recent post by dctezcan which apparently was sadly deleted its first round, when in reality I would call this a masterful and spot-on portrayal of the brutality of rape: https://theprose.com/post/392408/central-park

Another good example - and a reminder that rape doesn’t only impact female characters - would be the rape scene in American History X. The brutal, visceral violence throughout the film as well as the rape of its main character form a powerful narrative of character development; if suffering is meant to teach a lesson this is it - and it’s important to note this film may be fiction but it is heavily influenced by real life experience.

If we’re writing for entertainment - for escapism, for fantasy, for adventure, for intrigue - then I would argue we need to rethink rape as a plot device. Many likely do, but I still stumble across a few that don’t. When I see those examples I will continue to call them out - because I dream of a reality when we don’t need to rape a character because we feel it makes the story more “realistic”.

’N pilaar van lig slaan deur die wolke,

’N roos van wit teen ’n eensame berg.

Goue stralle deel die hemel,

Streelend soos vingers op blaar en blomblaar.

’N wit gekleede dame haar delikate geheimenisse onthul,

Drink die roos elke straal van vuur gedek te dagbreek.

* * *

A pillar of light strikes through the clouds,

A rose of white against a lonely mountain.

Golden rays part the heavens,

Stroking like fingers upon leaf and petal.

A white clad lady her mysteries revealed,

Does rose drink every ray from fiery sunrise.

* * *

#OfPenAndPaper

She fled from his grasp

Heading towards a village

The folks all had their doors

Sealed, & locked for the night...

Pan pulled out his panflute

And played a luring tune..

Syrinx tried to cover her ears

Yelling for someone to help her.

No one opened up for her

She moved from door to door,

As the sound of the haunting music

Drew closer, ‘n’ closer~ and closer

Her heart sunk thinking this was it-

Her final end—then she smiled...

It was time for a new course of action

Running towards the deep waters

She plunged into the gooey ravine

The dark waters letting her in

Then she maintained focus on the reeds

Seeing its pattern and transforming

Herself into one of them

This was the best idea she’d ever had~

‘‘What a clever plan!’’ she thought-

While smiling infectiously,

As the stars twinkled in the night sky.

She spied Pan’s hooves near the edge

His eyes wandering about for her

She had managed to escape, hmm....

Maybe, he then played a different tune

One of the reeds began to sway

Moving with the sound of Pan’s music

Pan stepped into the waters, too

She cried out, and transformed

Back to her former self

Pan crossed his arms—

Laughed & said: ‘‘Good game, kiddo’’.

Pan picked her up, and then

Placed her on his shoulders

Their time of fun and games was over.

#Pan’s #flute.

Magic happened. But not all at once.

Reality was gone. Or reborn, depending on who you were talking to.

Flickers here and there. Signs. Beautiful, yet mischievous.

Many who had, abused it. Sociopaths? No. Bad people? Opinions, opinions.

But destruction was inevitable, and beautiful. Crystalized water. Thundering colors of plants dancing in the rain.

Moutains crashing in the reflection of your golden pink sunglasses carved from the sunset.

Beautiful.

You walk on the ceiling of your mansion. You wonder how you got there.

You wonder how to get down.

Let me fly

in wisps of clouds

twisting my tongue

in concentric circles

Give me space

to hearken closely

to magic whispers

fantasy thoughts

Whispers of water

coursing through veins

winds of change

unfolding

in dragonfly wings

Grab the blade

cut open

my destiny

snatch the sun

let it ignite

my soul.

Upturn my face

feeling fingers

of my fate

snippets of illusion

raining droplets

on my heart.

Love potions. Such a waste of time. Mr. Heartsick sitting in front of me is starting to ramble. I can’t concentrate. I let him drone on about her freckles and hair and how her giggle makes his chest constrict. When he’s done I’ll give him my speech about how love potions cause a temporary infatuation that slowly fades out, and he won’t listen to a word. He’ll give me almost as much of his attention as I’m giving him my own now. The truth is his only thoughts will be of basking in her infatuation and not a thing about what he needs to do to maintain it. And the truth is that right now. The only thing I’m thinking about is getting a hold of Ty and how quickly he can get me a fix.

As he wraps up his pain-stakingly detailed description of his fair maiden I grab a rose quartz bowl. In goes some cinnamon, vanilla, and cloves. I add some powders that I keep premixed. Dragon’s milk. Rose petals. And just as he becomes too caught up in my ritual to remember every single eyelash he’s ever pulled from her cheek and told her to wish upon, I get to the histrionic part of the show. A single drop of fae blood. Translucent and slightly iridescent. His breath catches as it hits the milky surface. It’s instantaneous. The contents of the bowl turns pale gold and shimmering. It’s liquid light. I fill a vial, and his hand reaches before I’ve even got the cork in.

“I need you to know that this will not cause love. This will keep her infatuated for about a week. The infatuation will slowly fade. You need to have a plan to gain her interest during the time of this infatuation. Help her fall for you. Do you understand?”

He shakes his head and grabs too quickly. I let him leave, though I doubt he has any plan. She won’t fall in love. He’ll sneak her some liquid love into her tea or her wine and become so caught up in her sudden unyielding interest that he’ll never do anything to keep her around.

I’m spent, and I need a hit. I convince Ty to stop by and then knock out while I’m waiting. I wake to his cool hand on my forehead. He looks concerned but also tired. His soft, bright eyes are concentrated frustration with the slightest trace of relief. I miss when those eyes shone with love for me, and I can’t help but feel disappointment in everything I’ve become.

“Mia...Damnit. I thought you said you needed to replenish potion supplies...I thought you were off the coal...”

I think about lying. He won’t believe me, but he might give me enough to make it through the night without the shakes and the sweats. I’m weighing my options when he pushes me off his lap and makes for the door.

“Ty, wait! I have enough for work, so I just need enough for the night. If I could just get like a coin then it’ll make the dreams easier on me...”

“I didn’t bring any. I’m no fool, Mia. You aren’t using five coins a week of fae blood making love potions, which seems to be all you’re selling anymore...”

I can’t believe him. He’s pacing the kitchen clearly unsure of what to do with me. I knew that he probably suspected that I was still using fae blood, but I figured that he was playing along to avoid putting me through having to say it.

“If you want me to stay I can. I can talk you through the dreams. Give you dragon’s milk so you sleep. I can help you relax through them. Help with the shaking. I miss you. I hate to see you stuck on this...”

“Can you go now? I have other plans tonight anyway. I don’t need you to make me feel guilty or judge me.”

I know he’s not trying to do either, but I need him to leave. He looks defeated. He gives me a quick, hurt nod. I walk him to the door. Our hands meet accidentally at the knob, and I see his face tighten. A quick kiss on my forehead and he’s gone.

If Ty won’t help me I have only one other option. I have to go to Callie. The lowest of the low. She’s a disgusting creature. A pixie that feeds off her own kind. It’s bad enough for us witches that are addicted to fae blood, but at least we aren’t spilling our own magic for fun. Maybe for profit or for spells sometimes. But I’d never dream of using another witch’s blood. Not to mention that the mere fact that she is an addict suggests she was doing something unsavory to cause her to get a taste for the drug.

I toss my cigarette out as I hit the buzzer for her apartment. The smell of rotting fruit drifts up to her front door from the alley, and I am torn between wishing she’d buzz me in and hoping I never have to see her again. I hit the button again three times in quick succession and almost immediately receive the sharp click of the door unlocking. The speaker must be out on the intercom. No surprise in this hovel.

“Mia. What’s up, babe? I like your hair dark like that.”

“You gonna let me in then?”

I push past her into the dark apartment. Her power must be out. This small studio is a fire hazard at the best of times, but right now it’s filled with smoke and what looks to be every candle the south side of the city holds. She’s close behind me, so I steal myself for whatever she might ask for in return. She’s horrid, but she’s also smart. My eyes are dilated, and I’m sweaty despite the cold. Not to mention that with her being a pixie she can probably smell me detoxing.

“You’re gonna let me do what I want with you, right, love?” My hand is on the nape of her neck, fingers wrapping through her lilac hair. I whisper into her pale clavicle, and I feel a small shock course through her skin. She leans into me, and I can tell this is going to be easy. I grab her hair hard and push her to the mattress on the floor. An hour or so of my hands and mouth violating her until she’s breathless and disoriented. I let my fingers slowly trace the small, crescent moon birth mark on her hip. She’s calm as she breathes out a light, approving sigh letting me know that we’re even.

“There’s needles and bowls on the mantle, but this time can you take enough so that I can drop too?”

I nod to her, but inside I’m nauseous. She’s going to drop her own blood? I’m no longer sure she’s a safe resource. She’s always disgusted me, but this is low even for her. I’ve never met a junkie using their own blood. Blood releases magic. The more you spill the less the being contains. The more you spill the more you have to use next time. At some point…you only have so much magical blood.

I pull a syringe full from her spidery, glowing veins and empty it into a crystal bowl. I drop the bowl into one of the larger candle’s flames. The smell is intoxicating. Sharp, biting citrus with sweet, sticky sugars clinging to the edges. The blood coagulates, no longer beautiful and iridescent but a matte black mess. I grab a dropper and it takes every bit of restraint I have to feed Callie first. I kiss her mouth open and then let a single drop slide onto her tongue. She smiles and lets her eyes flick upwards as she crashes into easy sleep. I pull the rest out and fill a vial from my bag I left near the front door. Then I take my drop. And suddenly everything is easy. Suddenly Callie isn’t such a disgrace. With her translucent skin and her pastel hair she’s actually quite lovely. I drift into sleep. And I don’t remember a thing.

“So, do you think that you’re interested in her? As more than a friend that is...”

I close my eyes for just longer than a blink, but I see years pass by. A handshake, a smile, a car ride in the rain. I see a waterfall, a dark bedroom, and her hands crawling up my thighs. I smell her smoky breath, and I feel her fingers in my hair as she pulls my mouth closer. My chest constricts, and I drop my head into my hands.

“Kayla? Do you need a moment?”

“No. No, I don’t need a moment. Thank you, though. Um. No. I don’t like her. Like that. I uh...I think I might love her? I mean. I have Natalie. I am with Natalie. I love Natalie. No. I’m not interested in Jade. She’s a close friend, but I don’t want more from her. It was just casual. Just fun.”

My therapist is not amused. Her single raised eyebrow makes any further comment unnecessary, so I hold her stare until she caves.

“Kayla. I need you to understand that this only works if you are honest with me but also with yourself. And more than that even. If you aren’t being honest, you and Natalie will never work. You can hold onto her for as long as you want. But you won’t be happy, and neither will she. It’s no surprise that you can’t stay asleep at night. You’ve both already had deeply intimate relationships that you tried to keep a secret from one another. Not to mention that you seem scared to admit that you may have been more happy in this secret relationship.”

I don’t respond. My mind is still racing through footage of Jade and what each moment meant to me. I’m thinking of nights when I held her in cars and beds and on strangers’ couches. Bars and parties. I’m thinking of how she felt like a part of me that I had lost. Of how many times I stayed with her when I should have went home and slept in my own bed. Her eyelashes brushing my neck and her hand in mine. Her soft voice whispering into my skin. I’m thinking about her slight frame. Of when I should have been holding another girl in my arms and how much easier it was to just hold onto Jade instead. How easily she could always convince me to go on adventures. How she actually made life an adventure. I’m holding the moments out in front of me to study.

“I want to back up, Kayla. You said you might love Jade? Do you believe that? Why are you holding on to a relationship with Natalie if you love Jade?”

My head is pounding with thoughts. I throw them up like so much bile poisoning my heart and my mind. I can hear the pressure building inside of me more than I can feel it. It sounds like I am underwater. I squeeze my eyes closed and swallow hard. I swallow Jade, and I forget what she felt like. My face feels hot and tense.

“No. I didn’t mean that. I just meant that she was fun. I had a lot of fun with her. I loved my time with her. I don’t love Jade. I love everything that we did.”

And for a second I almost believe myself. So when she picks me up it’s easy for me to look her in the eye before I get in the car.

“What’s up, babe? Get in.”

“I don’t love you. My hands aren’t yours to hold. And my eyes aren’t yours to hold. And you should have never kissed me. I don’t think you’re beautiful or any of that shit I told you. I’m glad you played along, but I think we both know the fun is over.”

“Kayla. What? Where is this coming from? Who said anything about love? Can you just get in the car?”

“Fuck you, Jade.”

I turn and walk home. I fall asleep holding Natalie. I pretend I don’t feel someone else laying beneath my arms. I pretend I can’t hear someone else’s shallow breathing. I pretend this is home. I pretend I’m not scared. And the lie’s so pretty, I don’t even need to open my eyes the next morning.

My memory has been good to you since you left.

It's taken you and buffed your sharp edges,

polished up your one-liners,

and edited your conversations for wit and sensitivity.

It's rationalized your selfishness and rather quick temper,

forgotten how you hated sharing a single bed,

inconvenience in general.

It even injects feeling into your empty phrases.

You'd love my memory of you.

So I wouldn't advise you to come back.

You could never compete with this memory of mine.

Even your eyes aren't that blue.