The Lake Bed

She lay on the filthy bed, and tried to ignore the sensation of grimy handprints, still warm on her naked flesh. She has a break now, it seemed, from the hours of rutting she'd had to endure that day alone. They would be back soon, she knew, wanting more. Always wanting more. They took what they wanted, and left their filth and feces behind, smeared all over her skin.

How was her disgusting state not a deterrent to them? Occasionally, someone would make an attempt to clean her up before they commenced with their business; it was rarely anything more than a show, however. She hadn't felt clean in decades, and they still came in droves, leaving wet, spent, and satisfied.

If she were capable of vomiting, she would. The men who used her did enough of that, anyway.

There were women, as well. Most of them preferred to sit and watch from the edges of my hell, mocking my condition in hushed tones. Very few deigned to so much as dip a toe in my sorrows. Those who did would laugh and play with exaggerated fervor, and I eventually understood that this was to attract the attentions of the men who hurt me; they would often leave in pairs following their torture of me.

Some men and women both showed concern for me, of course, but they would never do anything about it. Mostly, it was remorse for how beautiful I must have been, before men began hurting me. They would always look away, tears in their eyes.

How did they not know that their tears did nothing for me?

These "kind" people were right, though. I WAS breathtaking, back when I was young. Back when I was free to be myself.

I was a friend to all the children, enjoying their laughter and play, providing them with food and water.

I was a lover to men and women alike, and they were proud and honored to be a part of my life, whether it was for a day of for many, many years.

I was a companion to the elderly, sometimes speaking with them for hours.

To some I was a Goddess, worshiped and revered.

I was a daughter, sister, mother, friend to all who came to find me.

And then the evil men came, and there was no more happiness.

They brought their machines; horrible things. Smelly, loud, and terrifying, they chased away everything good in my world.

They hurt me, knowing the one thing I could not do was leave. The first thing they did, of course, was to cut off my freedom, my means to escape. My two lovely legs, gone with a chunk of metal. My arms, bound cement. All the life, sucked away, until all that remains is what you see here- an empty shell.

I did, however, still have a defense.

Occasionally, I would be lucky enough to receive a "caller" with no audience. This wicked and unfortunate soul, far removed from his or her friends, would come to take advantage of me. I would quietly, and suddenly, take hold of them and pull them down to my depths, holding them fast until they no longer struggled. I buried them deep in the filth that was left by those like them, and they were rarely ever found.

I took great pleasure in the sadness of my tormentors, watching them with my expressionless, silent countenance.

I took good and bad alike, as I could see no difference between those who wept, jeered, and abused. They were all the same, these men.

I would kill them all if I could.

If only I could die...that would be the greatest blessing. Leave these men to their fate.

I cannot die, however, nor can I kill them all.

My torment is unending.

I wince as another group come, and dive deep into my waters, stirring up the filth they leave with their machines.

There is no rest for me. I myself am Hell.

I should never have given my sword away to that silver tongued monster. The stories all lie, it was never returned. Why would Man return the very item that would prevent them from their fun? Their trophy of conquest over Nature? The weapon that ensures their dominion?

Even I was young and foolish once...

...I will have the rest of time to regret it...