I’ve been completely out of it for the past few days, maybe even weeks. I’m not really sure exactly how long I was ill because there are no calendars here. I’d like to think that calling a doctor, being given medicine and somewhere private to rest was proof that Mr. Negulesco does actually care a little about me but I’m sure it’s just because he’d rather I not die. If I die the men can’t use me any more plus he’d have the hassle and expense of removing my body. No, he doesn’t care if I suffer but he’d much rather I suffer at his hands or the hands of the other ‘gentlemen’ than due to an illness that could kill me.
I’m not sure what was wrong with me, the doctor didn’t say, but I threw up a lot and had a very high fever which gave me nightmares even worse than some of my experiences here so you can imagine how bad they must have been. I’m better now although I still feel really weak and need to sleep a lot which, thankfully, I am being allowed to do. Whether by lucky chance or Mr. Negulesco’s orders I will never know.
I have two horrible events to tell you about but I don’t have the energy to do so now. (I’m amazed I made it to my little desk here in this room and that I’m able to sit up without feeling dizzy.) I can’t write about my recent encounters because they are too awful for me to think about right now. I need to be a little stronger before I bring them back to life in my memory. I will just say that recently, along with the fever where I forgot my own name, Mr. Kozlov made me wonder if I’m even human, and Mr. Negulesco made me wish I weren’t.
Sometimes I don’t know who I am anymore and those times are frighteningly becoming more and more frequent.
But I won’t leave you empty-handed, my sweet friend. I’m sure you’re just dying to read the latest notice that Mr. Negulesco has pinned on the notice board! Okay then, so as not to disappoint my best friend, here below, in all its happy-optomistic-wonderful-shiny-lovliness is the latest poem:
I am inferior
I am worthless
I am meant to broken
I am meant to crawl
I am meant to be slapped
I am meant to be spat on
I am meant to be manhandled
I am meant to be savagely throat fucked
I am meant to be violently fucked
I am meant to be degradingly ass fucked
I am meant to be put on display
I am meant to please men
This is my only value
Say it. Believe it. Live it.
I hate these notices.
I hate that the men actually believe the words and that, apparently, some of the girls do too.
I hate that we can’t reply or argue or retaliate and even if we could we’d be heavily punished for doing so.
I hate that we’re told these lies all day every day until we start to question whether they might be just a little bit true.
I hate that a part of me, buried somewhere deep down inside, is screaming at me to stop fighting, struggling, hating, protesting, loathing.
And to relax, enjoy, embrace, open, love, need, want, desire.