Gonna Rock the Night
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I'm Gonna, I'm Gonna free porn video
I'M GONNA, I'M GONNA
God, my life is shit. My life is nothing. I'm 25 and still living at
home with my parents, no job, no girlfriend, what am I gonna do? I'm a
wreck. My life is disappearing, one day at a time, and it adds up to
nothing. I wish I was someone else. I wish I was him. He looks like he
knows where he's going, in his flash suit, a young high-flyer. Or him.
Or her.
In a giddy flash I trip and stumble. I would fall, but Mommy's got hold
of my hand and she pulls me up. There's something happening in the
street, a crowd forming round a body on the ground. Mommy won't let me
look. She pulls me away, but I know what's going on. The driver is out
of his car and trying to explain, to himself as much to anyone else, "He
came out of nowhere, wasn't looking where he was going, I didn't see him
until too late." It wasn't his fault. Everyone sees that. But he still
feels guilty. It was his car the young man fell under. He'll never
forget that. Someone's called for an ambulance, but it's too late. The
boy broke his skull open. His life is over.
Mommy chats to me while we walk down the street and she doesn't seem to
mind when I say nothing in reply. "We're going to the mall, ok, we need
to get you some new stuff for going back to nursery, and then we'll go
for coffee, I'll buy you some juice and a chocolate cake. You'll like
that Amy, won't you, hmmm? And we're having spaghetti for tea, mmm-mmm!"
She buys me new panties and tights and a navy blue skirt and a pink t-
shirt with a glittery star on it ("Isn't that cute?") and a hairgrip
with a cartoon character on it. And I trail after her on my little legs,
saying nothing, thinking nothing, trying just to go with the flow.
And before I know it I'm home with spaghetti hoops and a glass of milk
inside me and I'm tucked up in bed in my cotton pyjamas and the darkness
is closing in. What happened? That man, that man died, run over. That
man, that man was me! I'm not dead. So who died? It must have been Amy,
little Amy. One minute she's skipping along next to Mommy, the next
she's bleeding on the road, dying alone. And nobody knows she's gone.
There's nobody to mourn her except me. And it must be my fault. I made
some sort of wish didn't I? How the fuck did that happen? I make a wish
and Amy dies. She suddenly finds herself in a strange body, she can't
control it, she trips and falls. Mommy's not there to hold her, she
stumbles in front of a car. Bang! Or maybe, maybe I died and then went
into Amy's body. I can't remember.
I was distracted, I wasn't looking. Maybe I walked out in front of that
car just from damned stupidity and then my soul, or whatever, passed on,
into Amy. But then where's Amy? And anyway, re-incarnation doesn't work
like that, does it? That's stupid! So what the fuck happened? The whole
thing is fucked. And it doesn't make any difference anyway. Either way,
Amy's gone and I'm still here and that's not fucking right. I've had a
rubbish life and now I've caused so much suffering. The driver of the
car didn't deserve to have that happen. He'll never forget seeing that
broken body in the street and knowing he did it, even though it wasn't
his fault. And my parents, they've lost their son. They must have been
disappointed in me, but they'll be grief-stricken. A pointless accident
took away their boy. They'll be clearing out my room. God, they'll find
my porn. Hey, Mom, I'm sorry. I haven't looked at it in, like, 3 years
and I've been meaning to throw it out. And then there's Amy. A totally
innocent young girl, dead or gone heaven knows where. Because of me.
I can't, I can't handle this. I'm gonna, I'm gonna kill myself. I've got
a wee plastic stool in my room for sitting on. Some time when Mommy's
watching telly I can take it to the kitchen and stand on it and find a
knife and cut my wrists, or my throat or something. I can't live like
this. I'm gonna end my worthless existence properly this time, I'm
gonna... Oh, fuck, don't be stupid. I can't do that. What'll Mommy
think? Am I gonna cause her the same suffering I caused my old parents?
No. That'd be the lousiest thing ever. I can't do that. And anyway she's
too careful. She'd never let me near the kitchen unsupervised. There
probably are no sharp knives within my reach, even standing on my stool.
And anyway, I'm a complete coward. There's no way I could stick a knife
in myself. Not if my life depended on it.
I'm gonna have to live this out. I'm gonna have to pretend to be Amy,
the best I can, for Mommy's sake, maybe for Amy's sake as well. Whatever
she could have been, I have to be, the best I can. I'm gonna, I'm gonna
manage, somehow. I'm gonna... Right now I'm gonna go to sleep.
The days pass quickly. You'd think I'd be bored out of my skull, no
decent TV, movies, music. The new Tarantino movie's out. By the time I'm
allowed to see it it'll be ancient history. But I don't get bored. The
days are short and they pass quickly. And there's constant activity -
breakfast, lunch, tea, bed, watching cartoons, going shopping, going to
the park to play on the swings. I have many stuffed animals of all
different sorts and I carry one with me everywhere I go, something to
hold on to. I have toys, building blocks, balls, picture books, a
million distractions. I run everywhere, full of energy, and I trip and
fall and then get up again and keep on running. I'm so clumsy. It's like
this body, the controls are too sensitive, the slightest movement and
I've overshot, or undershot, I've fallen down or knocked something over.
But it's fun, somehow, a constant physical challenge. I concentrate so
hard on everything I do.
And Mommy's always there. Everywhere she goes I go with her and she
holds me and hugs me and smiles at me and laughs with me and I love her
so much I feel like I'm living on love. I breathe it and eat it and
sleep it constantly. I never want to let go of her. I like Mommy's
magazines, full of women I used to fancy, actresses, pop stars, models.
Mommy reads to me from them, "So happy now ... beautiful baby ...
wonderful husband ... new project ... I'm so thrilled to be working with
... he's so talented ..."
I'm gonna, I'm gonna be like that when I grow up. I can picture it. When
I go to school I'll be in the Christmas shows, in the drama club. I'll
go to college, but keep up acting on the side, student productions,
maybe the odd commercial, then get plucked from obscurity for a TV role,
in a soap or a sitcom. I'll become a celebrity and I'll entertain
millions. And I'll be happy and fulfilled - new husband, wonderful baby,
thrilling project.
Pretty soon I'm back at nursery, holiday over. And that's hard. Mommy
leaves me there, and it's full of people I don't know, but they all know
me, and they crowd around me, wanting me to play with them. I just have
to try and be friendly to everyone and concentrate very hard to get
people's names. And sometimes I make mistakes - "Donnie? I'm Ronnie.
Miss, Amy called me Donnie!" And there's so much screaming and rushing
around. And I feel a bit out of it, I stand on the sidelines, not quite
knowing what to do with myself here. And that's not how the other kids
expect me to be. The Amy they know is as boisterous and energetic and
unselfconscious as they are. They want me to be involved in everything,
like Amy was. "Amy, come and play in the sand." "Amy, do you want to see
my new dolly?" "Come along children, let's sing a song. Amy, would you
choose a song for us to sing?" The nursery teacher says to Mommy that
I'm quieter than usual, quite subdued even. And Mommy agrees, says I've
been like that for a few days now. She hopes it's just a phase and the
teacher says it probably is.
Quiet, subdued. That's nothing to do with being in a new situation,
that's just how I am. That's me, not Amy. I am a quiet, shy person and
it is very hard to pretend to be different. But it doesn't seem to
matter. The other kids get used to my new mood almost immediately and
accept me as I am. And they seem to like me so much. They all want to
play with me and share their sweeties with me and sing and dance with
me.
I'm gonna, I'm gonna be popular. I'm never gonna be short of friends. I
will always be invited to parties and I will have big parties myself for
all my many friends. And I will never need to be alone, never go to the
cinema on my own or to bars on my own or on holiday on my own. And the
boys'll love me. If I grow up like Mommy I'm gonna be a real cracker and
the boys'll chase me. Or I'll chase them first. After all, I already
know about the birds and the bees. I've got a head start. Girls mature
faster than boys, they say. Well I'll mature so fast I'll knock their
socks off. I'll give them what they want before they even know they want
it. The instant I hit puberty I'll grab me all the love I can get and I
won't let go. I'll make up for, for before. I'll have all the boys,
maybe some of the teachers, if there are any young, handsome ones. Maybe
some of the other girls as well. I'll seduce my girlfriends. We'll
pretend to be practising for our boyfriends. "Here, Mary, pretend I'm a
boy and kiss me." But in fact we'll share our passionate urges with each
other more deeply than we could with any boy. God, I'm gonna be the
school bicycle, everyone gets a go with Amy. Or maybe, maybe I'll be
selective. To most people I'll be proper and decent. But a lucky few
will feel my passionate fire. I'll pick on the shy boys, like I used to
be. I will pick the quietest, geekiest, most sensitive boy and make him
happy like he never could be otherwise. He won't brag about me to his
mates because he won't have any mates. He will only have me and he will
be devoted to me and he will adore me like a goddess.
Meanwhile, day after day, I throw myself into nursery activities as best
I can, building sandcastles, playing ball, drawing and painting. Luckily
I was never any good at art before, so I don't have to pretend to be
childishly bad at it now. My daubs in crayons and watercolours are no
more recognisable as trees or doggies or mommies than those of any of my
classmates. There are lots of posters and stuff with writing stuck up on
the walls and there are also blocks with letters on them. But I'm too
young to read them so I don't have to pretend to struggle with them. I
can just ignore them. But school's gonna be a problem though, when I get
there. How will I manage? Can I pretend to learn things I already know
perfectly well, reading, writing, arithmetic? If I grip my pencil very
hard and try to make big, clumsy movements will I be able to make those
big, spidery letters junior school kids make when just learning to
write. If I try and phonetically spell out every word ("guh, uh, er,
luh, girl,") can I sound just like the other kids learning to read? Can
I work out what sort of realistic mistakes I should make in my sums, so
nobody realises I can do it already? And, most important, can I keep it
up, day after day, week after week? Can I be consistent, not be too
smart one day, and go back to making mistakes again the next?
If I slip up, I'm gonna, I'm gonna be some kind of infant prodigy if I
don't watch out, a freak. I'll have the authorities on to me in no time
and they'll be testing me and wanting me to go to a school for gifted
children. But maybe, maybe that won't be so bad. I could relax a bit. I
wouldn't have to work quite so hard pretending to be an ordinary little
girl. I wouldn't get bullied for being a swot. I'd get to study
interesting stuff more quickly than I would normally. I always liked
science and maths and I was good at it. I didn't drop out of college
from stupidity. Maybe this time I can make a go of it, become a great
scientist or something, discover new drugs, new stars, new theorems, or
something. Or not. I'll be, like, advanced for my age, until I get to
first year at college. Then I'll have, like, caught up to my previous
self. And I'll be no brighter than anyone else, not a prodigy any more,
just an average college kid. They'll say I'd burned out. Hey, I'd be
normal for my age then. Nothing wrong with that. I'll not have to
pretend any more. And maybe, maybe I wouldn't be normal even then. I
mean, if I start out from where I am now, a four year old girl who can
not only spell 'differential calculus', but also knows what it means,
then who knows where I can get to if I work at it. Maybe, maybe I'm
gonna be a real genius, someone important, Nobel-prize winning, doing
cure-for-cancer or solving-the-energy-crisis kind of stuff. Maybe I'll
do some great service to humanity. Maybe... Oh, who knows? I don't know.
I don't know. I think I'll just take it one day at a time for now, just
enjoy my finger-painting and sandcastle building while I can.
Daddy came home today. Back home from a six week contract, fresh pay
packet in his pocket and many beers in his belly, he swept in all at
once, pinned Mommy to the wall, squeezed her breast and plastered a
drunken kiss on her lips. Then he swept me off the floor and kissed me
as well, boozy breath in my face, unshaven cheek on my lips.
"Hey baby, sweetie, how are my two favourite girls eh? How've you been
with daddy away, eh? Get me a whisky would you babe? Hey, little Amy,
look what I got you?" It was a big teddy bear, really too large for me
to cuddle properly, though I give it a dutiful squeeze and tried to look
happy with it.
It was late in the day and I was sent to bed after that, but I couldn't
sleep. Life with Mommy was just so perfect I could hardly bear to think
of this alien presence coming between us. I'd sort of known he existed.
There were a few photos. And Mommy mentioned him occasionally, but kind
of distantly. I'd never thought of him as someone who might actually
turn up some day. But now here he was.
I must have dozed for a few hours because then I was awake again and
hearing Daddy clomping up the stairs to bed. I couldn't hear what he was
saying, but he was clearly in a jolly mood. He clattered into Mommy's
room and I could hear his drunken chatter and Mommy asking him to shush,
don't wake Amy. And then their bed was banging against the wall for a
few minutes. And then there was quiet and I was asleep again.
The next morning Mommy seemed kind of quiet and distracted. She bustled
around the kitchen while Daddy had breakfast and read his paper. Then he
went out. Mommy swept around doing housework all day and told me to stay
out of her way, so I sat in my room. It was a Saturday, so no nursery.
And that's how it was then. When Daddy was here he sat watching telly,
sports mostly, and Mommy sat next to him or got him drinks when he
asked. When Daddy was out at the pub Mommy was busy, too busy for me.
Sometimes I joined them on the sofa, Daddy's arm round me. But it was
boring just watching the football. Daddy didn't want to play with me,
but he wanted me there. He called it "being a family," the three of us
sitting there watching his programmes. He was frequently affectionate.
He ruffled my hair or squeezed my shoulders. But he was easily
irritated. If I showed my boredom he could turn on me.
"Don't you want to sit with Daddy? Well bugger off then. Nobody's
forcing you to sit there. Go on, get lost."
And I would be glad to get away. He made me jumpy. And late at night,
when Daddy came home drunk, he was always noisy, in the kitchen, on the
stairs, in Mommy's room, with loud footsteps, banging, sometimes
singing. One night I heard shouting, a slap, then the bed banging
against the wall. That morning Mommy was very quiet and her eyes were
red. I wanted to comfort her, somehow, but she pushed me away, she
wouldn't look at me.
"Go to your room. Can't you see Mommy's busy?"
One night I woke to the sound of Daddy banging the door and clomping up
the stairs. Then he came into my room.
"Hey, Amy, how's my little baby doll, eh? How's daddy's little girl?"
For some reason I was suddenly struck rigid with terror. I couldn't move
a muscle. Daddy ruffled my hair, slobbered over me with beery kisses and
tried to tickle me on the chest.
"Hey, hey, Mommy's sleeping, shush, shush, let's not wake Mommy, just us
two, eh, eh?"
And then he pulled down my pyjama bottoms, spat on his hand and started
rubbing me between my legs. What the fuck? What the fuck did he think he
was doing, foreplay? Did he think he was getting me hot? I was four, for
Christ's sake, I wasn't hot. I was sore. Daddy was hurting me.
"MOMMY MOMMY MOMMY MOMMY MOMMY MOMMY!"
"What the...!" He couldn't believe it. "Shush! Shut up! What are you
doing?"
"MOMMY MOMMY MOMMY!"
"I said Shut! The Fuck! Up!" And he raised his hand and - Bang - he
slapped me across the face.
"WAAAAAAAAAAA!"
"Shut up I said!" And he stuffed his hand against my mouth, desperate to
silence me any way he could.
And then suddenly Mommy, may God bless her soul forever, is there, in
nothing but her panties and her righteous wrath. And she takes one look
at me, wailing my eyes out, with my jammies round my ankles, and one
look at him, backing off, hands raised defensively, and she starts
trying to lay into him, beating her fists off his chest. And he has to
physically push her off him, throw her against the wall, while
simultaneously trying to get his excuses in.
"Calm down, you stupid bitch! It's not what you think."
And then the police are around to speak to Daddy.
"This really isn't necessary. My wife just panicked a bit. Nothing
happened."
"Well, ok sir, but we still have to investigate any complaint, so if
you'll just open the door sir..."
And Mommy has to confess that she didn't actually see anything happen,
as such. And I'm crying too much to give a coherent story. And Daddy is
contrite and cooperative.
"Ok, I was drunk, I blundered into the wrong room. I obviously
frightened her.... Her pyjamas? It's warm; she must have pulled them off
herself... Yes, I did hit her, just a tap really. I panicked. I thought
she was going to wake the whole street up... No, no, I don't believe in
it normally. No, we never smack Amy... probably the shock as much
anything, she got a bit of a fright from her stupid old dad, she'll get
over it... I feel so stupid... never happened before."
A nice policewoman interviews me. "Amy, can you tell me, has this ever
happened before?"
And I cannot tell a lie. "I don't know. I don't know." But really, I do
know. That can't have been the first time. It's just that Amy never
cried out before. She suffered in silence.
And then the police are away again. "Call us again, Madam, any time you
need to. And there'll be a social worker round tomorrow, just to check
up, ok?"
And a medical exam shows no sign I've been interfered with and there's
not really enough evidence for further action. And Daddy wonders if
maybe he can put this all behind him, get on with life, back to normal.
But the look in Mommy's eyes tells him he can't. Nothing she's put up
with from him before compares to this. No matter how often she's given
in to him before, she will not give in again.
Two days later Mommy and me have moved out of our house into a tiny flat
in the city. Mommy has to work in a supermarket and I hardly get to see
her. When I'm not at nursery I stay with an old lady down the corridor.
She's quite nice and gives me sweeties, but her flat smells funny and I
feel lonely. I go to a different nursery now and because I'm new
nobody's surprised that I'm a bit quiet and shy. I think they must know
something about me because they all seem really careful to be nice to
me. And when Mommy's home she won't let me out of her sight. She hugs me
so tight I can hardly breathe sometimes. She won't let go of me. She
looks at me sometimes with fear in her eyes and I can hardly bear it. I
feel I would do anything, absolutely anything, to make her happy again.
I'm gonna, I'm gonna be a policewoman, or a social worker, or a doctor
or a nurse, or something, something to help people in desperate need,
people like Mommy, like Mommy helped me. I'm gonna, I'm gonna do
whatever it takes to make Mommy proud of me, for all the love she gives
me. I'm gonna, I'm gonna... Oh, God, who am I kidding? I don't know what
I'm gonna do. I might do anything, or nothing. I'm gonna, I'm gonna...
Jerri
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