The
Mickey Mouse Man
By Chia
De Zhong
But why must I remember?
*
I was 8. I attended a convent school
a few blocks away from home, and every evening, I would walk through a dark
road home. Then one faithful night, as I walked through a void deck, I saw him.
Dressed in a Mickey Mouse T-shirt and shorts, slippers dragging through
concrete, he looked friendly. Almost welcoming. With glasses perched gently on
his nose, and an awkward grin on his teenage face, he reminded me of my piano
teacher my mother used to hire.
And so I smiled back.
I remember him making small, measured
steps towards me. A lollipop in his hand - an innocent gift to a young child. I
licked my lips. I was always quite a gregarious young lady, making friends with
the coffee shop auntie, the condo janitor. A blossoming flower.
And so I smiled back, and reached out
my hand in anticipation.
What happened next was an unspeakable
evil. With a swoop, the lollipop disappeared into his pocket, but out came two outstretched
hands, which dug into my skirt with a desperate longing. I struggled but no
sound came out of my throat.
The smile had long faded from my
face, now shining with sweat. And red with fear.
I, the damsel in distress, had no
fairy-tale prince to save me from the clutches of the Mickey Mouse Man. All I
had left was my voice. Weak. Trembling. I pleaded but my words were buried
within the folds of his jacket, heard by no one else in the dead of night.
I struggled to no avail, and when we
reached a desolate area of my estate, he dropped me on the floor, brushing off
imaginary cobwebs from strands of runaway hair, now in a dishevelled mess. And then
I felt him, a dagger digging deep within my loins. Nothing could stop him from
defiling me. As he achieved release, I opened my eyes and there I saw him, eyes
closed, lips parted. In his hand was a tattoo. It said, “I believe in Freedom”
in a messy scrawl.
Those were the hands that forever
imprisoned me in my nightmare. I was found in the morning by the newspaper man.
My eyes still open, vacant. Soulless. My parents took me home and made a police
report, but when questioned for the perpetrator, my young mind had only one
reply.
“He believes in freedom. He believes
in freedom.”
I never ate that lollipop.
*
That was 22 years ago. I have since
then created the illusion: Busty Girl 88. Hot. Horny. Big tits. Double DD,
always yearning for that D. My online profile was always swamped with requests
from hungry men. But within that illusion was a ravaged soul. Always looking.
Always searching. Always in memory of the child who was taken away, and then
returned, broken.
Once broken, considered sold -
That should never have been a child’s
destiny.
But at least I’ll never be lonely,
for I have the bodies of men by my side. Never mind their hearts, for I too
have lost mine to –
Did I say that I charge by the hour?
*
Today, one of the men come knocking
at my door, just like with many other nights. I look at the clock. It was 9pm.
Their wives must be at home, waiting. He, like many other men, are entertaining
clients till late.
“Work is important,” She would chime.
I could almost see her enigmatic
smile, reflected on the red of my lips.
I check myself in the mirror,
chuckling. There was a faint love bite left by a previous customer. Rash, unrequited
love. I feel my breasts, tingling with sensitivity from the night before. He
was too aggressive, I thought; but the money was worth it.
The fruit of my labour.
I then clasped my bra on, a classy
red piece. Throwing on a thin, almost translucent nightdress, I went to the
door.
In that peephole stood a man, just
like many days before. I heaved a heavy breath of anticipation, tilted my hip,
and opened the door.
“I’ve been waiting for you my love,”
I quipped in a high whisper.
Some men liked it slow. They would
bring with them a wine bottle, and sit me down gently by the sofa table,
breathing slowly into my hair. The fruits on my table were never cut, never
bitten into. The conversation was always boring.
“You’re really sexy by the way.”
“It’s my first time actually.”
I always liked the play-pretend. And
then I would shyly beckon to the bedroom, and with a hand - feel the bristles
on his face. This hand would then travel gently down, from his neck, to his
shirt, to his belly, to where the fire burns so passionately below.
Today was different.
He came through the door like a wild
bull, taking me into his arms. Slamming the door behind him, he pushed me onto
the sofa, kissing me passionately. He was in his late thirties, weathered but
well-built. I nodded with approval, beautiful was him, and beautiful would be
the money that enters my pocket after that session.
My words came out as a gentle caress,
travelling down his neck and into his psyche. “I need you baby.”
Breathing into my neck, making small
nibbles at every corner, he turned into a ferocious beast at my invitation. I
cry out: half in excitement, half in fear. He claws vigorously at my dress. I
am mildly annoyed: the nightdress was from Victoria’s Secret.
But then it was off.
He grappled at my breasts, heaving
them together like new dough. I was a new girl all over again, passionate and
in love. He was not young, but in his mind was a young beast out to play.
A faint treasure trailed down to
where secrets lie, and I was now ready to collect my dues.
His briefs were still on, but it was
wet, dripping with lust. He was big, and I was ready. Taking off my panties, I
wrapped myself around his hips, still with briefs on, hot with passion and
dripping with longing. He smelled of heaven. We kiss, and our tongues reach
deep into the shadows. I feel his arms, hairy and veined.
And then on his hand I noticed a
tattoo.
That tattoo shimmered in the dim
light, but on my mind, it read as bright as day. It was green, faded from years
in the Sun. A scar crossed out a letter haphazardly. The words scrambled and
unscrambled themselves as I read what was on his hand again, and again.
I Believe In
Freedom
I Believe In Freedom
I Believe In Freedom
I Believe In Freedom.
And there he was, that very man,
digging into my skirt. Hands outstretched. A grin on his face. Glasses perched
gently on that nose. And a small child looked back once again, in absolute
terror.
That lollipop was one I never wanted
in me.
The monster hiding within the cobwebs
of my broken psyche all these years.
It was him, the Mickey Mouse Man.
He looked friendly. Almost welcoming.
And today here he was, the monster I
now welcome into my home.
But this time, I am ready. With a
fiery passion, I rip off his briefs. We kiss passionately, and then I take him
in. It isn’t enough for me. We gyrate on the sofa and there, at the corner of
my eye, I see the fruits get knocked over.
Apples.
Peaches.
Pears.
And at that moment I knew what to do,
to make him truly mine.
With a quick shove, I knock him off
my hips. With a swift hand, I then pick up the fruit knife from the table. With
a swift turn of my wrist, he buckles onto the sofa like a dead sack of potatoes,
neck lolling to one side, forever.
Hunched back in silence, he seems
almost like a baby in his cot, peaceful and with nary a movement. I can see no
blood, for all I see is the fiery passion in me.
But in his eyes, I almost saw myself
running away, free, an 8-year-old child shaking herself free from the grasp of
the Mickey Mouse Man.
It was an 8-year-old child who would
never be.
And then with another swift twist of
my knife I claim his sword. He will never be able to imprison another child, ever
again.
I rearrange the fruits on the table
and place his sword in the midst of the colours. A shining artifice worthy of
worship in a holy temple that was my home. I then went to my drawer and took
out a small lollipop. His hand was open, still warm, as if it would move any
moment. I clasp his hand over the lollipop.
It’s a pity he’ll never get to eat it,
too.
There was something sweeter than that
lollipop, and I could feel it growing, a sugar lump expanding at the back of my
tongue. That lump was justice, and I swirled it in my mouth, savouring the
almost sickly-sweet goodness blending with the scent of blood in the air.
I gaze into the shiny red sheen that
slowly envelops the pastel greens and pinks of the uneaten fruits. The house is
silent, save for the constant ticking of the clock in the living room. After what
seems like an eternity, I pick the phone up, fingers dancing furtively in the
air, before my hand came to a decisive rest over the keypad.
9. 9. 9.
As the call connects, all I can hear
now is the sound of my own voice, in a proud proclamation:
“I believe in freedom! I believe in
freedom!”
But in his eyes was a deep black,
staring into the distance, with no glimmer of recognition in sight. In his eyes
now reflected my own, now shimmering with a release.
In a while the police will come, and
I can almost hear the faint blare of police sirens in the distance, increasing
in volume with each second passing. But nothing can take away the freedom that
is now mine.
Nothing.
Not even the Mickey Mouse Man. //
