Who Are You Calling a Whore?

This is my response to prompt #25. Once Helen mentioned doing a monologue from a character's point of view--specifically Jenn's--my mind wouldn't let me go anywhere else. I also tried to mimic Canty's style with short, matter-of-fact sentences.

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You whisper about me. You don’t even know me, my pain. As far as I know, none of you have lost a child so young. She was one. Only one. I never got to have a conversation with her. Discover her favorite color. Watch her in her first dance recital. 

I blame him. How can I look at the man who let my daughter die? You say it was a freak accident. That if he had been one minute earlier or later, I wouldn’t be living this nightmare. Well, he wasn’t. He was right on time. I don’t really give a shit that Siobhan had a near miss in the same spot last year. I don’t need to hear about her luck while suffering through the worst tragedy of my life. 

How can I look at anyone in this god-forsaken town? Full of ignorant shopkeepers, barkeeps, and waitresses who don’t know what life looks like outside this moldy atmosphere. You think you know. You talk to the tourists, pick their brains a little. But, have you ever ventured away from home? No, you have not. You sit here, gossiping about this-and-that: who had a baby recently, who has been stricken with cancer, who painted their house and why on earth they chose that color, the people who dared to move away. 

You rained platitudes down on me the day of the funeral. She’s in a better place. It was God’s will. Time will heal.

Fuck you. All of you. How do you know where she is? That it’s better? That she’s not afraid or lonely.  A one-year-old baby girl belongs with her mother. I belong with her. I want to be with her, not stuck here with the likes of you.

You claim you don’t call me a whore. Only Mary Ann Tucker, the hairy-ass hippy who reeks of patchouli and acrid body odor. Maybe, just maybe, her husband left because she let herself go, stopped caring.  Who wants to fuck someone like that?  You may not call me a whore, but your message comes through loud and clear. You keep tabs on my every move. Watch me when I run on the beach. Spy on me when I take my son to the playground. Cluck when you see Daniel and me eating breakfast at the Big Wave cafe’ with wet hair. Have you looked at how you go out in public? It’s not exactly Fashion Week in New York City around here. 

You may not say the word whore. But you think you have me figured out. I have taken to sleeping with other men since my daughter’s death, since I left Donald. What else do I have to comfort me? Distract me from the dark thoughts. Keep me from drowning in the bottomless recesses of my mind. The touch of a man keeps me here. I wouldn’t even say I get pleasure from it. I don’t think I will ever feel pleasure again. That’s not even what I’m looking for. I just need some kind of lifeline to the here and now. Something to stop me from jumping headfirst off the highest cliff. 

Keep gossiping, being busy bodies.  That’s all you have. That makes you more pathetic than me. At least I have someone to run the beach with me, eat breakfast with, wet hair and all. Someone who accepts my situation. Someone who doesn’t judge me. 

This is why I sneak off to her grave in private. I don't want your beady eyes watching. As I lay my cheek on the cold, damp earth, I try to breathe her in. The sweet scent of baby shampoo and freshly laundered dresses. But, I've lost her. All I can smell is the musty earth, singeing my nose with the smell of inexplicable loss. I pray that the earth swallows me up. Takes me wherever she is. It doesn't. I listen for her giggle in the wind, but all that resonates is the weeping of the swaying trees. Their tears fall upon me but offer no consolation.