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As well as a plastic, snap lock container with the letter K on it, I snapped it open to find my toothbrush, and paste. I looked up into the mirror, barely recognising the creature looking back at me. I had raised welts criss-crossed over the pale skin of my belly, and tits, my tits were a mess of cane marks, whip marks, and angry bite marks, they hurt at the slightest movement. I turned slightly, seeing the welts were wrapped around me, covering my shoulders, back and arse cheeks. My nipples had shrunk slightly, but were still twice their normal size, and tender as hell, my clit still protruded from my labia. My face and hair looked like I had been sprayed with glue, the cum had mixed with my make-up, making it a filthy grey colour, my eyes were bloodshot, and sore. I had a little cry as I stared at my reflection, before grabbing the sponge, lotion, shampoo and conditioner, and getting into the shower. I scrubbed my body clean under the warm balmy water, washing my hair not once but. By the early 70s, hopeful was a word that had slipped from the town’s vocabulary, but change is change and besides, the roof was all faded and chipped by then. You meet change head-on or it rolls over you, and leaves you for dead — in the middle of the road. There was a small diner in the center of town, right across from the depot and with a white sign over the door, the sign framed by two red dots at each end. Drink Coke! — it read inside the red bookends — and in between, in the middle of the sign it read ‘Spring Street Cafe — Home of the Best Food — and the Slowest Service — in the World.’ Hamburgers were a dime there when I was a spud, cheeseburgers fifteen cents, while homemade root beer was a nickel and an ice-cold glass of Coke a little more. There was a high school in town, not very big but big enough to have a football team, and I quarterbacked the last team the school fielded, right before the school was closed — due to declining enrollment. I was pretty good, too. Good.
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