Undressed
by Mara Girone
Clara didn’t want to disappoint him, as he might leave and then ignore her again.
In her daydreaming, she never thought it possible or even romantic to hug and kiss in the bleakness of a construction site, or was it a disused building?
The countryside just off the coast was dry and yellow at this time of year. In the middle of untamed nature smelling of pine trees, sat the skeletons of houses erected without the necessary authorisation and left unfinished once discovered by the authorities. It was dull, dirty, and, at times, disturbing.
Clara was with her date. What exactly was happening now, after a meagre nod and a smirk? — She wondered uncomfortably. When he started touching her body, she felt her eyes sting with tears. It was not exactly what she had been expecting and envisioned in her fantasies. It was not the strokes, the whispers, or the smiles Clara had been yearning after for months. All the same, she could not back out now; she could not say no. She was a people pleaser; the test in the magazine proved that: it was a fact. After all, he was the most popular boy in the village, and she was lucky enough to be with him.
She tried to concentrate her thoughts on the rough floor onto which he had pushed her. It was dirty and smelly, uncomfortable, and so dusty that she had to hold her breath to avoid coughing. For a while, she succeeded in detaching from her body, turning her head to one side, and squeezing her blue eyes tightly closed.
In need of an anchor, she grasped the floor, the rubble, the dirt, the shame, and broke her nails, hoping for it to be over soon.
She tried not to think too much, but the same image appeared in her mind’s eyes: her mother, a wrinkle of disappointment in between her eyebrows, pointing a finger at her and exhorting her not to be an easy girl.
At the beginning, while on the floor, shame and frustration were her predominant feelings. She kept telling herself she had asked for it and had to feel satisfied and grateful instead. Then, pain and shock fractured her persuasive ability to “self-talk.” Finally, guilt and loneliness filled her chest when he zipped up his trousers and left her in the dust, among debris and used condoms, with the cicadas in the background.
Two days earlier, at the football match on the beach, crossing paths like two perfect strangers, he winked and gave his “troublemaker” smile that Clara loved so much. They had played together as children at her family holiday home each August. Whilst they had grown apart over time, Clara had been secretly in love with him since the age of eight. As a teenager, he had started ignoring her; he seemed ashamed of her and preferred looking at older girls instead, inflicting on Clara a silent pain.
Her phone beeped that day on the beach, and his message illuminated her screen. “On Wednesday. Grey building 3.30,” it said; nothing else.
Everyone knew the “grey building” and its use for the most popular boys in the village.
Her eyes followed him before her brain could stop her. He smiled again from a distance, then disappeared.
Clara had decorated the appointment date with flowers and hearts in her secret diary. She had written page after page of dreaming words conveying the images of beauty, love, and a promising future.
On Wednesday, at 3.00 pm, she had to sneak out while the rest of the family were lost in their naps. On her way to the “grey building” on a torrid 40-degree summer afternoon, she put a touch of lipstick on and freed her hair from a pink elastic band.
The expectation of what was to come sent a shiver down her body when she arrived at the building.
Stepping through the main entrance, she experienced a sudden passage from light to shadow, from the summer heat to a suffocating cold. She had to stop for a second to catch her breath, lost in her stomach.
The obstinate cicadas in the background, with their noise, covered the screaming and stomping of her heart.
When she arrived, he was already there, smoking. She did not have much time to think, nor much time to talk, nor too much time to move and run away until it was too late. Their date ended before having the opportunity to even call it that.
When he left, Clara, with blood on her thighs mixed with dust and sand, cried. Whilst crying, she first undressed, then came out of her skin. She had to do this.
Slowly, she removed every bit of her skin, as if it were a snake shedding.
One arm at a time, one foot at a time, like slowly slipping out of a tight full-body wetsuit. The peeling of her skin was painful and difficult in places. Clara had to make sure to remove it thoroughly, also from the most unreachable spots of her sore body.
When Clara finished, she curled up in her corner and fell asleep. A restorative sleep tried to take away the last vestige of the bad memories, leaving visible scars in her tormented flesh. When she woke up, she noticed her old skin wrinkled and abandoned on the floor and shuddered at the vulnerability of being skinless.
Clara left the shedding behind, stepped out of the dismal place, and into the regenerative power of the afternoon sun, unsure about how to juggle past and present, now broken and cut apart.
Mara Girone, originally from Italy, has lived and worked across the globe, from Italy to Mexico, Portugal to Greece, and most recently in London. Her experiences around the world and the people she’s met and their stories have inspired her. When she is not writing, you can find her reading a book, visiting museums, at the theatre, or travelling the world with her family. She currently lives in central London with her English husband, their two kids, and their beloved cockapoo Muffin.