
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/11928393.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage, Rape/Non-Con
  Category:
      F/M
  Fandom:
      Original_Work
  Relationship:
      Original_Female_Character/Original_Male_Character
  Character:
      Original_Characters
  Additional Tags:
      Older_Man/Younger_Woman, Implied/Referenced_Rape/Non-con, Implied/
      Referenced_Suicide, Teen_Angst, Horny_Teenagers, Teenage_Parents, Daddy
      Issues, Vulnerability, Depression, Social_Anxiety, Female-Centric, POV
      Female_Character, Reader-Insert, Original_Fiction, Misguided_Teen,
      Voyeurism, Masturbation, Quote:_Conceal_Don't_Feel, Delusions, Childhood
      Sexual_Abuse, Molestation, Suicidal_Thoughts, Self-Worth_Issues,
      Disturbing_Themes, Disturbing_Fluff, Mental_Health_Issues, Mental
      Disintegration, Mental_Anguish, Isolation, Loneliness, Loss_of_Innocence,
      Open_to_Interpretation, If_you_only_read_one_work_by_me, Not_Beta_Read,
      Hurt/Comfort, Introspection, Puberty, Unsettling, Emotional_Roller
      Coaster, Emotionally_Repressed, Sexual_Repression, Suspense, Freewriting,
      Cliffhangers, Complete, Unreliable_Narrator, Misunderstandings, Self-
      Denial, Psychological_Trauma, Internal_Conflict, Shameless_Smut, Shame,
      Unhealthy_Relationships, Unhealthy_Coping_Mechanisms, Taboo, Debauchery,
      Anorexia, Lust_at_First_Sight, Identity_Issues, Trust_Issues, Violation,
      Attraction, Temptation, Mistakes, Touch-Starved, Sexual_Confusion,
      Immaturity, Not_a_Love_Story, Virginity, Lack_of_Communication, Stream_of
      Consciousness, Poor_Life_Choices, Intense, Regret, Corruption, Self-
      Destruction, Angst_and_Porn, Porn_with_Feelings, Sad_Ending, Fantasizing,
      Catharsis, Diary/Journal, Married_Characters, Inspired_by_Music
  Stats:
      Published: 2017-09-10 Completed: 2017-12-30 Chapters: 2/2 Words: 3135
****** The Last Unicorn ******
by iamalive_(Otherwise_Uncolonized)
Summary
                                       ♥
               "I decided to write this before I killed myself."
Notes
See the end of the work for notes
***** Chapter 1 *****
Chapter Summary
            "I_can't_recall_the_last_time_I_took_love_from_anyone.
                  I_called_Daddy,_(but)_who's_got_one_anyway?
                                   Not_me."
 
===============================================================================
Babylon by_SZA 3:42
Code_by_Layouttesst
===============================================================================
Dear Self,
When your new neighbor watches you, you feel good about yourself. You feel
sexy. You feel beautiful. You feel like you matter. He’s in his early forties,
but to you, he looks like a younger Tim_Daly. 
This younger Tim Daly has a wife and two boys whom he doesn't want. You know
all of that because you hear him arguing with her about them every day. His
wife doesn't want them, either. She says she doesn't Monday-Thursday. Your
houses share a driveway, so they're close enough to hear when their windows are
open.
This younger Tim Daly smokes on his balcony four days out of the week to escape
his life. On Saturdays, he's out there all night. The first time you saw him,
you were undressing in your bedroom, which sits right under his balcony. He
could see you peeling off your hoodie in your window, could see your stretch-
marked boobs spilling out until they jiggled free like jello and stared at him.
You could see his feet, legs, and body slouched over the handrail as his
cigarette glowed like a firefly in the dark.
You went pale that first time, and then clapped your hands over your nipples.
You closed the blinds that first time, shuttering his face. You cut out the
light that first time, erasing the event. The thought of someone actually
seeing you horrified you that first time, because you have worked very hard to
be invisible. You have stuffed your bras with Kleenex and Bounty whenever you
lost your tits from self-starvation in order to distract people from seeing
your ribs.
Invisible wasn't what you told your teachers you wanted to be when you grew up;
you used to be a real kid star in your household before you realized being
happy all the time wasn't enough to keep your parents happy all the time. The
story goes that they were too young and too religious to have you. Mom was
eighteen when she dropped you off at Granny's house for six years to live with
her new boyfriend in Hidden Hills; Dad was twenty-three when he dropped out of
your life forever to play daddy to his other eight kids with a woman who still
hates you. He didn't want to fuck up with them too, he said, so you guess he
just wanted to fuck you up. That's cool; if being his little mistake makes him
feel better, then you'll let him live. 
You have liked being invisible ever since you realized how much pain you could
avoid by not letting people see who you are. You have enjoyed living in your
bedroom ever since Mom came back to squeeze you into her whole new life with
her whole new child man after you graduated from elementary. You have never
allowed Dad or Mom to move back into your heart even though they want all of
you now, not just pieces of you on the weekends. According to you, it's too
late to patch you up. They lost their chance after you stopped playing with
Playdough.
You have since told yourself that you would rather live inside your head than
live inside the world. You said that you wished you'd been born a spirit with
no body, because you don't know how to take care of the shell you're in. You've
asked the Man in the Sky to make you somebody's guardian angel, because you're
better at taking care of strangers than you are at taking care of yourself.
That was until you realized all angels had penises, not vaginas, so
Christianity must be built on some sexist shit that would never let you into
Heaven, anyway. Ironically, men and their penises are what you make your own
worth revolve around. 
When you go out in public, which you seldom do, you try to pretend that people
can't see you. No one can see everything wrong with you if they can't see you.
There are many ways to make sure people overlook the cystic acne on your
personality. One way is acting like a bitch with no feelings, a frosty put-on
that tells people to stay away just by walking through the store with a storm
cloud over your head. No one would ever guess that you were actually crying
inside.
Another way is to shrink yourself to make sure that you blend in with the crowd
of other people no one would want to look at, which is hard to do since you
already stick out like a sore thumb. The part of you that tries to be invisible
fights with the part of you that wants to be seen. Oftentimes, older men's eyes
will stalk you in Trader Joe's, and you'll smile shyly at their eyes before
hiding behind your hair. That little bit of acknowledgement is always enough to
make your chest warm. Other times, older men will approach you in Ralphs, but
you're too shy to talk to them like a normal person would, so you walk away
before they can corner you between Captain Crunch and Toucan Sam.
You walk away because it's always older men who see your vulnerability. You
walk away because you're scared of letting in the wrong person. You walk away
because you're not mentally strong enough to choose the right one. You are so
afraid of looking into a man's eyes and watching them unravel what they'll find
behind your shy glance that you don't look into any man's eyes at all.
But you liked it when your neighbor looked at you on Sunday night, when you
were coming home from the park at one in the morning, and he was too flustered
to stare at your face because you were crying. Yet he saw a glimpse of who you
are, and wasn't disgusted. You were crying because you were tired of acting
like you wanted to be invisible. You were sobbing because you were tired of
being untouchable. Behind the tears, you noticed how tall he was, how lonely he
looked, and how much his hands resembled your dad's.
You noticed how sad his house looked from your bedroom as you walked inside
your cell, how miserable he sounded as he cried on the balcony. You peeled off
your sweater, letting your stretch-marked boobs spill out until they jiggled
free like jello, and then dried your eyes in your mirror. You acted like you
couldn't see him, but you could feel him seeing you. You stretched out across
your bed with your nipples pointing at the ceiling and sat your wrists on your
eyes like you were ready to conk out.
"Fuck," he sighed. The word throbbed with amazement. 
A warm feeling leaked between your thighs until your pubic hairs were dripping.
You raised your legs in the air and yanked off your wet panties, tossing them
onto the mattress. You parted your red flaps and pulled them upwards to look at
your pulsating clit. You liked feeling him watch you discover this foreign part
of yourself as you played with the sudsy strands of your discharge. You liked
the idea of him watching you behind a barrier that kept him from going further.
Only this much is comfortable.
Over the next couple of days, you start to look for him from your window.
Monday mornings are his favorite time to watch you get dressed. You take your
time with slipping your bra straps onto your shoulders and shimmying down into
your panties before school. You take your time with shimmying out of your
panties and slipping your bra straps down your shoulders before bedtime. Then
you fall into your bed of isolation on your back, tits bouncing with the
mattress, and pretend to read, "The_Last_Unicorn."
He always looks at you like he wants to run his fingers through your hair. You
want him to do that, too. You want somebody to do that. Men have always liked
your hair -- even your dad -- and every time the boys at school tug your
curls out of wonder, your scalp tingles the same way your body does when Tim
Daily's eyes touch you.
"Your hair smells like vanilla and peppermint," the boys would say.
"Don't go around any boys with your hair smelling like that," your grandma
would warn.
She never liked the idea of boys liking you. If you ever do get a boyfriend,
he’ll probably come second to your art, because you'll only want to spend time
with him for a good fuck whenever you can’t get that story right. You know, to
fuck the frustration out. People that selfish don't make good girlfriends, so
you already decided that you can’t be in a relationship. Only being seen from a
balcony is negotiable.
"You're a pretty girl. That's why I worry about you," your grandma would cry.
What she said was wrong. Men and women, old and young, black and white, always
tell you that you look like a model when you hide behind your mom, who's
literally Hollywood-pretty, but you never think they mean it. They just feel
sorry for you. They're just trying to be nice. Compliments are hard to accept
because people are fake where you live, but the compliments his eyes give are
genuine. 
Over the following weeks, you make up a name for him. You call him "Dave." You
make up a story about Dave that explores what his life looks like, what his
personality would be like, and what he feels like. You make up chapters about
his marriage, kids, and parents. You make up what his wife does to make him
feel invisible, how his choice in partners stem from an abusive childhood, and
what he sees in you. You give birth to Dave.
Every time Dave watches you, you know he's looking right through you and seeing
the loneliness that makes you who you are. He empathizes. That's why he can't
stop staring. That's what you tell yourself. That's what you want to believe.
One day, Dave showed you who he was outside of Microsoft Word. Your mom was
gone. His wife was gone. Kids were gone. It was you, Dave, your window, and his
balcony. 
You were creatively repressed, which often drives you to masturbate in order to
quell the frustration. You've never masturbated properly before -
- you've always humped your towel like it was the teddy bear you first cummed
on when you were three after ____ molested you -- but you wanted to masturbate
for him the way hot older girls do in webcams: legs open, pussy facing forward,
finger rubbing your juicy slit. Somehow directly stroking yourself doesn't feel
as good as humping a towel, but you did it for Dave, and you tried to act like
you didn't know he was watching. He sank down onto his fold-out chair and slung
his arm over the back, legs parted. His hand crawled into his pants and took
out something long.
It was ugly and weird looking. It hung like an elephant trunk from his unzipped
fly, and you wondered if you weren't straight because you didn't find his
genitals attractive. Your opinion changed after Dave started stroking it. The
sleeve of skin enwrapping the shaft went up and down, letting the pink cockhead
play peek-a-boo with your eyes. You began fingering yourself to match his
rhythm; neither of you came, but the shared moment felt like you were in sync
with each other, more so than you've ever been with anyone. 
You start to fantasize about Dave making love to you. You pretend your hands
are his hands as you trail them down your thigh and under your ass, dipping
your fingers into the Deep South between your legs. You pretend that your
warmth is his warmth. You perform this solo in front of his balcony, naked from
head to toe. You keep your eyes closed to replace the darkness under your
eyelids with his face.
You have known since 6th grade that you badly want to be fucked by someone, but
only in your head. That's just as good, right? And better, because you can make
it as good as you want it to be. You won't have to face the darker sides of
sex. Girls in P.E. say sex is fantastic before you actually have it. Obviously
it's better to fantasize.
At the same time, you're sick of people not touching you. It's not that people
don't want to; it's that you won't let them. You don't know how to fight the
impulse to shut down when people hug you. You automatically think they'll hate
how you feel in their arms, that they'll realize you're just not worth their
affection. What's with that? 
Seriously, what the fuck is wrong with you? Don't you dare start crying right
now -- just go back to the story.
You did something incredible on Wednesday night: you walked past Dave. You were
coming up his driveway after parking one of your trashcans in front of your
house.
Dave was standing on his porch with his cigarette glowing like a firefly in the
dark. "Need any help?" His voice was deep and masculine, but empty of lust
and familiarity. 
You put on your fake polite voice, the one you have to use to convince people
24.7 that you're normal. "No, I've got it. Thank you, though."'Will you watch
me tonight?'
Dave looked away and lifted the cigarette to his lips, inhaling his killer, and
then turned his back on you to walk back into his nightmare. "You have a good
night, then."
"You, too."'Would you fuck me?' The thing is, sometimes when you asked
guys this question in your head, you didn't actually want to be fucked.
You just wanted to see the answer on their faces. You wanted to know that they
wanted you even though you didn't intend on giving yourself to them, because if
you did, they would've obviously found out that you weren't desirable.
Remember, you are tired of being unfucked, but your insecurities still stop you
from being fucked because you're just that fucked up. You thought Dave didn't
answer you with his eyes this time because his wife was in the living room, and
he didn't want to be transparent. 
Until he decided to be on your last birthday.
You realized then that Dave was able to break your barriers because he did it
without your permission.
***** Chapter 2 *****
Chapter Summary
           "I can't recall the last time I took advice from anyone.
                      I'm sure I'll be the death of me."
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
                                        
===============================================================================
Babylon by_SZA 3:42
Code_by_Layouttesst
===============================================================================
Dear Self,
You spent your last birthday in the park while the neighborhood was sleeping.
Your mom didn't seem to understand that you didn't want to celebrate the
fucking day you were born by having a fucking party. For shit's sake, you don't
even like parties and she knows that, so why is she always acting like her
vagina pushed out some happy unicorn? Maybe it's because you smiled at her with
your eyes closed when the nurses put you in her arms for the first time "like
you knew you had a purpose to fulfill," but you're not that happy child
anymore. To you, your birthdays are reminders that you don't have a purpose,
confirmations that you wasted another year not killing yourself, because you
said on your last birthday and the birthday before that that you would.
No matter how good your year may have been, you always get depressed on your
birthday for this very reason. "Why don't you try to live for a change?" your
shoulder angel suggests. The problem is that you don't know how to live and
honestly believe that if you tried, you'd somehow fuck that up, too. Your mom
doesn't understand that because you don't tell her about that. You just act
like a brat "who's going through a phase."
(This is not a fucking phase)
You went to the park at three o'clock in the morning because she went out with
your step dad (even though he told you in her face to go kill yourself last
year). She went out with your step dad because she said she hates being in the
house with you, since you're always angry and never want to be around "them."
She went out with him to have the good time that she can't be having with your
mentally ill ass. You went to the park to feel sorry for yourself. You went to
the park to pretend that you were just an earthbound star the sky had dropped
by accident and forgotten to pick back up.  
You were asking the breeze to take you away and hang you from Orion's Belt when
Dave sat next to you. You didn't feel him at first because you were zoning out,
but he just sat there, smoking his cigarette, not looking at you. Keeping the
barrier intact. You got scared because he's never been that close. The
bench was long enough to leave a good gap of space between you two, yet it
wasn't a glass wall that could keep him from inching closer. 
Luckily, Dave didn't do the above. What he did do was turn his head and
stare at you. And you got scared. Not because if he stared at you for too long
he would probably see every pockmark in your acne-prone character that he never
saw up close. Not because he'd stop wanting you or shut his blinds when you
undressed what you're okay with letting him see naked.
But because his eyes felt funny on you for the first time. They were too
intense, too expectant. Too aware of the fact that there was no barrier here.
That you weren't in control. You could feel them in the dark sliding under your
shirt like a hairy hand; you could feel them parting your legs and fingering
you dry.
You wanted Dad.
You got up after your thighs got too wet for comfort. You didn't even know why
you were wet, and that scared you twice as much. Dave let you walk away, but he
didn't let you walk home. He didn't let you wake up the next morning to go to
school. He didn't let your mom come home to an ain't-shit daughter. He didn't
let you return to Microsoft Word and those gilded fantasies you lived in for so
long.
He raped you, right there, underneath Orion's Belt, like it was the last fuck
in his life. 
...
And you didn't even let yourself scream.
You didn't even fight.
Only the smell of grass, dog shit, cigarettes, blood, cum, and the memory of
Dad leaving you was real. 
 ...
...Just tell me why in the fuck did you ever think you were worth fighting
for...?
Chapter End Notes
     ―"...if you didn't even fight for yourself?"
     =====================================================================
     I'm sorry that this isn't long. Truthfully, I should've added it to
     the first chapter, but here it is. I abstained from going into detail
     about the rape and suicide. Thank you for all of your comments, guys.
     I expected this to get lost in the abyss.
End Notes
     Some of it is not fictional. I sometimes -- if not always now -- keep
     original stuff to myself, but not this time. Unedited snippet of
     something I could want to publish one day, either as it is or part of
     a book. If you liked this, please let me know. It'll determine what I
     do with it.
Please drop_by_the_archive_and_comment to let the author know if you enjoyed
their work!
