The Woman Manifesto

[spoke(n)]

First off, I have to give an unfathomable amount of credit to someone who used to post poetry and short stories here, MuhThuggah. He once mentioned to me this idea for a short story but from what I remember, he never wrote it. I can probably never do the justice for his idea, but lately his story's idea has really resonated in me and I feel I have to write it. I don't know if he ever got around to writing it, and if he did, I'll gladly take this down. I just had to give credit to him for a genius idea.

Thursday night was Rebecca's favourite time of the week. She had a book group with some of the other ladies from the neighbourhood and then from 7-9 had the house to herself before Tyler came home from work. She appreciated this downtime and most other nights yearned for the solitude it provided. She had a bottle of cabernet she had been saving since the weekend, and was planning on reading a few of the chapters in her book. It was the one her novel group had just started on, and unlike the others, Rebecca was eager to read ahead. The book was, "The Second Sex" by Simone de Beauvoir.
Carla, the elder lady of the group, had suggested it after they had finished "Edna Pontellier: The Awakening" by Chopin. After a few of the girls, Rebecca included, expressed how they identified with Edna, Carla took it upon herself to grab 6 copies of Beauvoir for their next project. It surprised Rebecca because Carla seemed like the typical submissive wife and mother archetype, but Carla had insisted that they read this book.
Rebecca always spent Thursday's downtime in the bath - sometimes with wine - and there wasn't anything else she looked forward to more. The bathroom was her recluse from the mundane chore-work and chit-chat that occupied the rest of the week; the regular trips for groceries; the mornings spent in the moist soil of the garden, weeding and trimming; and it was there that she found herself, in all of the water's relaxation. The atmosphere was quiet and full of content.
The bathroom walls were a burnt orange colour and always reminded Rebecca of her sister. Teresa had moved West just after their parents' divorce, and Rebecca had only seen her once in the past 7 years. Their grandfather Arnold had died of a stroke, and being that Teresa was the elder sister of 5 years, she had always felt a close connection with him and came home for the funeral. She wasn't even recognizable. Her curling fiery hair was like nothing Rebecca had ever seen, and the plushness of her face, organic and China white, was radiant on that rainy Saturday as it shone through the fog. She recalls being mesmerized by the strength Teresa showed, who didn't even weep at the funeral, and how she conducted herself like a woman. It was probably Rebecca's first real experience of knowing what a women was. Everytime Thursday night, when she retreated to her books and the clawfoot tub, she'd trace her sister's name on the moist wall, drawing her image from the steam. Teresa.
With the antique tub bubbling with anticipation, and the faint yet lasting memory of her sister on her mind, Rebecca sat the wine glass on the ledge that circumvented the corner. She had a fleeting thought of how much more special it would be if she had someone to share the book and bath with, but it was short lived like most of her wishes. Ty was never one for sharing something intimate like reading passages from a book, much less a book about women. The peak of his interest in members of the opposite sex was how they looked sprawled half-naked on magazines or the jealousy of a women being appointed to a higher position than him at work. Rebecca remembers the seething rant she was forced to endure the time Ty lost out on the senior executive position to Amelia, a woman at his firm. His face, flushed with disdain, bore lines and creases like deep grooves in a bruised apple. He sputtered profanities and intertwined the insults so intricately into his speech, it was like he had been practicing it ever since he found out. She never said a word.
The book was something more than she ever could've expected. She had never read from someone so passionate about their own standing in society. Every page began to explore and explain more to her about her own worth; her own standing. She usually was content to play the soon-to-be fiance and the housewife, ironically, as she had yet to bear children. The image of Teresa became even more defined in her memory by each passing paragraph, exemplifying the great divide in society's construct between the genders. She could picture her writing the book herself, pacing the room with a cigarette and coffee, before settling down at the typewriter to hammer out a searing critique of the inequality lingering like an Arabic aroma in the hearts of men. Yet she was disturbed, utterly embarrassed for herself, and paralyzed by her insight. As every realization of her life came to the forefront, she felt wasted by her thoughts, despite as reborn and changed as she was. Her daydream of her sister gave way to a reality struck upon like the hammers to a piano key. She couldn't picture herself writing this.
Although she had always felt a divine manifestation of good in many of the women she had known in her life, from Teresa to the choir members at church, she had never really thought of women before like this. Like herself, she always thought a good woman constituted one who was loyal to her husband, caring for her children, and fairly docile in most other social arenas. In highschool a few of the senior girls at the Catholic school they attended one day revolted against the dressing code and all wore black trousers just like the boys. She distinctly recalled being indifferent to what they were trying to do, thinking of them as immature and rebellious for the sake of gaining attention. In the midst of her epoch, she understood what those senior girls were trying to say. They were saying, "We are no different from the boys and we will be treated just the same", and subsequently they had walked into the cafetaria at lunch to sit on the male side. All of the girls were suspended.
The most vivid realization coming to fruition was her relationship with Ty. Although he had never hit her and usually kept swearing in arguments to a minimum, she felt she could no longer trust his honesty. Ty grew up, also going to a Catholic school, and despite the radical evolution that preceded their highschool ventures, never really was affected by the movement. He had always been "one of the guys" for as long as Rebecca could remember, and with that came a host of attributes that seemed to bond a group of males. She always thought that was just the way it should be, guys smoking cigars and drinking beer, while the girls clanned together. But that was Tyler and his friends, not her relationship with him.
She had been feeling apprehension for a few months now regarding her sex life with him. The routine of the weekday was that he would work all day, drive home around 6, eat supper which was always waiting for him, have sex (with Tyler there was hardly ever "making love"), and then he'd watch TV while she cleaned up the house and made his lunch for the next day. Tears welled up in her eyes as she realized most nights she went to sleep first, and he'd climb into bed later. She put the wine glass down and covered her face with her hands. She wondered if he even loved her - if she was ugly, if he would be with her. And she cried for what seemed like an hour when she found she didn't have an answer.
She stopped crying when she heard the turning of the doorlock. Ty was here, and she didn't want to see her crying, as it always made her feel worse. He never knew what to do, so usually he wouldn't do anything besides stand and stare inexplicably, as if he was watching something for the first time. She quickly slid the book under the edge of the bath, feeling ashamed to be caught reading, and her hand trembled, spilling red wine into and along the edge of the bath.
"Rebecca. . ."
She popped herself out of the tub, and threw on her robe carelessly. She didn't want him to think this was all she ever did with her time alone, as there were duties around the house. She had counters to clean, blindfolds that always needed dusting, and just like Ty's mother used to do, she would have fresh clothes folded out on the edge of the bed for when he got home.
"Hi honey, sorry I didn't hear you soon enough. .I was just getting out of the bath," she tried to smooth things over, as if she had done something terrible inappropriate.
"I know that. It must be nice to sit in the bath all day, soaking up the hours that I work. Anyways, I've had a bad day so I want tonight to be perfect," he said.
It was then that Rebecca realized she hadn't cooked anything for him, awaiting his arrival. She cringed slightly, the corner of her eyebrow wincing. Ty always expected a fresh plate of food after his long days. He worked so hard, and with all the time Rebecca had, she was expected to prepare her man with food when he came home. He must have picked up on her wince, because he asked her.
"Uhh, is there anything to eat Rebecca? I don't think I see anything," he was being sarcastic in his own controlling way.
". . .I forgot. I'll fix you up something right now though, okay?! Anything you want!" Rebecca tried to match his hurtful frown by a forced smile, thinking it would work.
"You know what, I'd really just appreciate it if you could just get these simple, small things down for me. What did you do tonight anyways? Bathe and drink wine?" He pointed to the wine bottle uncorked on the counter.
Rebecca felt stumped, and her head was fastly becoming scattered with how she should answer.
"I, well, I went - to. .the book group of course. With the ladies from the church. You remember. And uh. .I just decided to take a bath and maybe have a glass of wine while I read ahead in our book," she was mixed between stammers and self-assertiveness.
Tyler just stared blankly at her. He went to say something, but seemed to stop himself, thinking he wanted to hear more before he had his say.
"Okay, you decided to take a bath and get drunk. I see. What book is it you're reading?"
She felt reserved to tell him, and was starting to feel ashamed she would even read a book like that, although minutes ago it had consumed her. She couldn't tell him.
"It's. .kind of boring actually. I think we'll probably just pick another one instead of continuing with this. It's about a girl and love and all that nonsense."
He smirked.
"It's about a girl and love. Well that's an apt pairing, isn't it."
The kitchen was silent for the moment, in an awkward staredown between man and woman. Rebecca had nothing to say, and was hoping Tyler would lead. She didn't know what he wanted now, as his night already wasn't as perfect as he expected. Tyler just put his fingers to his forehead and rubbed, likely thinking of what to do.
"Well, I'm not that hungry anyways. I'll just snack or something when I watch the game."
It was then that he noticed Rebecca's breast was poking out from her bath robe. She had strewn it on so thoughtlessly that she didn't even realize she was partly exposed. She caught his eyes, and abruptly began to fix herself.
"No, no. .don't cover it up. I love your tits. You look sexier when I can see them," he said, and it was obvious he had now forgotten about his meal.
It was when he said things like that, especially words like tits, that made her feel insecure and used. It was apparent to her now that he was ready for the next part of his nightly routine, and was expecting her to oblige. She felt an uneasiness sweep over her like a draft.
"Let's go upstairs, so we can take off that robe."
"Ty. .I don't know. I'm not really in the mood tonight, and I just want to be able to relax with you. Would you join me in the bath?"
His expression changed drastically. He was flabbergasted at her refusal, and shocked that she would deny him what he felt was rightfully his. He looked at her sternly.
"No, I don't want to take a bath. You know we fuck after I get home, so why are you acting this way? I'm not trying to be rude, but I don't understand why you don't want to have sex all of a sudden. I think the least I deserve after you forgetting about my supper is that."
Her heart was crushed. The anxiety was breathing in her chest, and she couldn't find the words to say, the words he wanted to hear. So she said what she wanted to say.
"I'm tired of this, all of it. You coming home expecting me to have everything ready for you, and I, I don't want to have sex whenever you want to. Sometimes I want to have sex and just lay with you in bed, instead of you watching. ." her voice trailed off and she felt like she had made a mistake.
"What are you talking about. If you want to be my wife, you're going to have to do things to make me happy. Happiness is an important part of a marriage, and maybe you're just not ready for that. There are responsibilities and obligations. Do you want me to marry you or?"
"I know that. . I just don't want to feel like I'm just there to be taken granted of. Ty, I'm more than that. I don't want to just have sex because you want to, or because it's what we're supposed to do, I want to make love because it's how we both feel. I love you, but this doesn't seem right," Rebecca said, unsure of the consequences.
"Fine, we won't have sex anymore. Why won't you just take off your robe, and you'll see that you want to fuck me too. I know you do."
"I don't Ty! Okay, please don't do this, I feel like a slut," and with those words, she began to cry with tears streaming down her face.
He looked at her blankly.
"Oh, fucking stop it. You always sob, and maybe you are a slut if you feel like one."
Horror stretched across Rebecca's face. She could hardly believe the words he just said. Tyler turned around and left the room, heading into the living room. She could hear the TV flicker on, and the metal squeak of him throwing his feet up on the couch. She felt absolutely used.
She stood in the kitchen, alone and broken. She didn't know what to do. She could just give in and have sex with him, but that would just demean her even further. It would show him that she's just here to please him, and he can get away with every whim of his. Her breast still hung out from her robe and she stared at it, thinking it was ugly. She knew what she had to do. She had to show him she was more than just a means of his pleasure. She had to prove to herself she was more than her 'tits'. She went to the drawer and pulled out a cutting knife, the one given to them by her Uncle when they moved in together.
She went to the bathroom, still wretched inside and tormented by his words. She sat along the edge of that old antique bath and held the blade in her hands, pressing the tip to her finger to test it's sharpness. She inhaled the musky atmosphere of the room, and held her breath. Closing her eyes and gritting her teeth, she pressed the tip of the blade into the side of her exposed breast. Her knees trembled, clicking together, and she almost lost her grip on the handle. She inhaled again and pressed it further, blood leaking out onto her robe and into her hand. She moaned as she tored through her mammary, and brought her face to her knee. She couldn't now. She hacked away the rest of it, and the crimson taint washed down her side, dripping to her feet. She couldn't tell between what was the spilt wine in the tub, and what was from her own heart. She moaned in excruciating agony, clasping the breast in her hand. She looked in the mirror, and saw the dangling skin that now covered her left-side of the chest. She had cut off the breast just above the heart, leaving it bare.
Tyler had this point had heard her screams and was thumping on the bathroom door. She could hear his voice, but now it seemed far off, not piercing into her like before. She wiped away the stained wetness of her face, and opened the door.
Tyler gagged. His eyes so dilated they were black, and his face a ghostly white, pale and frantic. He brought his hands to the side of his head like there was a deafening noise in what she had done. And there was.
She put the breast down on the table, and he looked at it, alien and grotesque. She was sniffling, but no longer crying. She was beginning to get drowsy from the loss of blood, and Tyler's face was becoming a blur. She took her hand away from the bloody emptiness, and he turned around when he saw that it was true. She had cut off her breast, and he was horrified, stumbling backwards into the kitchen island.
"Do you still want to fuck me, Tyler? Do you still like how my tits looked?" she said, panting between sobs that now broke out like a levee break.
"I am not your fuck toy, I am not your maid, and I am never going to be your mother. Here's your tit," she bursted out, heroically and she threw her breast at him.
Tyler shrunk onto the floor, gasping and staring at the mangled flesh that remained. Rebecca's eyes were now blinking and she could hardly stand straight. Her face was fading, and the energy was sapped from her legs. She jerked forward awkwardly before catching herself against the wall, holding herself up with her head rested against it. Her head was fogged, yet there was something beautiful about the way she caught herself from falling. As Tyler's eyes began to shed tears and his face contort into hapless cries, she looked at him like he was a baby. A baby.
"Do you still love me, Ty?" she said, staring him in the eyes, blunt and demanding.
And her body slumped down the wall, leaving a thick spread of dark blood. Her eyes would no longer stay open, and the robe was drenched in sweat and blood. She let go from consciousness, tired of fighting to stay awake. She fell asleep, with Tyler in the room for once, baring her heart.

[spoke(n)]

up, up, and away

[juliawhispers]

Simply amazing.
There is no other word that I could use to describe my love for this work.

[spoke(n)]

I'm flattered. Thank you.

I'll be sure to show you the revised version whenever I get it finished.

[funkyfresh123]

simply the one of the best writing in this forum... keep it up

[spoke(n)]

will do.

[TRIPSWITCH]

that was brilliant
a remarkable story which should never be left un-read..

[Dan K]

That honestly was amazing...i dont even know what else to say about it...i want to print this off and show it to as many ppl as possible. Genius dude.

[spoke(n)]

thanks a lot. I still have more work I'm going to do on it, but I appreciate all the replies.

[MuhThugga]

I'm glad to see that this concept finally was executed.

I had been meaning to write this story for many years. I'm surprised and humbled that the idea stuck with you after all this time. Thank you.

[spoke(n)]

Thanks, it was a brilliant idea, and I was inspired to write it. Glad to see you're around again and hope to read some of your work.

[jeffcliff]

I wonder why there is not much appreciation of this brilliant work...there should be bundles of appreciation. Anyhow thumbs up from me for this work of superior quality.

[MoMaui]

wow...this was deep, love the imagery you created and the emotional play was tight. almost felt a pain in my gut when you were describing the second stabbing of the breast. can't believe that there are still guys like this around who belive they can disrespect their women, but unfortunatly know too many. big love to MuhThgga for the idea too, just an awsome piece of writing really.gret work keep it up.

[robita]

good story thanks , i'm really like it , give us more like this

[spoke(n)]

Uppers. I'll probably take this off soon.