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Things were always a dark situation for Amelia, her high school woes dragged out into long stories of vampirism and self mutilation, false suicide attempts and sniffing paint thinner. It was adolescence, her parents would tell family. It was schizophrenia, she would tell her classmates.

One's good fortune is always interpreted differently. Nights where she was forbidden to attend raves and keggers (and didn't have the nerve to jump out the window) she would claw up her arms with razor blades to provoke guilt from her father. She couldn't stand the pain, and often times used hemorrhoid cream to numb the flesh first. She'd never tell anyone at school this. To them, it was her severe mental and emotional problems caused by a fabricated abusive childhood.

It wasn't her fault the drama wasn't put on her. Often times she would wish harm upon herself and her home, just so she could reap the benefits of being a disadvantaged child.

"I play in dark alleys," she once said to a man waiting for the bus. He gave her an awkward look, and she was proud of her statement of rebellion.

She crept out her window one night; fell to the ground and the cement brushed her knees. She nursed the wounds even though there was no one around to witness her agony. After allowing herself insufficient time to recover (why not save and savour the pain for an audience later on?), she took to her feet and skulked through the alley behind her house.

In all honestly, Amelia had nowhere to go. She lied to herself and believed it was important. Every time a new idea of where she was going burst, her pace would quicken with the anticipation of getting to her imaginary obligation.

The girl was oblivious to all that was real; she stumbled over a dislodged brick and fell to her face. She managed to sit up, disgusted with her own incompetence and not a soul to see her misfortune! Blood dripped from her mouth, from a bitten tongue and a swollen lip. She brushed the droplets away with a finger before looking up into the face of a surly, young Hispanic man.

They stared blankly at each other for a few seconds; she, stricken with fear at his emotionless gaze. His hand was at his waist. As she rose to her knees, he drew a gun. She laughed.

"Down," he whispered in a low tone.

She sat.

"Down."

She looked at him, confused. He grabbed her by the shoulder and shoved her backwards. She hit her head on the ground. He put the gun down, beside her. He knelt above her and tore her shirt off. He smirked at her lack of development. He brought her pants and underwear to her ankles. She kicked them off.

Was she pleased with the situation or just being overly cooperative? Tears slid down her swollen cheeks as he spread her legs. While he was distracted, she made a blind attempt for the gun. He snatched it up before she even touched it.

He put one hand on her stomach to hold her, just for security measures. He held the gun against her throat, she swallowed, pressing the metal of the barrel into her flesh. He dragged it along her body; between her breasts, along her stomach, through her small patch of pubic hair, until he pointed it directly at her pussy.

She shook with fear and the pain of his weight against her. He teased her with the weapon, running it along her slit, slipping a couple centimeters inside every so often.

Her friends thought she was a slut, that's what she'd told them. She'd spread her legs at any opportunity, and she was good at it, too. Unfortunately, she was as fresh and virgin as the first flowers of spring. The thing hurt inside her, and muffled cries slipped from her lips every so often, as he'd shoved the whole thing in by this time, and did again and again.

"The old in and out." She remembered the words from A Clockwork Orange; she'd told her friends it was her favourite film, but in truth had vomited halfway through it and given up on watching the rest. In and out, in and out, in and out...

Her eyes were closed, her teeth were clenched, and she tried desperately not to breathe as the delinquent destroyed her purity. She wondered at his motives, successfully distracting herself from the motions she was so terrified of deriving pleasure from.

A dull, bassy chuckle returned her to the cold against her bare back and the steel between her thighs. Her breath was cut short, unintentionally this time, as she realised that her own hand was resting on her pelvic bone, and she was caressing what he was abusing. She begged herself to stop but couldn't resist the forbidden stimulation. She opened her mouth to scream, but aside from the beginnings of a moan, no sound could come before the boy noticed her attempt and clapped a hand across her face.

He left the gun inside her, stifled her whimpering with one hand, and began to remove his pants with the other. After some trouble (and amazement that the girl hadn't bothered to make use of her opportunity to escape) he'd succeeded and taken his hand away from her mouth.

"No teeth," he whispered as he shoved his penis between her lips (which were equally virgin). She gagged and nearly regurgitated everything she'd eaten for the past six hours, but coaxed herself into keeping it down. She actually began to find the "fulfillment" comforting, and the gun inside her cunt made her ache with desire she couldn't help but admit to. She reached to the weapon, but had her hand pulled away.

He grabbed it and began thrusting it into her. Her toes curled and her body shook with the joy she didn't want to be feeling.

In one hopeless burst of longing, she gave in. She lifted her hips towards the sky, so that the gun could be forced deeper inside. She tried to scream her moans, but they were stifled by the flesh in her throat, which responded to the vibrations quite pleasantly, and the speed and strength with which he tore away her innocence intensified until everything he had poured into her body.

She swallowed, perhaps for lack of choice, or perhaps for desire, and continued nursing from him. She wouldn't let him go when he tried to stand, and his legs buckled with the touch of her soft tongue, and he worked the metal inside her again, until he gave all that he could. She threw her hips into the air, longing for more, but the boy pulled from her lips, dressed himself, and ran away down the alley, taking his gun and the sweet smell of her lost virginity with him.

Her body was shaking; suffering for satisfaction. Her fingers were still at work, but the relief would not come. She worked away into the night, sore and whimpering, attempting to find a climax, possibly waiting for the boy to return.

The sun rose on a tortured soul, a damaged girl, and a sleeping beauty.

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