Horror Story

            Saturday morning.  I have to be back at the garage at noon to pick up the car.  I’ll be glad to be out of here.  I kept googling for answers last night and couldn’t find any.  I put in this town’s name, then Sukie, then naked, nudist, naturist . . . bikini, orgasms . . . every combination I could think of.  It’s like I’m the only person in the world who notices anything unusual about this girl.

            I figure, one more look.  Hopefully my last glance of her will be as a happy normal teenager, and not suffering in a bikini prison.  But to my horror when I round the corner of the bank building and the village green comes into view I hear a loud scream.

            My body freezes up.  It sounds like a girl being stabbed.  But it’s Sukie, wearing a red bikini this time, kneeling backwards on the war memorial bench, her hips humping up and down rhythmically.  Another scream, then another, in time with the jolts of her hips.  As they subside she catches her breath, her body covered in sweat, she turns on her side and lies down, facing out.  Her knees are skinned from scraping on the concrete of the bench.  Now she’s attacked again, this time holding her knees to her head, as if trying to roll up into a ball to contain her explosions.

            It’s a warm sunny day and as usual the village green is crowded.  People are on benches, chatting, little kids running around, and even some of Sukie’s friends are there, hanging out by that elm tree.  Oblivious.

            Another orgasm strikes and Sukie stands up on the bench, her back to everyone, her tough bare feet stamping in time against the concrete seat.  Her shrieks echo off the buildings on the square, the bank, the library, the post office.  As if to punish her more, she’s stuck in an echo chamber, her own cries feeding back into her ears.  Her hands reach up onto the statue, grabbing the horse’s feet with white knuckles, as if she were praying to General Sherman or whoever to deliver her from this strange agony.  Meanwhile the friendly casual burbling of the townfolk goes on uninterrupted, happy people enjoying a beautiful fall day.

            “OHHH -- OHHH -- !!”  Her hips jolt, tears run down her cheeks, her voice almost hoarse now.

            Why does she have to suffer so?  How come no one -- not even her friends and family -- seems to care?  Why is she the only one who is naked?  Is that related?  Most of all -- why does this pretty, good-hearted, popular, smart, vivacious girl -- have to go through this daily torture?  One might imagine it would reduce her to a hollow-eyed wreck. Yet it doesn’t kill her spirit, ruin her life as an ordinary girl.  My horror vies with my admiration.

            I run.  Or at least walk as fast as I can without running.  I can’t stand it any more.  Unlike Sukie, I can escape.  I hurry down Main Street and down the road to the motel.

            I pick up the car and consider what to do.  There’s no hurry; I can drive around and visit the town later on Saturday, or even Sunday morning, and maybe see Sukie in happy nudity again, but by now I just want to avoid that town.  I want to blot out what I’ve seen.  I turn around and go back where I came from -- I’ll head north at some point and then angle east and go through Champaign-Urbana, even though it’s an extra hundred miles.  As I drive past the cornfields, I watch the town get smaller in the rear view mirror.  I’m supposed to be giving a presentation to hog farmers tomorrow, on use of the new pesticides.  But I can’t get that girl’s awful screams out of my mind.  Maybe I should stop for a pack of cigarettes.  I’m told that the first time you light up, you zone out.  I could use that now.