Jacinta Takes a Walk
Copyright© 2025 by BarBar
Chapter 1: Aftermath
I needed to go for a walk.
I hauled my ass out of the arm chair. The room spun for a moment then settled down. A bowl that had started the evening holding snacks was upended on the floor, the remaining crumbs scattered around it on the threadbare carpet. Trying to step over the bowl, I lost my balance. After staggering sideways, I half-fell into the tattered couch. I slurred out a thanks to the couch for saving me from hitting the floor. After resting for a breath or two, I tried again to stand up and then to walk. Neither task as easy as they should’ve been.
My route out of the room was blocked by a half-naked dude lying on the ground. His shirt was gone and his trousers were around his thighs, revealing a pair of pale blue boxers. The shorts were soaked across the front. The wet stain spreading on the carpet underneath him suggested he was already lying there when he pissed himself. He was clutching a mostly empty beer bottle to his naked hairy chest like it was a kid’s fluffy bear or whatever. I didn’t recognise the man. My memory of the last couple of hours was kind of blurry. I had no idea how he got there, even though I probably should’ve seen it all happen from where I was sitting.
I stepped over the man and tried to walk through the doorway. I missed and slammed my left shoulder into the wall.
That should have hurt but I wasn’t feeling any pain.
“Shit!” My voice sounded weird in my ears, slurred and broken.
The room spun again so I leaned against the wall in the hallway. Once the crappy wallpaper came back into something like focus, I used my hands on the wall either side of me to steer my way down the hallway toward the back of the house. My hand knocked the framed map of Australia that had hung in the hallway for as long as I could remember. My knocking it had skewed it to one side, but I was too far gone to straighten it up again. Australia would have to stay tilted to the left. If I’d been more sober, I might have laughed at the political comment the map was making. I left the map as it was and continued to stagger my way down the hallway.
Voices sounded from the kitchen, a man and a woman. It was a couple from across the street. They were leaning against the counter and arguing about some dumb shit to do with the share market.
I propped myself in the doorway. “Party’s over,” I slurred. “Time for you two to piss off back home.”
They acknowledged me with a wave and went back to arguing. I decided I didn’t care that much and left them to it.
The door to the main bedroom was open. A naked pair of legs extended out into the hallway, attached to a woman’s naked ass. Judging by the butterfly tattoo on the left butt-cheek, the legs and ass belonged to my step-mother. I stepped closer. Jackie’s upper half was revealed, lying in the entrance to the bedroom. Her upper half was also naked, with the sole exception being a wide bangle bracelet on her right wrist. Jackie snorted and smacked her lips, then went still again. I carefully stepped over her legs and proceeded further down the hallway.
The door to my room was closed. I leaned against it. The handle wasn’t cooperating. It took me two goes to get it open. The door gave way suddenly, and since I was leaning against it, I staggered into the room.
A tall thin man with a straggly beard and long greasy hair was standing next to the chair where my dirty clothes tended to pile up. His shorts were around his ankles and a pair of my used undies was wrapped around his dick. He stopped wanking and stared at me in shock.
“Hello, Merv,” I said, slurring my words. “What’re you doing Merv?” He didn’t move. “Merv the Perv?”
I could almost see his brain ticking behind his eyes. Would he flap his dick at me and increase his jollies by flashing a sixteen-year-old? Or, would he tuck it away and bluster his way out of the room. I was hoping he would choose the second option but he seemed to be stuck trying to decide.
Frodo slipped through the door and sidled up beside me, hissing and baring his fangs at the intruder in my room. I dropped my hand down to pet his head and reassure him, but didn’t take my eyes off Merv.
Deciding it was up to me to break the impasse, I reached over to my desk and picked up a pair of scissors.
“Get that dick out of my room, or I’ll cut the pathetic thing off and mount it on my wall.”
I snapped the scissors at Merv. He scuttled out of the room, trying to drag his shorts up as he went.
“Jackie’s out cold in the hallway,” I shouted as he scuttled past me. “If you ever wanted to fuck your sister, now’s your chance while she’s unconscious.”
He’s probably too much of a coward to actually try fucking his sister. But I guarantee that a perv like Merv has thought about it plenty of times.
I slammed the door shut behind him and dragged my desk over until it blocked the door from opening. Given my current condition, that took a shit-ton of effort.
Once I was done, I turned back to look over the rest of my room. The pair of undies Merv had been using for his wank lay crumpled and abandoned in the middle of the tattered carpet. I kicked them over to the chair to join the rest of my unwashed clothes. Judging by the amount of splooge that I’ve found when I did my washing, that wasn’t the first time Merv had wanked off using my undies. It was the first time I’d caught him at it, though, so that counted for something.
On the wall above where my desk usually sat was a wooden shelf with a single plastic trophy. The little plaque at the bottom was coated with a layer of dust but I didn’t need to see it to know what it said. “Jacinta Mells, 2nd place, Under 10 Tap, UMBC Dance Competition, South Australia.”
Dad had built the wooden shelf for me to keep all my trophies on. That’s what he’d said. He said I had talent and would soon get enough trophies to fill the shelf to overflowing. It was the last thing he did for me before he died. A crappy wooden shelf is my memorial for my father.
My whole life turned to shit when Dad died. I quit dancing. I quit trying to do good at school. I quit trying to be a good girl. They don’t give you trophies for quitting so that dance trophy was destined to stay on its own on Dad’s shelf. I keep it there because it symbolises how shit my life has been since then. It’s not like I’m proud of my tap-dancing skills from when I was nine. Truth is, I was shit at it. Just that the other girls were worse than me.
There were three things Dad was really bad at. One was his ability to choose a decent woman to fall in love with. Two was his ability to hold down a decent job for more than a year at a time. Three was his ability to drive a car at a decent speed without veering off the road and over a cliff. For better or for worse, I wasn’t in the car when he did that. Driving off a cliff and then being trapped inside while the car sank in the river is probably a shit way to die. They never told me that, of course. But it doesn’t take much imagination to picture what that would be like. I’ve had enough nightmares since then to confirm for myself that I sure as shit do not want to die that way.
I walked over to the mirror Dad had fixed to the wall when we’d first moved into this shit hole of a house. It hadn’t been so bad back then, but it was a shit hole now. We still paid rent but the owner only cared about getting his money. He couldn’t care less if the house was falling down around our ears.
I looked into the mirror. The denim skirt I was wearing was looking worn and frayed. That wasn’t surprising, it was my favourite skirt, and I wore it all the time. The black crop-top was newer. I’d picked it up recently. I mean that I quite literally picked it up. Some girl had left it on the floor in the change-rooms at school, on one of the days I’d bothered to go to P.E. It probably fell out of her bag when she was getting changed. The top had gone into the bottom of my bag. Right now, it was fitting quite snugly over my growing tits and displaying a fair amount of bare skin above and below.
I’d started the night with a jacket so that I only hinted at the bare skin through the gaps of the jacket. With the jacket on, I thought I’d looked trendy or something. Without the jacket, I looked trashy. No doubt the jacket was somewhere in the house. I’d find it eventually, provided Jackie didn’t steal it back. It was hers in the first place, but I’d taken it months ago and she never complained, so that made it mine.
The sneakers I was wearing had seen better days, too. They were a cheap knock-off and, like most cheap knock-offs, had started looking old the week after I started wearing them.
My shoulder-length brown hair had started the night gathered back and held in place with a scrunchy. At some point in the evening, half of my hair had escaped and now dangled loosely down the side of my face like a wilted and dying fern, while the scrunchy still bravely clung onto the last few clumps of my hair. But now instead of being at the back, the scrunchy and the hair it held skewed drunkenly to the side. I pulled the scrunchy out of my hair and tossed it onto my old and battered dresser, where it joined several others of its kind.
I looked at my face. My eyes looked like shit. The eye shadow I’d put on earlier did nothing to conceal how shit they looked. Brown hair, blue eyes and freckles. I hated that combination. If I wanted to hide the freckles, I had to use so much makeup that it made me look plastic. And makeup isn’t cheap, unless you use the five-finger discount, so mostly I didn’t bother.
When I was eight, Dad told me I was the spitting image of my mother. At the time, that made me feel warm inside. Now that I’m sixteen, I think about him saying that and wonder if Dad was a perv too and married an eight year old who was four feet tall and had no tits. I wondered if my egg donor mother had as many freckles as me. If that was the case, those freckles would probably never go away. That was a depressing thought.
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