BACK TO VANNA's HOMEPAGEA middle class girl, an only child of elderly parents. She is pretty, but shy. She wears non-descript clothes which her mother choses, those of a young spinster. She is generally by herself and spends most of her time in her room, her haven. There alone she expresses herself, artistically, when she molds her dream images in clay and instills them with her soul. Only occasionally she sees one of her few girlfriends, talking about, well, superficials. Her parents mean well, but are overprotective, out of touch with the needs and desires of an adolescent girl; all in all no closer than distant. A would-be boyfriend presents himself once, attracted by her mystery. He seemed nice to be with, a caring and patient young man. Patient? He wants the same old thing. He practically rapes her after a school dance one time.
She graduates and goes to Art School in the big city, away from home, in rented rooms. Her parents are concerned, but nothing new there. Is it possible to imagine a greater break from her condition when still at home? Yes, it is possible: she remains alone. Although she now buys her own clothes and does not look much different than her peers, she continues to stand out. Her artistic temperament meanwhile is not compatible with that of her schoolmates, who entertain Big Ideas, make big extraverted works. Socially, freshly away from home, they paint the town, consume all that God allows and forbids and screw each other left, right and centre. Her work is appreciated by her teachers as technically proficient, aesthetic. They feel she is hiding, though, and excourage her to open up, with little success. By the year end she feels more alone and lost then ever before. She feels powerless to initiate a change.
The end of year exhibition of the academy arrives. In utter despair and frustration, she destroys the work she has prepared. The time has come for a big idea of her own. A pathetic cry for attention: she decides to exhibit herself.
She stands freely, but still, in an open box frame, barefoot. She is simply dressed in grey silk, wearing a long tight skirt and a loose button-down shirt. Underneath, her bra and panties, red as blood on her pale skin.
In front of her, a large table with a large number of objects. They are arranged according to certain categories, the names of which are written on cards.
Dress me/bare me: textiles, thread & needle, scissors Feed me/eat me: milk, bread, butter, egg, maple syrup Touch me/hit me: silk gloves, whip Support me/destroy me: crutches, gun, round of bullets Love me/hate me: fudge heart, vibrator
Visitors arrive. She is being looked over, from head to toe, as if she were a statue. (It is rude to stare at people.) Groups of people, individuals, school mates.
A girl plays with the vibrator and touches her cheek with it. She touches her own crotch, looking at her intently, touches hers, her nipples a while. She shows no reaction. (Does she?)
Another girl cracks the whip on the table. The noise cuts through the silence. The girl looks at her but thinks the better of it.
She is being fed milk. It is largely spilt over her chest.
Someone takes the pistol, plays with the empty barrel. He weighs the bullets in his hand. He aims at his own head. Aims at hers, pulls the trigger ... (eternity) ... 'click', puts the gun back and struts away. (Make my day.)
The scissors. A man comes close to her. His breath reeks of alcohol. He cuts off a strand of her hair. He mutters obscene words in her face. (Warm communication.) She stands there, motionless, emotionless. (Emotionless?)
Two men approach her and discuss her availability and what they could do to her at length. They peak into her cleavage, approvingly. One fetches the bottle of mapple syrup and pours a good swig down the front of her shirt. She feels it run, ever so slowly, down one of her breasts, down her chest, her stomach, her navel, into her panties, down her legs.
A day of such confrontations goes by. Is this the social interaction that she (unconciously?) hoped to achieve?
A woman takes the pair of scissors and comes over. She grabs a handful of her hair and threatens to cut it off, looking deeply into her eyes. She reconsiders. She cuts off one of the shirtsleeves. Her friend comes up and patiently cuts along the other sleeve, several times, and reduces it to shreds. A man picks up her shirt at the position of her breast between finger and thumb and cuts a hole. He does the same at the other breast and at her crotch. Her red bra and panties become visible, her nipples and genitals appear to bleed. A crowd develops in front of her.
Her shirt is split at the back. The buttons are cut off. What was a shirt hangs loosely over her torso.
Her skirt is split, shortened, her panties are exposed. Pale, almost blue is her skin.
The crowd thickens. Many feverish eyes stare in anticipation. She does not notice them, does she?
A shoulder strap of her bra is split, the other follows. The bra is severed between the breasts. The rags around her torso are swept away. The panties are removed after two cuts at her hips.
She is naked, white, soiled by milk, syrup and the touch of many hands.
Then she suddenly wakes up. Her voice rips the silence to shreds: "Rape!" She looks at the crowd of people, as still and pale as she was, until just. She sees her parents, her mum covering her face with her hands.
A man with a robe leaves the crowd. She may have seen him before, at the academy. He dresses her, puts his arm around her and leads her away. He takes her to his appartment, shelters her. She is passive, emotionally drained, but relishes the warmth. He cleanses her: bathes her, shaves her. She is a new person, newly born. He takes her to bed, where they lie eternally.
The next morning they make love. The newly born is like a wild cat, pressing her nails into his back, moving all over him, screaming and ranting and coming, finally, like a vulcano.