THE FLIPSIDE OF VICTIMHOOD

For such a sensitive child, shy in class, it seems counter intuitive that Deirdre should be tagged with the label ‘precocious’, endeavour to become the class clown and be defined by some as a bully … but there you are. It was undeniable that some sort of violence had germinated within, but it was more sinister.

At that time her father was seldom home before bedtime to have the opportunity to browbeat, so discipline was left up to her prime carer: a mother whose perceived new and disagreeable habit (manifesting at the appearance of her natural born – non C-section sister) of either forgetting Deirdre was present, or just purposely ignoring her.

This might have been put down to exaggeration born of a child’s addiction to attention, especially as a first born, if Deirdre hadn’t repeatedly been left mesmerized at the sweetie-counter of a nearby supermarket while her mother ambled off with some friend or other cooing over the latest addition to the household, invariably cosseted safely in mother's arms via some sort of harness.

Deirdre’s resultant gambits for attention by any means … from anybody … and her being stocky in build, had led to the wraith-ish urchins in her class calling her a fat lezzo.

Having no gang to back her up – legacy of prior over protection of not being allowed out to play with others – and not being over-blessed with verbiage, her frustration and hurt resolved into putting the offenders in a headlock – which she’d seen on the wrestling channel – until they apologized.

THE FLIPSIDE OF VICTIMHOOD

But that was back then, when children were forced into each others' company in classrooms and social gatherings which the adults controlled.

Deirdre had found adulthood a lot more challenging. Shunned for an intellect which her social and financial situation had hobbled with mediocrity, she had grown ever more alone and hungry for fulfillment.

But this was the end of the quarter, and her salary from the fast food outlet had been squirreled away with leave days for this long weekend of role play and scratching that aching itch.

She handled the helmet crafted from puffer fish skin carefully, avoiding the one spine she had laced with its natural poison, tetrodotoxin – its final defiance of being eaten, contained, as it was, in its internal organs. She found that fitting spice to the periodic role play.

The escort stood with his back to her, a man about her father’s age – again fitting.

He was getting impatient.

They all did.

This one tried to rush things along, but in character. “Ma’am?”

Deirdre liked that. She almost smiled. But no, the role-play needed to be.

She maintained her pout. “I need a fitting,” she said, forcing petulance into her tone.

“As you say, Ma’am Anything in particular?”

He’d learned the script.

Deirdre leaned by in the bed and wriggled into comfort.

“A three-day length of blissful attention. Use your special probe. This will require many rapid, deep, and vigorous measurements ”