Rewound

The girl did not slip into her favorite miniskirt—black pleather with a chrome zipper, short enough to show the tattoo of a starling on her thigh. [And so, the bird was not exposed, wings spread, bright eye blind.]

The tattooed girl, the starling child, did not then shimmy into a sequined halter top, no bra, spaghetti straps [like something to be eaten].

She did not apply foundation [fortitude], blush, mascara and lipstick red as blood. No specks of body glitter graced her shoulders. No perfume at her neck, pulse beating in a birdwing rhythm, quick.

She did not braid her long hair into a rope [to flip, to fist, to hang from].

She had a mirror framed with fairy lights, but she did not strike a pose, playful, confident, glancing briefly at the postcards from her family, her own adventures [unafraid], tucked between the gleam.

Her fingers wore no silver rings. No chain ringed her neck.

The girl did not go out, no high heels clicking sidewalks to the thunder-bass-boom-and-beer-split frat house where half-naked boys yelled from windows and poured hard liquor kamikazes down the gullets [flayed] of guests.

[The girl stayed home, preferring, just this once and for no clear reason, popcorn, pajamas and a cup of tea, hand-blended by her aunt.]

The next morning, no jogger found her by a dumpster, unconscious and unclothed.

There were no bruises on her neck, her wrists, her thighs [blood smeared on the starling].

Later, the girl’s name and her image weren’t leaked, then sprawled across the internet, primed for her dissection.

No one picked apart her clothing—pleather, sequins—that red lipstick, her blood alcohol, or her private sexual history [culled from rumor mills].

Strangers [and acquaintances, supposed friends] never called the girl a slut whore fallen tramp she-asked-for-it-and-what-do-you-expect.

She did not become a cautionary tale, a shadow made of rape.

No one said she earned her fate.

Fate was not a thing.

The girl did not. Did not. Did not. Did not.

At night and morning, the girl admired the starling, a scar that she had chosen: reminder and remainder. Spread-winged, iridescent, whistling mimic that can speak. Its murmurations nothing less than chaos orchestrated as ballet. And the girl danced beautifully.

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Lisa Ahn is a writer of fantasy, magical realism and fairy tales at a slant. Her short fiction has appeared in 100 Word Story, Bards and Sages Quarterly, Every Day Fiction, Nanoism, Five on the Fifth, Quiddity, PANK, Prick of the Spindle, Toasted Cheese, Limestone, and Spectra Magazine. She has also published narrative nonfiction in Hippocampus Magazine, Literary Mama, Mamapedia, Writer Unboxed and Real Zest. Find her at www.lisaahn.com, @lisaahnwriter (Insta), and @Lisa_Ahn (Twitter).