Ary:

This story lives within the day. (Most spaces go unused with such a large terrain)
There will be no mention of its contents outside of this 24-hour period.
It is Saturday February 21, 2015.
Her name is Ary and shes only left the couch for food and release. From a distance,
wed call her depressed. We would postulate on the origins of her sadness. Maybe, if
proximity allowed it, tempt her immobility with questions or activities that sounded
generically compelling when coming from a stranger.
You wouldnt know it, but there is a slight rash forming
on her upper thighs. The fluctuating heat waves from
the laptop colluded with the sweat of a deadened
stillness. Bumps wont show themselves until tomorrow
(which of course is outside the scope of our story) but I
tell you this as a reminder than pain, even the physical,
is often hidden; covered. It is never identical to itself [it
is the unfortunate now of affection], but transforms at
a speed that requires a generic and ambiguous term:
Peyn.
So all we have at the moment is a beautiful woman
(yes, she is a woman) sitting on a couch. I hope
you, reader, are satisfied with this spotlighted
picture of the scene. Additional descriptions would
only be supplied out of a routine commitment to
genre and tradition. But I assure you, all of this is
unnecessary for what is happening here.

Our commitment to her

comprehension is undoubtedly
begged by her beauty;
that stunning coupled with
silence, with stillness forces
us to wonder: why she isnt
pleased in blessings. Without
context, we color her
ungrateful or maybe her state
of being is warranted. Either
way, without context,
curiosity promotes the
intellectual movement that
makes the collection of time
(compiled in seconds and
hours and fractions of each)
sum to a story pocketed in the
walls of this day.

This story is climax. Only. There was and is no time for the rising or falling of action and
details. Her character will never be developed. She is existing in her conflict and
resolution simultaneously. Change and progress require a time this story simply cannot
afford so stop waiting. For something to happen.
This is it.
Ary is a survivor of sexual assault. She was reminded of this in the first hour of her
existence. So shes always known I guess. Its a shame that her knowledge didnt inspire
action to entertain or explain. But alas, what can be done.
The laptop that burns her and works silently to create a temporary relic of the day, is
working for her as well. She has asked it to clarify, or maybe more accurately-validate,
the details of her assault.
She sits expressionless as she searches through written documents, public record, email
history- for proof that it happened. Shell never find anything. which is quite miserable,
because this lack of confirmation of what she believes to exist is ultimately what drives

her crazy. Her day, and life, this story, is her craze. Nothing came before and nothing can
come after.
She questions silently if she made it up. Her only witness the perpetrator- and an
unreliable self that cant be accessed.
Nothing comes next.
But I still feel youre waiting.
Youre reading.
I fear parts of you are hoping.
But I promise this is all the
information I have on this.

Ary is only this. This is the story

of her identity. She exists fully
and ends, complete stop.

You are trying to keep her alive

by continuing.
Maybe, reader, if you keep reading you can keep pretending she hasnt already gone. And
maybe it is true. Since, the story- this story- is permitting your continuance and
subsequently hers.
Then the question becomes: Who will kill her first? You or I?