The Devil and the Affen Angel by Teagan Fowlkes (17, Kentucky)

[content warning: sexual abuse]

He comes to you, hungry.

The first time he comes to you, he’s smiling. It’s painted on tv as he stands a country away from you in some Hollywood studio. And everyone laughs because he’s making a joke. But you don’t see anything funny about him. No. He’s lovely serious. 

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The first time he comes to you, you are a girl. And your mother tells you that one day your fingers will acquire a taste for human skin, and you see that other girls your age have already learned this instrument, plucking every delicious string of flesh they find. And the men offer it up to them like slaves. And the girls he likes have high-cut skirts and low-cut shirts. Nobody told you that you weren’t supposed to be living the way you do.

When he comes to you, you cough. Because the bitterness of skin makes your throat shrink. One look and you can feel it plucking at you. Who’s to say who’s the instrument and who’s the player? You know better than that. So, you put on your armor and you retreat from him. You slather yourself in war paint and call yourself Affen Angel, as in Laughing Angel, as in one who laughs and one who is laughed at. Because everyone tells you that you aren’t supposed to be living the way you do. And you think that’s funny.

But he comes to you, in his screen. And Hollywood offers up to you his skin like a harp given up to Athena. But that gift will need feeding. But you don’t have anything to give it. But it’s not really real anyway. It a ploy to get you to stretch your hand out so one of the slaves can grab it instead. You shy away, Affen Angel, laughing.

He comes to you, hungry, one night at dinner. With the tv blaring in the background as you eat with your family. And his skin ripples over the screen in a second. Startling. You look around, and everyone is unfazed. Because he only came for you. And you slam your hands down on the table and scream, “Is no one going to help me?”

He comes to you. As your family knocks on the door and asks if you’re alright. He comes to you, standing in the corner of your room, a hallucination. And he laughs like he’s just made a joke. But no. He’s lovely serious. You laugh too. Just a little at first, but soon, boisterous and endless. With each snicker, shedding your Affen Angel feathers, exposing the skin underneath. Because all you really wanted was someone to laugh with.

​Everyone wants you to touch. You’re more worried about being touched.