TRIBULATION: Article 1-Sexual Terrorism as a means for National Security

this is the part where she stumbles into the room gasping for breath after an evening of wine and repressed memories. collapsing like a building unto the ruins of her apartment floor. face down in the heaps of slag and filth which drip off the ceiling due to the poor plumbing of the roach motel she has taken residence in. her lungs expand and contract to the rhythm of past conversations, ones which lay mimeographed to the walls, depicting a history of degradation and prejudice in the most vivid colors one could imagine.
"how the fuck did this happen" she mumbles into the filthy carpet, inhaling a small population of dust mites as she does so.
"because you're a fucking wreck, a filthy cunt with no regard for the for the feelings of others. your paper-thin facade of narcissistic self-defeating behavior only binds you to the blatant fact that your life is shit," she answers to herself"i mean for fuck's sake your from Iowa!"
she proceeds to sit up, lean (lunges) over to the nightstand and grabs a bottle of night train. empties it.
for all intents and purposes she is an attractive woman, sometimes catching the casual glance of a young college student and the occasional flirt with married men who decide to wander into her bar, looking for some debauchery or perhaps just trying to forget. forget.
forget.
forget.
if only she could forget, she hasn't felt this dirty since she was 12, since the first time it happened. and now the shame and filth and fear and sickness and death and pain are engulfing her again. pushing her down into the cancer of post-traumatic stress disorder. crawling through her capillary veins like a fever wiping out a small village. she feels the vermin burrowing into her psyche like so many ex-patriots raising flags for a nation they can't believe in.
but...
however, she feels she is doing her part. that her and everyone else like her are illustrating with perfection the lifestyle of the starving. at this moment she feels solidarity with every junk-sick prostitute dying in the street. with every family living in their car. with every dead bum rotting beneath a highway overpass. these are the poor, desperate victims that our great nation is built upon. the fucking foundation of democracy stands on the graves of every single civic casualty that line our city streets.
she feels patriotic.
laying there on her apartment floor she is bloody, bruised, her vaginal walls are slightly torn and bleeding, her clothes are ripped and dirty. she is absolutely at the lowest point that any human being could find themselves in. she feels like a hollowed out carcass laying 6 feet beneath the commonplace drudgery of the capitalist line-dance.

she feels like the most patriotic person in the whole fucking country, she has been raped, brutalized, and dehumanized. in essence she is the american dream incarnate. lady liberty.