Censored - TWP prompt

May stood on her front step, stretched hugely, gave her body a shimmy and pretended not to look at the reaction of the villagers. Amos, postman of thirty years standing, unfazed by any dog, did a double take, grinned sheepishly, and hurried off to the next street. Elaine, head of the W.I., giver of tedious dinner parties and staunch pillar of the church, seemed about to explode with disgust. May worried for a moment, Elaine's face an unhealthy shade of magenta, but the woman bristled, gave May her patented hard stare and stormed off toward the high street. A couple of lacy nets twitched across the way, whether husband or wife peeking she didn't care to know.

She strolled down the weed-speckled front path, leaned on the gate and waited for George. She could see him coming down the hill from the next village over, cap at its usual rakish angle, and even from this distance, she could see the occasional spark flying up from his steel caps. She smiled, oblivious to the bullock-like huffing of Mrs Anderton as the elderly but buxomly robust woman exited her bungalow three doors down, grabbed the milk from her front gate and glared at May. George had passed John Dale's house, which marked the end – or the beginning, depending on your viewpoint, - of the village, and she could hear him whistling. A risqué tune popular in the pubs locally, all cider and wenches.

“You'll get yourself in trouble singing that trash round here.” May grinned, George ambling down the street to her gate.

“You can talk.” he returned, mock rolling his eyes as he took in her apparel.

May wore a flimsy purple nightgown, which did next to nothing to conceal her considerable charms. Her feet clipped up the path as she led him into the house, stilettos in flaming red carrying her over the threshold. All boobs and bum, his mum had once said of May, but he knew there was more to her than she wanted the world to know. There was a third B, a brain and one day he would find out why she pretended not to have one. For now he followed her inside and closed the door.

There was no artifice with May. She grabbed his hand, all but dragged him up the stairs and shoved him at the bed. He laughed, happy to play along, his eyes twinkling when May threw open the window, flicked on the stereo and Barry White poured his sexual chocolate voice out to the neighbours. Their lovemaking was long, inventive, loud and ultimately exhausting. The afterglow was one of the very few times George felt he could get close to the real May. They lay now, naked, entwined, idly teasing skin with fingers and George drew a breath to speak. May laid a finger to his lips and shook her head, cascades of honey-blonde hair falling across his chest.

“Don't, George. My answer won't change.”

“Marry me, May.”

“No.”

“You'll be respectable.”

“I don't want that.”

“Why?”

“Don't ask. You know I won't answer any more than I will say yes.”

Not this time. George had been patient for thirty years. He'd first laid eyes on May when they were five. She'd been hanging upside down out of a tree about to fall head-first into the millpond. All he'd caught had been a flash of scarlet knickers, a stream of blonde curls and then a delighted scream as she'd let go. It had been love from that first instant. Through the school years he'd tried to reach her, but she wanted nothing of men, any men, not just him. She'd wanted to paint, to draw, to be an artist. Her world had revolved around colour, shape, light, shadow; her paintings showing a beautiful world filled with laughter and joy.

Aged eighteen, she'd been accepted to one of those posh art academies. She had real talent, they'd said, and she was going to escape village life, have the chance to paint wider landscapes, meet clever, influential people. He'd been torn, happy at her success, broken by the thought of her leaving, of those who might take her from him forever. She had been due to leave the next day, but there had been a final party to be had. The local youth from three villages around had come together in Dave Tibbet's barn on Longacre Farm. The cider had flowed, the music had blared, the dancing had been wild and May had been the centre of attention all night. George had finally given up. He'd decided to go home and sneak out early to catch her before she climbed on the coach, when no-one would be around.

May had never left. He'd gone to her home that morning, found her flying insanely high on the tire swing, her eyes distant. When he finally persuaded her to come down she'd refused to give any reason for her non-departure. She'd never once explained, not to him or anyone as far as he knew. Her paints had grown dry, her easel dusty, hidden in the attic under a heavy sheet. She worked from home, initially receiving proofing work in the post, these days by email. She never went into the village. She did not socialise. Her groceries were delivered by a firm from 'outside'. She went nowhere, but the village hated her.

There was a reason May never went out, did not shop locally. From that day, seventeen years in the past, May had undergone one major change. As far as George knew, she never charged, but there likely wasn't a man in the village, or the three surrounding, who hadn't been to see May over the years. The wives hated her for giving those men something they could not. The men hated her for tempting them into her arms. Gradually, with increasing venom, it had been made clear that May could not be a part of the village. The shops refused to serve her. People deliberately crossed the street to avoid her. Her words were ignored, her presence unacknowledged. If she needed help, she had to reach outside the village for it.

The worst moment George had seen for himself. May wasn't religious in the traditional sense. She loved God, and she loved the local church. Her joyful singing of hymns and beautiful arrangements of flowers had once been the pride of the village, but not on that day, ten years ago, and never since. George was pretty sure it had been Elaine and her ill-willed churchwomen who had finally got to the vicar. The old vicar, Reverend James, had been immovable. He had held to his word that ALL were welcome in his church and before God. He had been old, easy to remove with a word in the right ear, and Elaine knew all the right ears. The new vicar was young, but he came from the 'right' stock and George was sure Elaine had engineered May's banishment.

On that Sunday, May had headed up the church path, coming in last as usual, a vibrant bouquet in hand, and the heavy oak doors had simply been shut in her face. From his perch on a bench outside the King's Head, George had seen first bewilderment, then anger and finally resolve cross May's face. She'd settled herself under one of the open windows, cross-legged on one of the ancient tombs, and sung along to the hymns, joined the service, forever on the outside. She continued this practice to this day. But with that final action, May had been effectively censored. She was removed from village life and from village sensibilities, to the best of their abilities.

Lying with her now, his fingers tracing the voluptuous curves beneath, he shook his head.

“Why won't you leave, May?”

“I don't want to.”

“You could be happy somewhere else. We could... You could paint again.”

Whether it was the mention of her art he did not know but she sat bolt upright beside him. She grabbed his hand, hauled him off the bed and headed for the shallow flight of stairs to the attic.

“You're not going to let this go, I can see.” her voice held both sadness and something more, anger perhaps, “So come then, see for yourself why I will not leave them, let them forget about me.”

She left him in the doorway, threw open the heavy drapes, light flooding directly onto her easel, and dragged the cover from it.

“That” She pointed at the revealed canvas, “Is why I will not leave.”

Tears stood in he eyes, but her chin was up, her stance defiant as he stepped forward and took in the scene.

He hadn't seen a single piece by her since that night, so long ago, and he wished he wasn't seeing one now. There was no light, no joy, no love in the painting. It depicted a field he knew, a barn he recognised. Worse, it showed six figures, all people he knew. May stood centre stage. Young May, innocent May, naked May. About her ranged five men; no, not really men, barely more than boys. Her anger and pain had painted their faces. Lunatic faces, twisted by drink and lust, each still recognisable. Their intent was clear for they were as naked as she. Blood stained her thighs, blood stained their cocks, the brilliant red the only colour in a world of black and white.

He stooped, threw the cover over the canvas and turned. Tears rolled slowly down his cheeks, but May shook her head.

“No, George, no. I did my crying that night. Never since. Do you see why I couldn't leave?”

George shook his head, knuckling away the offending tears.

“No, May, I don't. Didn't you want to run, get as far away from them as possible?”

“Maybe, for a moment, I thought about it, but I couldn't let them get away with it. You saw those boys...” He nodded, sons of locals, of landowners, a judge, a teacher, a cop. “Who could I go to? This place is like a timewarp, always was. No-one wants to know. Did I go to the police, accuse our only bobby's son of rape? Would I get a fair trial from the judge whose son sodomised me? Would I be allowed to ruin their Oxford careers, besmirch the good name of so many families? Of course not. Daniel's dad – our beloved JP – told me, as I stood there wrapped in a blanket, blood on my thighs, that I'd be best to say nothing. 'Wouldn't want anyone's future messed up by some drunken hi-jinks, now would we.' were his words.

Something inside snapped, her tears falling and she finally did what he had always longed for and never seen her do. She reached for him, arms outstretched and he took her to him. All those years, all those men, her only means of revenge. Make the village dirty, be its blot on the landscape, and never once let them forget what they did to her, what they took from her.

The following morning the cottage stood empty, its windows and doors open to the world. George and May were long gone. May had done a little decorating before she left though. A canvas was nailed to the front gate, right beside the street name and number on her wall. A canvas in black and white and violent red. Later that day picture of the scene surfaced on the internet, was mailed to several newspapers. A picture which saw the end to censorship of one woman's life.