Untamed by Izzy Pinter

Nat’s a bad bitch. With her keen, onyx eyes scrutinizing the world around her, she struts about in her delicate heels, her stride like a lioness, flanked by precious few friends, feared by a pathetic clique of enemies. Nat has a ferocious loyalty to those she holds close, and to say she’s a force to be reckoned with is putting it lightly. She’s the one who denounced the sexist bitch in health class, the one who threw that obnoxious mayonnaise fuck out of the bus when he tried to light her hair on fire.

Natalie’s elusive, though. I know her, of course. I know that her favorite color is black, that she only wears gold earrings because she likes the way they suit her complexion, that her dream is to work in luxury fashion. I know her… but I don’t really know her.

I rarely saw my enigmatic sister when she was in her twenties – she moved around a lot. She’d be with us for a bit, and then up North to her dad’s, and then back with us, and then finally to Los Angeles with… him. That sick, depraved man who doesn’t deserve to taint this planet, let alone boast the privilege of being Nat’s boyfriend.

I remember sitting in her vacant, coral bedroom, the distinct aroma of cannabis and Coco Mademoiselle permeating the air, completely oblivious to the heartache behind closed doors. She’s endured a lot in her thirty-three years of existence, although you wouldn’t guess it from the looks of her.

Nat is easily the chicest person I’ve ever encountered, and I’m not just saying that because she’s my sister. She’s curled up on the loveseat right now, her lavish, matte acrylics tapping rhythmically against her phone screen. She scrolls absently through TikTok, running a smooth, hairless brown hand through her silky, perfectly primped black hair, her lofty brows furrowed in amusement.

Although the two of us bear similar features, we couldn’t be more different. She’s pretty, I’m homely. She works tirelessly, I’m lazy. She’s impulsive, I plan to the very last detail. She’s a prodigal spender, and I’m the stingiest person I know. Asking Nat how her day went is a delight and asking me how my day went is chancy at the best of times. When she gets off of work, she’ll go to the gym, or tidy up her apartment. When I get off of work, I collapse on top of the sofa in an unceremonious heap of depression and suck the life out of a depleted Stiiizy.

Nat hid the abuse, masking it behind long sleeves and a radiant grin. I only realized recently, once I was old enough to connect the dots. The coercion on the fuchsia sheets, the bruises on her wrists, the late-night sobs muffled by tear-stained pillowcases. He broke her down, used every insecurity she had against her, and twisted her mind into believing that she was unworthy of more, of better… that he was all she deserved. There was a subtle, imperceptible shift in her demeanor. The light behind her eyes was dulled, the skip in her step vanished, the fire in her heart doused by a special breed of evil, only wielded by the cruelest of captors. And yet, back in the day, I was none the wiser, because she always wore such a beautiful smile.

We didn’t hear from her much after she moved away. She’d been separated from her phone, locked away in that desolate apartment, the conflict in her mind unbearable: the desperation to get away warring with the pressure to stay. Begging, guilting, obligation. She eventually dug her phone out when he was away and replied to the barrage of messages from Mom: I’m ready.

The next day, Mom was on the road. Nat muscled her keepsakes into an already vastly overstuffed suitcase, slipped quietly out of the apartment, barricaded herself in the car, and never looked back.

Her pain didn’t end there. Fear, discomfort; a great wave of unbridled – and unwarranted – guilt, sunk their claws into her. It took years to rewire her mind, to undo the years of exploitation, to regain the respect she’d been deprived of for years. She was conditioned to settle for less. To settle for nothing. It took ages to stifle those voices, to shed his cruelty for her pride.
But she got there.

Today, she doesn’t take shit from anyone. Today, she refuses to settle. Yes, she’s guarded. Yes, there is pain behind the pearly smile. One might declare Nat a victim of domestic abuse, exacerbated by her isolated circumstances. But to me – she’s not a victim. She’s a survivor. Nat survived. She survived, and she keeps fighting every day. She’s a bad bitch, to this very day… and I couldn’t ask for a better sister.

About the author: Izzy Pinter is a twenty-year-old gallery attendant and retail worker. In her spare time, she enjoys watching sitcoms and romantic comedies, as well as reading books. Izzy is also very passionate about writing, and her favorite hobby is writing realistic fiction novels. Her greatest dream is to one day have her current novel published.

About Stories Matter: Stories Matter is a mentoring program founded by writer Leslie Zemeckis, and co-sponsored by the SBIFF and ENTITY Magazine, for young female writers, nurturing and inspiring the next generation of writers to tell their stories. A weekly intensive where published female authors give their time to encourage and share their writing process. These are the best of the bunch, some remain works-in-progress, and some will (hopefully) take these stories and turn them into longer pieces.