by Kody Boye
“Do you know what a Rorschach test is?” he’d asked. I’d immediately nodded. “Would you like to take one?”
I asked him if I had any choice. He said that I was here for my treatment, not his, and that I could choose to do whatever I wanted to.
I told him yes.
He said he was going to show me five ink blots and to tell me what I saw in them.
I saw a castle and two knights in the first one.
I saw a heart with wings in the second.
I saw a cat sitting on a hill in the third.
I couldn’t tell what was in the fourth. There was no consistency to the ink, just splashes of color in a strange, nonsensical pattern, like someone had simply tipped a vial of paint over in the attempt to make something out of nothing. I stared at it for a long time before I finally told him that I saw nothing other than ink.
“You’re sure?” he asked.
I’m sure, I said.
“Look closer. See if you can see something inside it.”
I looked closer, expecting to see something else. The way Anderson asked me to look at it a second time made me second-guess myself, so I tried to find anything I could that I’d possibly missed the first time around. I expected to see grey ink, or at least specs of white interlaced throughout, but I couldn’t see anything.
Just as he was about to put it away, I held up my hand and told him to stop.
I leaned back in my seat.
Further away, I could see small spots of white, like bubbles floating up from the bottom of the sea. I could also tell that the ink had been applied in layers, splashed in ways still nonsensical, but resembling actual patterns.
I told him that I saw volcanic vents at the bottom of the ocean, producing bubbles instead of ash.
He nodded, smiled, then held up the fifth and last image.
I told him it was a deer.
“Everyone says that,” Anderson had laughed. “Even I see it.”
Afterward, we continued on with the Q and A, made small talk about certain things when they came up in conversation, and played a ‘what comes to mind when you hear this word’ game. We first played it with similar, then with opposites. By the time John knocked on the door, I had been in the office for a little more than three hours.
“You ready to go?” John had asked.
I nodded, stood, then shook Doctor Anderson’s hand.
He told me not to worry, that everything would be fine and that he would get the results back to me within a week or two.
To you, John—I know you won’t read this until later, and I know you’ll be disappointed with me for not sharing more than I did with him, but I want you to know that you’re the only person I trust in my life.
Thanks for helping me.
You mean more to me than you could ever imagine.
–Day 22–
I asked John if we could go somewhere when I woke up this morning. When he asked if I was feeling up to it, I said yes, but I wanted to go somewhere dark, somewhere where I wouldn’t have to be seen for more than a few minutes at a time.
He asked if I wanted to go see a movie.
I said yes.
He pulled up a list on the internet and had me look through it.
We ended up going to see a film about a woman who’d lost everything.
The actress reminded me of my mother, with her golden-blonde hair and her nice, soft features. I remember seeing her walk onto screen at the beginning of the movie and feeling tears rolling down my face. I didn’t pat them away, because I didn’t want John to look up and see what I was doing, but I did bow my head at one point to fake sneezing, then brought my shirt to my face and wiped them away.
We got home about an hour ago. We’d discussed most of the movie on the way back, but got into it a little deeper when we were sitting at the kitchen table, eating chocolate ice cream John had bought the day before. He asked me if I took anything away from it and I said no, that it was a good movie, but I couldn’t relate to the woman in any way.
John asked if I knew how the woman in the film though when she lost everything.
I said no. I’d never lost my husband, my child. I’d lost my home, but it wasn’t much of a loss, and I had no friends to lose in the first place. He asked if I’d lost my happiness like the woman had and I said no, that I was happier than I’d ever been in my entire life.
That made him smile.
It’s nice to know that I can make people happy, if only for a moment.
–Day 23–
I asked John if I could keep taking the Wort. When he asked if I’d been having trouble sleeping, I said yes and that the medicine helped knock me out within an hour each time I took it. He then asked if I was taking it just as a sleeping medication or if I was taking it for other reasons.
I fessed up and told him that I’d been worrying about stuff while I was lying in bed.
He asked what I was specifically worrying about. I told him that I wasn’t worrying about anything in particular, that something got in my head and kept me from going to sleep.
John reached forward, gripped my hand, and said that everything would be fine. He also said that I could keep taking the Wort. I just hope I don’t become dependent on it.
–Day 24–
The swelling in my face is almost gone. The cold compresses have really been helping with the pain, but they’ve been getting rid of the discoloration most of all. As I’ve been healing, John’s said that it looks like a lot of blood vessels were broken when I was attacked. He tried not to ask what exactly had happened, but I eventually told him that I’d had my face slammed into a wall. He apologized immediately thereafter. I told him that the only reason I didn’t have a broken nose was because I was able to turn my head and raise my arm just enough to absorb most of the blow.
I’ll get around to telling him about it eventually. I’m not sure if I’ll actually tell him in person or write about it, but it’ll most like be the latter. After this morning, I realized that talking about it is a lot harder than I thought. It took all I could not to cry in front of John, but I eventually caved in and did so after he left for work. I know it isn’t his fault (and when you do read this, it isn’t your fault, John,) but—
I don’t know. I thought maybe I would have been over it by now. It’s almost been a month now and I’m still breaking down over the slightest recollection of it.
Maybe I should start talking about it, piece by piece, when John gets home at night. It doesn’t have to be a lot at a time—it can be little pieces here and there without any real definite story, just enough for me to feel comfortable talking about it and not have to break down while trying to tell the whole story.
I’ll write about it eventually.
I’m working up to it.
I know that, eventually, I’ll get up the nerve to ask John to help me get through this. He’s helped me get to the point I’m at now, which I know wouldn’t have happened had he not taken me in. I owe a lot to him. I probably would have died out there on the streets. They would’ve come back, or I would’ve gotten an infection, one of the two.
If I were still on the streets, would it have been less painful to die from a beating, or from an infection? I’ve heard that you eventually go numb and can’t feel anything both ways.
I should probably stop writing here.
I don’t want to go down the path any further than I already have, at least not now.
Maybe later.
–Day 25–
John read my journal.
He gave me a hug tonight after he got home from work and said he was sorry for bringing up something I wasn’t ready to face.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, leaning in close as though other people could hear us and he only wanted me to listen. “What I said was inappropriate. It won’t happen again.”
He’s kept his distance for most of the night. I’ve been trying to get him to talk to me, but he keeps shying away, as though he’s crossed some kind of invisible barrie
r that he wasn’t supposed to step into.
I’m not mad at you, John. I’m not upset either. I was last night, but not at you—at myself. I hate the fact that I’m still so weak after all this time. I know it’s hard to conquer your demons, but it’s not hard to lift your sword and at least try.
–Day 26–
I don’t think he’s read my journal yet. That, or he hasn’t said anything about it. He has, however, come back around. He asked me to go with him earlier when he said he was going to get tacos. We ended up having to detour and take the scenic route through the park, but it wasn’t a bad drive. I’m always surprised when people say that they don’t like driving at night. It’s so peaceful, so quiet, so—so alone. It seems like whenever you’re sitting in a car in the dark that you’re in another place, in another time in another world. You seem one to yourself, or whoever’s sitting in the seat behind you.
I asked John to pull over at one point. When he asked why, I said that I just wanted to sit in the car for a moment and enjoy the night.
He did just as I asked.
We sat there for at least ten minutes in complete silence. I remember closing my eyes, taking a deep breath, then looking over at John to find his head tilted back and his lips pursed, eyes set on the top of the tree line in front of us. The moon made the foliage shine like shards of silver embedded in the side of a mountain, miniature crescent-Luna fallen to Earth to mark the planet as its own.
It was a beautiful thing to see.
The tacos were good.
I’d forgotten how much I liked fast food.
–Day 27–
The first thing I noticed this morning was that John had read my journal. When I got up at around one in the afternoon, I stumbled into the kitchen and found it lying on the table, a completely foreign place than where I normally put it on the countertop. At first, I wasn’t really bothered, particularly because I’ve known John to leave my journal in odd places after he’s read it, even though he’s usually fairly good at putting it in a place that I can find it. However, when I walked up to the kitchen table and reached out to close it, I found a sticky note stuck to the blank page just after the last entry.
“Everything’s fine,” it said. “I’m sorry for being so selfish.”
It’s three o’clock in the afternoon. John’s not scheduled to be home for at least another two, if not three hours. “Clients,” he said when I asked the other day. “There seems to be so many people that need so much help nowadays.”
I wasn’t sure how to take it when he said it. Even now, more than twenty-four hours after the words first left his mouth, I’m still not sure what to think. It seems like everyone needs some kind of help nowadays. This woman’s on welfare because she can’t take care of her kids, this man’s on life support because he’s dying—rotting—of AIDs from the inside out, this little girl’s got Leukemia and she’s going to die by her fifth birthday. Me? I’m staying with a man who was a complete stranger a little less than a month ago, eating his food, wearing his clothes and sleeping under his sheets.
Everyone needs help, I guess. Maybe that’s the reality of the situation.
I don’t know.
To John—I’m sorry that I overreacted to what went on the other day. I feel really shitty that I made you feel like you’ve done nothing wrong when in reality you’ve done nothing more than help me. Like I said before, give me a while—I’m coming around. At least, I think I am. I’m holding more than a few secrets, some that are slowly digging from beneath the surface, others that are festering deep inside, but they’re starting to come out. They’re like Egyptian beetles in that movie with that lady named Evee and that Jack Conner guy who are killing all those mummies—they’ve dug their way in, but something’s making them come out.
I don’t know.
Maybe you’re my magic potion. It’s a corny analogy, I know, but it seems like you’re bringing out the best and worst of me.
I guess that’s not a bad thing.
In the end, all that matters is that I’m comfortable around you.
I am.
–Day 28–
John’s given me a proposition that I’m finding a little hard to deal with. Though he said that I don’t necessarily have to start right away, he said that the sooner I can, the better, and that if I can get a head start on my recovery, I might as well.
The proposition?
Starting November 30th, I begin my transition toward recovery—the end of my pain, the slaying of my demons, the start of my new age.
I’m not sure what I think about it. I mean, I can understand why John would want to get this started, considering that my face is almost completely healed and that I’ve been here for almost a month, but—
I don’t know.
To be perfectly honest, I’m scared of facing it. The past few weeks have been—well, not perfect, but pretty close to it. Going to the movie with John, riding with him to get food, sitting in the park at night and watching the moon rise up over the trees—it’s been perfect, to say the least, and I don’t want that to go away.
Oh well.
They say all good things come to an end.
One foot in, one foot out—
I think I can do this.
–Day 29–
When I got up this morning, the first thing John said was that I didn’t have to do it if I didn’t want to.
“This is your life,” he’d said. “I just want what’s best for you, and right now, what I think might be best for you might not be what you think is best.”
I’m not even sure what might be best for me. Right now, I’m so fucking scared of facing what happened that I feel like I should just get the hell out of here. I know better though. I know that won’t do me any good, because if I leave now, with broken ribs and a sprained ankle, I’m apt to end up back here in a week, begging for John to let me back and to give me a second chance.
I’m not sure.
John—
Fuck.
I can’t even think straight right now.
Give me a little. Just—
Fuck. FUCK it. Just fuck it! I can’t let this thing get the best of me. I can’t. I’ve gone through too fucking much and am too fucking strong to let some jackasses who wanted to push me around get the best of me. I. Am. TOO. STRONG. To. Be. Pushed. Around.
My dad did it once, the people I tried to ask for help from did it twice, and the jackasses who beat and used me in ways that another person should never be used did it over and fucking over again.
I’m done with it.
I’m starting, tomorrow.
John—I’m doing it. I’m going to fucking do it, and if not for you, then for me, because tomorrow’s the start of a new day, a new week, the end of November and the beginning of the new me.
I’m not letting this take control of my life anymore.
Never again.
Never.
Fucking.
Again.
–Day 30–
I guess the best way to start is to tell the story of what happened leading up to the attack. I’m not sure how exactly this will go or if my writing will be as strong as it normally is, but I’m hoping I can just stick to the point and not stumble too much. I know there’s going to be some scratches, some extra lines and some other issues, but oh well—we’ll see how this goes.
I’m going to try my best, John. That’s all I can do.
Nearly six months before the night I was attacked, I was walking along the side of the interstate with my thumb in the air and my backpack over my shoulder. Colder than I’d ever been and praying to some God that someone would stop and pick me up, I pulled my hood over my head and tightened the drawstrings that hung down near my shoulder, hoping that the fabric would somehow absorb the heat coming out of my head and keep me from freezing to death. Five degrees outside: my teeth tasted like chalk and it seemed like there was blood in my mouth every time I went to spit. My ears felt like they were about to fall off and my nose was running unlik
e it had ever run before. It was so cold and it hurt so bad that I thought I would start crying, regardless of the fact that I’d been walking in the frigid weather for the past three hours without even stopping for a breath. At one moment, it seemed like I wouldn’t be able to hold my arm up anymore, as my shoulder started throbbing and the naked tip of my thumb seemed like it would fall off at any moment. However, just as I thought no one would stop for me—just as the vehicle that had continually passed, then fallen back into pace with me more than a dozen times slowed down—a man in a white pickup truck pulled over to the side of the road and rolled his window down.
“Hey!” he called out. “You ok, kid?”
How he knew I was a ‘kid,’ I didn’t know. Not that I’m a ‘kid’ by any stretch—I’m a grown man in fifty states in the U.S.A, but when your ears are burning cold, snot is running down your nose and your eyes are redder than hell, you can look like pretty much anything. However, whether or not I was a kid didn’t matter at that moment. I raised my head, shook it, then stepped forward, hoping that he wouldn’t get scared and drive off. (You would be surprised how many big, grown men stopped to ask if I was all right, then would drive off when I started walking toward the truck. I guess all the hitchhiker legends scared even the burliest of guys off.)
I said, without much dignity in my voice, I’m cold.
To which he replied, “I can tell.”
I stood there in what he would later say was below-freezing weather, teeth chattering and nose throbbing, watching him with eyes he said were so cold that frost adorned my lashes. In this time, I took notice of not only his face, but his features—his strong nose, possibly of Italian heritage, with dark brown eyes that seemed to pierce out at me from the cold white winter and a beautiful, strong, almost-square chin. Red hair fell from beneath the hat on his head and the beard that covered his face unarguably made him warm. In doing this—taking note of his features—I watched him for five minutes, wondering just what he would do, only to break down when he leaned over into the passenger seat and opened the front door.