by S R Savell
I rub my pocket to stop my new knife from wanting so much. I’d love to stripe these walls, give them some character.
I go back downstairs instead.
The party is heating up. My old stereo’s in the corner blaring seventies music, and a bunch of old people I’ve never met are shaking so hard I fear for their prosthetic hips. The Happy New Year banner hangs high, balloons sticking to the ceiling.
I want to retreat, but when I see Nathaniel trapped in the fray, stuck between the office whore, her latest beau (aka the unlucky bastard), and Mom herself, I descend the last two stairs and squeeze my way over.
“Can I cut in?” I’m already pulling Nate away, smirking at the jealousy the whore lady wears like her hair extensions.
“Thanks, Michelle.” He hugs me tight.
“Welcome. Can we go home yet?”
“Um, you know we need to stay a while because . . .”
“Because Mom and I need to try and work out our differences.”
“Yeah, that.” He spins me.
I laugh. “Fine. You convinced me.”
I wiggle my finger.
He leans down, clearly thinking I’m going to whisper in his ear.
I kiss him instead, and he holds me a second before breaking away.
We dance all night, until the balloons float to the floor and the foundation of the house is so shaken it’s liable to turn to dust. We laugh and spin until our brains shift in our heads and our lungs expand to twice their size. And then Nate and I go home and have passionate sex for the remainder of the night.
The end.
Chapter 13
“A long time ago, there were two beings, Story and Truth. Story was a town hero, a village favorite, and every time he came around, people rallied in the streets, cheering and welcoming their beloved guest. They gave him things and begged him to stay when he prepared to take his leave.
“Truth was as hated as Story was loved. Every time Truth came to town, the villagers brought out their torches and knives, driving him out of their midst.
“One day, Truth and Story met on the road. Truth begged of Story to tell how he made the villagers love him so.
“‘No one likes you because you are painful, deep, and cruel,’ Story said. ‘They love me because I make them happy.’
“Truth said, ‘Then tell me how I can make them love me too.’
“‘Fine. Here’s what we’ll do. We’ll go into town, and I’ll wrap around you so all they’ll see is me.’
“Overjoyed, Truth allowed Story to wrap around him. And when they went into the village, the people emerged to see only Story. They rejoiced at his presence; they celebrated and danced and feasted in his honor. Truth had never been happier.
“And from that day on, Truth and Story were never separated again.”
As much as everyone hates the truth, they hate more to admit the lies are there at all. They prove that they’re human. They show weakness, cowardice.
I lied about some stuff.
What else is new?
The woman clicks her pen. “That’s a lovely story, but what does it have to do with anything?”
I shrug. “Just wanted to tell it. Breaks the ice.”
She sighs, fixing her glasses. “Michelle, you came here to give a written statement. I haven’t heard anything important yet.”
A splinter from the chair arm hangs under my nail. I dig it out with my teeth and start again.
“I have no idea what she was saying.” I lower my head to the countertop and roll it left and right. “None. Nada. Nothing.”
No one responds. Which is a good thing because no one’s here at the moment. I drag the paperback closer, peering in at the pages floating inches apart.
The first book was a happy story. The second I wasn’t allowed to read, only chapter six. The third was written, I’m sure, by a bona fide nutcase and the fourth by a saint. Now, on the fifth book in this follow-the-paper-trail routine, I’m wondering if Mrs. Stotes had it in for me, because this one is an all-out, sappified romance with men with long, flowy hair that save big-chested blondes from certain deaths, managing to look supasexay the whole time they’re doing it.
Eight. That’s how many cards in total she left me.
The door clangs, and I sit up and stretch.
It’s Peter. His eyes are bloodshot, and he’s slumped against the door frame. From across the room, the vent picks up the smell of whiskey and pushes it up my nose.
“Peter?” I ask, standing a little.
He shakes his head, coughs deep in his chest. “Whaat?” He slips from the door and crashes to the tile. The bottle stays intact but spills an amber puddle for him to roll in.
I don’t know what to do, but leaving him there doesn’t seem the way to go.
“Peter,” I call, walking around the counter. “Hey.”
Another cough, and his head tilts up. “M’chelle . . .”
“Yeah.” I’m squatted next to him, trying to pull him up. I manage to get him halfway when I feel his hand on my ass. Swatting if off, I stand him upright.
It goes back.
I let him go.
He topples forward, catches himself before he hits the floor.
“I hope you weren’t stupid enough to drive here.”
He staggers over, an old man in gait. “I miss’d you. It’s been a while.” The last part is a realization.
“You didn’t drive here, did you?”
He grumbles something, grasps the counter with both hands.
I hate drunks. I especially hate stupid drunks. “Whatever. I’ll call your wife. What’s her number?”
He slurs again.
“What’s your home number, Peter?”
He pitches forward. Slowly his bloodshot eyes gaze at me. “What did you say t’ me?”
I speak quietly, calmly. “I asked you what your wife’s number is. I’ll just call you a cab, okay?”
I grab my phone.
Dead.
I lift my bag.
He keeps staring.
My heart is screaming.
“I said I’ll—”
“I heard you!” He leans in, breathing hard. “Who th’ fuck do you think you are, li’l girl? Huh? Who do you think you are?”
“I’m going home.”
“You li’l bitch,” he hisses, and then he’s clawing, grabbing, yanking.
I slam my phone into his face.
He goes down hard, and I grab the heaviest thing I can, a textbook, and lob it at his head. He groans and goes still.
The work phone. The phone . . . that was cut off last week because he didn’t pay the bill.
I bail around the counter, door bound—
My brains splatter, spraying my whole back. I go down, spots shimmering across my vision.
I’m being dragged, but my body is unresponsive to my flail-and-scream command. A door shuts, and I can feel hands, hands everywhere, and I draw blood when one comes too close to my face. I get what’s left of my head slammed into the tile, and the world blackens.
I wake to the sound of a door slamming, the smells of whiskey and urine and sweat, and the feeling of blood draining between my thighs.
The dust bunnies on the floor match my favorite shirt.
I really need to do the laundry; it’s starting to pile up.
I think I’ll go home and do that.
The tile is hot on my cheek, so I unstick my face and push myself up.
Peter.
Peter.
Peter.
I wonder if I have enough whites to make a load. Then I remember the sheets.
My little veins of fire dart up and between my legs, but I stand and hold on to the mop for support.
I should mop too. Maybe vacuum the walls and dust the floors.
The closet is only a few walk-crawls from the bathroom; I make it pretty easily. The hand dryer feels good on my face. I hit it six more times, sure to soak out all the juices from my eyeballs before finding the toilet, which reminds me
I need to pick up toilet paper soon because we’re down to our last roll. One big dump, and everyone else will be shit out of luck.
The blood and—oh, and milk; have to get milk too—comes off pretty well, and I flush the wad down the toilet. Standing is a challenge, but I’m up for anything. Anything to make the hollowness go away.
I need to go grocery shopping. I can drop by on my way home.
It hurts.
I shift into a tighter ball on the couch. Wolf is at my feet, crying softly.
I toss the tissue, miss the can completely.
I’ll get it later.
My toes won’t reach, but I stretch anyway, hoping a wind will blow or the house will tilt it my way or the wastebasket will lean down and swallow it up. No luck, so I withdraw the foot and watch the painting on the wall instead.
The entire lower half of my body, or at least I think it’s mine, has one long knife twisting and turning in my gut and groin.
I dive for the garbage and heave into it.
Any other time, I could sleep standing up. Now I’m praying for falling meteors and can’t get a stray pebble to strike me down.
Wolf’s fur is so soft. He’s in my lap, on the floor, and I hum to him. He falls asleep, but I can’t, not until Nate gets home.
“Michelle?”
My abdomen burns. My head hurts. It hurts all over—so bad—and I swallow back the pain. “Honey, I’m home.” That’s not my line, I realize.
He’s next to me now, speaking softly, pulling me to the couch. I edge away, mumbling I’m dirty, I’m disgusting, but he says of course I’m not, so I wrap my arms around his neck and hold him.
“It hurts,” I murmur, face in his shoulder.
“What hurts?”
“Everything.”
He tucks me in on the couch, pulling the blanket from the back. “I went by the store, but you weren’t there”—he checks my temperature, strokes my hair—“and I called Peter but never got an ans—”
He pulls his hand back.
A tinkling glass piece, a bloody star fragment, from my hair.
I pull away, and he stills, black eyes shrinking my insides.
He stammers my name, and I try to answer.
I’m in his lap, his arms a cage to keep the demons out.
“Michelle?” His lips are in my hair, grazing over the knot in my skull. Which is good because a knot means no brain swelling. “Baby?”
“What?”
“What happened? What can I do?” His grip tightens, and it’s a comfort.
My hair is stabbing me in the face. I shift and use his chest as a blinder. “I’m fine. I’m just sick.”
“You need to go to the hospital.”
“No.”
His hands feel so nice on my back, on my hair, but I ache all over, so it hurts bad too.
My chin is pulled up. His hands are holding up my head, making me look at him. “Please?” He swallows, then lets out a jagged breath.
He sounds so worried. I didn’t want to worry him. I just feel like shit.
I smile. “I’m fine. Sorry there are tissues on the floor.”
There’s a hand on my forehead, and I hold it there with my own.
“What can I do?”
“Tylenol?”
He swears, settling me back on the couch. I wave my arms, wishing him back, and he strokes my face.
“I don’t want it that bad,” I say, eyes shutting.
“I’m going to the pharmacy around the corner. I’ll be right back.” He leaves his coat and rushes out, the door locking behind him.
He wakes me up when he gets back, half the pharmacy in his arms. Such a worrywart. I think he may have a cream for that too.
He’s unloading boxes of pills and ointments, and then I see he’s brought other stuff, like oranges and chocolate and gum and flowers and a stuffed puppy, and I start to laugh, laugh hard, and he’s holding out medicine, whispering softly, saying it’s going to be okay, but I know it’s a lie.
“Here. Take this for me.” His hands are shaking worse than mine, and they’re holding a glass of water and a pill. I don’t want any shaky water, but I choke it down anyway and then another glassful before I throw it all up, pill included. He hands me another, and I take it.
I press my forehead to the glass. It warps everything, bending him around like taut Play-Doh. He gets broken into watery pieces when I flick my wrist.
I push the glass into his hands. “I guess I’ll go to bed, then.”
“Michelle.” It’s a broken plea.
I can’t handle this right now.
I try to stand, but gravity decides otherwise. I flop onto the couch. “Fucking goddamn it!” This time I stand, Nate with me.
He picks me up, doesn’t say anything until we’re in the bathroom.
He runs the water, then pulls my arms up.
My shirt hits the floor, then my bra with a soft click. The shoes and socks go and then the rest.
I’m crying, but that doesn’t stop him. He kisses my forehead and pulls the shower curtain.
“I’ll be outside, all right?”
“All right.” Strange. The room’s making my voice unsteady.
The knob turns in my hand, hot water raining on me. I keep burning it all, my face, my chest, my legs, every inch I can get, scalding myself until tonight evaporates into just another day.
Nathaniel’s on my cell when I get out. He’s hooking his fingers through his hair over and over.
I grab it from him and hang up, tossing it into the drawer.
“Who was that?” Like I don’t already know.
“Your mother.”
“And whose decision was that?”
The phone buzzes.
“She’s your mom.”
“She gave up those rights when the bitch tried to smash my head in.”
He looks pitiful, a dog in the rain, and I want to drown him in his own self-pity. “What did you tell her?”
He stays quiet.
I stumble forward, forgetting the knife in my crotch.
He holds his arms out.
I smack them away. “Answer me, damn it!”
“I didn’t tell her anything. You took the phone before I could!” He doesn’t yell. It’s more like the sound rain clouds make right before they drizzle.
“Let’s keep it that way.” I pull the phone out, silence it, and turn it off completely before trying to pocket it. I don’t have any pockets, so I settle for my bra.
“Michelle—”
“Don’t start.”
“Let me call someone.”
“Who? The cops? And tell them what? They can’t do anything. They’ll either blame you somehow or send me home. Do you want them to make me go?”
“No.” He swallows, gaze on the floor with my self-respect.
I limp to the bed and sit. “Then let’s just all forget this day ever happened. Can we do that?”
No response.
“Well?”
“Tell me. Please.”
“It’s not important,” I say, untangling the ends of my hair.
“Not important.” I can barely hear him.
“I mean it’s over. It can’t be fixed, so let’s just get past it.”
I don’t think he can. He keeps staring at me with the strangest look, like there’s a garbage compactor and he’s right in the middle of being smashed.
“Why?”
“Why what?” I drag the brush through my hair, ripping out strands along the way.
He’s slumped like a rotting tree, arms hanging loose. “Why won’t you let me help you?’”
The brush flies into the wall. “Because I don’t want your goddamned help!” I press my palms as hard as I can into my face, but I can still feel it, the burning in my gut, the needle pricks in my eyes, and it only draws more tears.
I hear his feet approach, see them like bear paws against my own. He kneels and stares at my knee. I stroke his hair.
“Tell me what to do.”
I’m so tired. So empty. Like something besides the obvious is missing from me, like I’m a fragment of a person. And I feel dirty and angry and useless and humiliated. And nothing the reasonable voice in my head or the boy at my feet can say will change that.
So I tell him another story, one that’s had years to weather and fade in my head, one not so fresh and blinding.
“When I was seven, my mom’s boyfriend molested me.”
The ceiling is all I see, the words sort of floating between my lips like blown bubbles, popping when they hit the air.
“She worked late hours, so he picked me up from school. I hated going home. Sometimes I hid in the bathroom until the teacher came and got me or stayed after class to talk about my homework. It didn’t matter. He always caught me.”
My arms slide over my abdomen, makeshift comfort.
“When we got home, he’d take my clothes off and then he’d watch me bathe. Sometimes he touched me. Sometimes he made me touch him.”
My pulse is slamming against my veins, trying to get out, roaring for me to shut up, don’t say anything, shh, but I keep talking, even when the ceiling dots fade into black.
I shudder, voice shrouded by the wail of a distant siren.
“One day he, he hurt me. Bad. And so I . . .”
The siren withers away, forcing my own voice into my ears.
“I told Mom about it.” I lower my gaze to his. “And when I did, she slapped me and called me a little liar. Said I didn’t like him so I was making things up. Funny thing about Derrick. He’s in prison for raping a little boy now.”
He’s shaking his head like it’ll uproot the bad stuff if he does it long enough. And when he looks at me, I already know what he’s going to say because it’s how he is, how anyone with a conscience is. “I’m—”
“Please don’t,” I mumble, making fireworks in my eyes with my fists.
A pause.
“Can I hold you?”
My arms reach out. He takes them and rocks us until I’m almost tired enough to go to sleep.
I couldn’t believe it happened or It was like a dream. Words like those? They go clear through your ears like a penny down a wishing well. No one really believes you until they’ve heard the penny hit bottom.