Mercy

by Andrea Dworkin

  garbage in buildings and I will hurt men; for the rest o f my

  time here on earth, I will hurt them. I will wander and I will

  wail and I will break bottles to have shards o f glass I can hold in

  m y hand so they cut both ways, instead o f knives, I’ll bleed

  they will bleed both at the same time, the famous two-edged

  sword, I will use them on curly-haired boys and I will keep on

  after death and I will never stop because the pain will never

  stop and you w on’t be able to erase me from these streets, I

  will sweep down like lightning except it will be a streak o f

  blood from the shard o f glass that cuts both ways, and I will

  find one and he will bleed. I’ve got this living brain but my

  body’s dead, w on’t move, it’s inert, paralyzed, couldn’t move

  to save me or her but once I can move I will begin the search, I

  will find her, my dog; without her, there’s no love. It’s as if I

  drank some poison that’s killed my muscles so they can’t

  m ove and time’s going by and I’m counting it, the minutes,

  and I’m waiting, and m y heart is filling up with pain, suffering

  is coming upon me; and remorse; because I did it, this awful

  thing that made this awful loss. Then they’re there, him and

  her, and she’s laughing and playing with her leash and he’s

  smiling and happy and I’m thinking he’s beautiful, inside too,

  in spirit, and I am near dying to touch him, I want to make real

  love, arduous, infatuated love touched by his grace, and I’m

  wondering what he will be like, naked and fine, intense, first

  slow, now; and I reach for him and he pulls me up so I’m on

  m y knees in front o f him and he’s standing on the mattress and

  he takes his cock out and I’m thinking I’ll hold it and he wants

  it in m y mouth and I’m thinking I will kiss it and lick it and

  hold it in m y mouth and undress him as I do it and I’m

  thinking how happy and fine this will be, slow, how stopped

  in time and tender, he holds m y head still by m y hair and he

  pushes his cock to the bottom o f m y throat, rams it in, past m y

  throat, under it, deeper than the bottom, I feel this fracturing

  pain as if m y neck shattered from inside and m y muscles were

  torn apart ragged and fast, an explosion that ripped them like a

  bomb went o ff or someone pushed a fist down m y throat but

  fast, just rammed it down, and I feel surprise, this one second

  o f complete surprise in which, without words, I want to know

  the meaning o f this, his intention; there’s one second o f

  awesome, shocking surprise and then I go under, it’s black,

  there’s nothing, coma, death, complete black under the

  ground or past life altogether in a region o f nothing without

  shadows o f life or m em ory or dreams or fear or time, there’s

  nothing, it’s perfect, cold, absolute nothing. When I wake up I

  think I am dead. I begin to see the walls, barely, I barely see

  them, and I see I’m in a room like the room I was in when I was

  alive and I think this is what death is like, the same but yo u ’re

  dead, the same but you stay here forever alone, the same walls

  but you barely see them and the same place where you died,

  the same body, but it’s not real, it’s not alive, it doesn’t feel

  real, it’s cold and shadowy and yo u ’re there alone for all the

  rest o f time cut o ff from the living and it’s empty, your d o g’s

  not here in the room in death, in the cold, shaky, shadowy

  room, it’s an imitation in shadows o f where you were but it’s

  em pty o f her and you will be here alone forever, lonely for her,

  there’s no puppies with the dead, no solace; you wake up and

  you know yo u ’re dead; and alone. O nly m y eyes m ove but

  they barely see, the walls look the same but I barely see them;

  tim e’s nothing here; it stands still; it’s not changing, never;

  yo u ’re like a m um m y but with m oving eyes scanning the

  shadowy walls, but barely seeing them; and then the pain

  comes; the astonishing pain, like someone skinned the inside

  o f your throat, took a knife and lifted the skin o ff inside so it’s

  raw, all blood, all torn, the muscles are ripped open, ragged,

  stretched and pulled, you’re all ripped up inside as if you had

  been torn apart inside and under your throat there’s a deep pain

  as if it’s been deep cut, deep sliced, as if there’s some deadly

  sickness down there, a contagion o f long-suffering death, an

  awful illness, a soreness that verges on having all the nerves in

  your body up under your throat and someone’s crushed

  broken glass into them and there’s a physical anguish as if

  someone poured gasoline down your throat and lit it; an

  eternal fire; deep fire; deep pain. I felt the pain, and as the pain

  got sharper and deeper and stronger and meaner, the walls got

  clearer, I saw them clearer and they stayed still, and as the pain

  got worse, crueler, I could feel the bed under me and m y old

  drunk body and I figured out that I was probably alive and

  time had passed and I must o f been out, in a coma,

  unconscious, suspended in nothing except whatever’s cold

  and black past actual life, and I couldn’t move and I wanted my

  dog but I couldn’t call out for her or make any sound, even a

  rasping sound, and I couldn’t raise m yself up to see where she

  was although in m y mind I could see her all curled up in her

  corner o f the room at the foot o f the mattress, being good,

  being quiet, how she curled her head around to her tail and the

  sweet, sad look on her face, how she’d just sit thinking with

  her sweet, melancholy look and I hoped she’d come and lick

  me and I wondered if she needed to be walked again yet but if

  she did she’d be around me and I’d manage it, I swear I would,

  and I wondered if she was hungry yet and I made a promise in

  m y heart never to put her in danger with a stranger again, with

  an unknown person, never to take a chance with her again, I

  couldn’t understand what kind o f a man it was because it

  wasn’t on m y map o f the world and I ain’t got a child’s map, did

  he like it, to ram it down to kill me, a half second brutality o f

  something o ff the map that didn’t even exist anywhere even

  between men and wom en or with Nazis; and I don’t know if

  he did other things, I can’t feel nothing or smell nothing, he

  could have done anything, I don’t feel nothing near m y

  vagina, I try to feel with m y fingers, if it’s wet, if it’s dirty, i f it

  hurts, but everything’s numb except m y throat, the hurt o f it,

  I’m thinking he could have done anything, fucked me or

  masturbated on me or peed on me, I w ouldn’t know , I’m

  feeling for semen or wet places with m y fingers but I can’t

  m ove because m y throat can’t m ove or the pain implodes,

  there can’t be a single tremor even, I can’t lift m yself up and I

  know I’ll never know and I push it out o f m y mind, that I will

  never know; I push it out and I am pulled under by the pain

  because m y throat’s crushed
into broken bits and it’s lit with

  kerosene and the fire’s spreading up m y neck to m y brain, a

  spreading field o f fire going up into m y cranial cavity and it’s

  real fire, and probably the pain’s seeping out onto the floor and

  spreading, it’s red and bloody or it’s orange and hot; penis

  smashed me up; I fall back into the cold, black nothing,

  grateful; and later I wake up, it’s night but I don’t know o f

  what day except m y dog would’ve come by me, I’d remember

  her by me, but I wake up and it’s hollow, m y life’s hollow, I

  got an em pty life, I’m alive and it’s empty, she’s gone, I raise

  m yself up on m y elbow and I look, I keep looking, there’s a

  desolation beyond the burdens o f history, a sadness deeper

  than any shame. I’ll take the physical pain, Lord, I deserve it,

  double it, triple it, make it more, but bring her back, don’t let

  him hurt her, don’t make her gone. I look, I keep looking, I

  keep expecting her, that she will be there if I look hard enough

  or God will hear me and the boy will walk through the door

  saying he ju st walked her and I pray to just let him bring her

  back, ju st let him walk in the door; ju st this; days could go by

  and I w ouldn’t know ; he’ll be innocent in m y eyes, I swear. I

  hallucinate her and I think she’s with me and I reach out and

  she’s not real and then I fall back into the deep blackness and

  when I wake up I look for her, I wait for her; I’m waiting for

  her now. M y throat’s like some small animal nearly killed,

  maimed for religious slaughter, a small, nearly killed beast, a

  poor warm-blooded thing hurt by some ritual but I never

  heard o f the religion, there’s deep sacrifice, deep pain. I can’t

  move because the poor thing’d shake near to torture; it’s got to

  stay still, the maimed thing. I couldn’t shout and I couldn’t cry

  and I couldn’t whisper or moan or call her name, in sighs, I

  couldn’t whisper to m yself in sighs. I couldn’t swallow or

  breathe. I sat still in m y own shit for some long time, many,

  many days, some months o f days, and I rocked, I rocked back

  and forth on m y heels, I rocked and I held m yself in m y arms, I

  didn’t move more than to rock and I didn’t wash and I didn’t

  say nothing. I swallowed down some water as I could stand it,

  I breathed when I could, not too much, not too soon, not too

  hard. If he put semen on me it’s still there, I wear it, whatever

  he did, if he did it I carry it whatever it is, I don’t know, I w on’t

  ever know, whatever he did stays done, anything he tore stays

  torn, anything he took stays gone. I look for her; I scan the

  walls; I stare; I see; I know; I will make m yself into a weapon; I

  will turn m yself into a new kind o f death, for them; I got a new

  revolutionary love filling my heart; the real passion; the real

  thing. Che didn’t know nothing, he was ruling class. Huey killed

  a girl, a young prostitute, seventeen; he was pimping but she

  wasn’t one o f his. He was cruising, slow, in a car. Baby, she

  called out, baby, oh babe. He shot her; no one calls me baby. She

  said baby; he said cunt. Some o f them whisper, a term o f

  endearment; some o f them shout. There’s gestures more

  eloquent than words. She said something, he said something,

  she died. Sister child, lost heart, poor girl, I’ll avenge you, sister

  o f m y heart. Did it hurt or was death the easy part? I don’t know

  what m y one did, except for taking her; but it don’t matter,

  really, does it? N ot what; nor why; nor who; nor how.

  T E N

  April 30, 1974

  (Age 27)

  Ma. Ssa. Da. Ma. Ssa. Da. Ma. Ssa. Da. Hear m y heart beat.

  Massada. I was born there and I died there. There was time;

  seventy years. The Je w s were there, the last ones, the last free

  ones, seventy years. The zealots, they were called; m y folks,

  m y tribe; how I love them in m y heart. N ever give in. N ever

  surrender. Slavery is obscene. Die first. B y your ow n hand; if

  that’s what it takes; rather than be conquered; die free. N o

  shame for the women, they used to say; conquered women;

  shame. Massada. I used to see this picture in m y mind, a

  wom an on a rock. I wrote about her all the time. Every time I

  tried to write a story I wrote there is a woman on a rock, even

  in the eighth grade, there’s a woman, a strong woman, a fierce

  wom an, on a rock. I didn’t know what happened in the story. I

  couldn’t think o f a plot. I just saw her. She was proud. She was

  strong. She was wild by our standards or so it seemed, as if

  there was no other word; but she didn’t seem wild; because she

  was calm; upright; with square shoulders, muscled; her eyes

  were big and fearless and looked straight ahead; not like

  wom en today, looking down. She was ancient, from an old

  time, simple and stark, dirty and dark, austere, a proud,

  unconquerable wom an on a rock. The rock towers. The rock

  is barren; nothing grow s, nothing erodes, nothing changes; it

  is hard and old and massive. The rock is vast. The rock is

  majestic, high and bare and alone; so alone the sun nearly

  weeps for it; isolated from man and God; unbreachable; a

  towering wall o f bare rock, alone in a desert where the sun

  makes the sand bleed. The sun is hot, pure, unmediated by

  clouds or sky, a white sun; blinding white; no yellow; there’s a

  naked rock under a steaming, naked sun, surrounded by

  molten, naked sand. It’s a rock made to outlast the desert, a

  bare and brazen rock; and the Dead Sea spreads out near it,

  below it, touching the edge o f the desert that touches the edge

  o f the rock. Dead rock; dead water; a hard land; for a hard

  people; God kept killing us, o f course, to make us hard

  enough; genocide and slavery and rape were paternal kindnesses designed to build character, to rip pity out o f you, to destroy sentimentality, your heart will be as barren as this rock

  when I’m done with you, He said; stern Father, a nasty

  Daddy, He made history an incest on His children, slow,

  continuous, generation after generation, a sadistic pedagogy,

  love and pain, what recourse does a child have? He loves you

  with pain, by inflicting it on you, a slow, ardent lover, and you

  love back with suffering because you are helpless and human,

  an imprisoned child o f Him caged in the world o f His making;

  it’s a worshipful response, filled with awe and fear and dread,

  bewildered, w hy me, w hy now, w hy this, w hy aren’t Y ou

  merciful, w hy aren’t Y ou kind; and because it’s all there is, this

  love o f His, it’s the only love He made, the only love He lets us

  know, ignorant children shut up in D addy’s house, we yearn

  for Him and adore Him and wait for Him, awake, afraid,

  shivering; we submit to Him, part fear, part infatuation,

  helpless against Him, and we thank Him for the punishment

  and the pain and say how it shows He loves us, we say Daddy,

  Daddy, please, begging Him to stop but He takes it as

  seduction, it eggs Him on, He stic
ks it in; please, Daddy. He

  didn’t rest on the seventh day but He didn’t write it down

  either, He made love, annihilation is how I will love them.

  Y ou might say He had this thought. It was outside the plan.

  The six days were the plan. On the seventh He stretched

  H im self out to take a big snooze and a picture flashed through

  His mind, a dirty picture, annihilation is how I will love them,

  and it made everything w ork, it made everything hang

  together: everything moved. It was like putting the tide in the

  ocean. Instead o f a stagnant mass, a big puddle, there was this

  monstrous, ruthless thing gliding backwards and forwards at

  the same time and underneath the planet broke, there were

  fissures and hurricanes and tornadoes and storms o f wind,

  great, carnivorous storms; everything moved; moved and

  died; moved, killed, and died. On the seventh day He made

  love; annihilation is how I will love them; it was perfect and

  Creation came alive animated by the nightmare o f His perfect

  love; and He loved us best; o f all His children, we were the

  chosen; D addy liked fucking us best. That Christ boy found

  out; where are Y ou , w hy have Y o u forsaken me; common

  questions asked by all the fucked children loved to death by

  Daddy. At Massada we already knew what He wanted and

  how He wanted it, He gloried in blood. We were His perfect

  children; we made our hearts as bare and hard and empty as the

  rock itself; good students, emblematic Jew s; pride was

  prophecy. N early two thousand years later w e’d take Palestine

  back, our hearts burned bare, a collective heart chastened by

  the fire o f the crematoria; empty, hard. Pride, the euphemism

  for the emotions that drove us to kill ourselves in a mass

  suicide at Massada, the nationalist euphemism, was simple

  obedience. We knew the meaning o f the H oly Books, the

  stories o f His love, the narrative details o f His omnipresent

  embrace; His wrath, orgasmic, a graphic, calculating

  treachery. Freedom meant escape from Him; bolting into

  death; a desperate, determined run from His tormenting love;

  the Romans were His surrogates, the agents o f slavery and