by Harper Kim
When she reached me, her alabaster face was splotchy and reddened from horror-stricken tears. The wispy hairs that generally floated whimsically about her face lay plastered against her forehead. A thin sheen of perspiration glowed on her skin as she clasped me in a trembling embrace. Her frail arms clung to my neck and her face buried deep into my shoulder, as a child does when paralyzed in fear of a looming stranger. It was all I could do to stay strong, to not break at the sight of her.
Holding her close, I didn’t let go until I felt the gentle yield of her strength. She was safe in my arms now. When the day arrived to take her away from this vile situation, she would be safe forever. I looked at my own bruised hands as I rested my chin on her shoulder. I was still unprepared. But when would that day come? When would I be ready? At sixteen years old, I felt like I was racing a time-bomb without a countdown clock. These episodes with her father were getting more and more frequent. How many years, months, weeks, days, hours, minutes, seconds did I have before it would be too late?
Pete Hayes was a towering man. Being six-foot-four and stocky in build, he seemed to be built from one large slab of viciously knotted muscle. He did not possess the kind of racked-up physique you get by spending a few dedicated months with those toys at the local gym; he was all ropes and rawhide beneath battle-scarred skin, with a beer-gut starting to accrue on an otherwise Spartan frame. His face was grim and always covered in 40-grit stubble. His steel-gray eyes cut through the object of his gaze like a sharpened knife. His shorn scalp exposed a grizzly scar that ran from the permanent knot at the top of his head to the edge of his right eye, along with the tattoo—de oppresso liber—which ironically meant “to liberate the oppressed” in Latin.
Having served twenty years in Special Forces and a more recent twelve as a mercenary for a “private security” firm, Pete had plenty of experience with getting his way, fighting dirty, and greasing people who got nosy.
Rescuing Elizabeth the old-fashioned way wasn’t going to work. Elopement wasn’t going to force Pete into quietly relinquishing his place as the sole man in his baby’s life, and he sure as hell wasn’t going to freely give his blessing to a skinny sixteen-year-old kid from the neighboring town to take over the role. Pete thrived on control and dominance, and Elizabeth—his Lizzy, his babygirl—was his chattel.
Pete was trained to intimidate, and if necessary, annihilate. How was I supposed to defend myself against such a monster?
Ever since the day I first saw her, I started walking Elizabeth home from school, that is, whenever I was able to find her. I would wait by the old handball courts until she came out. When the bell rang I’d rush over to make sure I wouldn’t miss her. Sometimes if my teacher needed to speak to me after class, I’d be too late. She never waited for me, for fear that Pete would get mad. And I didn’t doubt that Pete would.
When I was lucky enough to catch her, I wouldn’t get home until well after sundown since the detour to Elizabeth’s tripled my typical three-mile walk home. My dad was gone for a job and my mom worked late and never kept strict tabs on me, so it wasn’t really a problem. And with my brother gone, no one really cared about what I did. It’s when I was home that caused the problem.
Most of the time Elizabeth wouldn’t speak; she’d just walk stoically behind me, head bent, and eyes set to the floor. I had to do most of the talking, which I didn’t mind, especially if I got her to smile. Whenever she wore long-sleeved shirts to school, I had to be careful to keep my anger in check. I didn’t want to frighten her even more. But slowly, when she realized I would always be there for her, she began to trust me and learned to relax. She began to show me the bruises and I showed her mine.
One day when we made our trek back to the plywood shack, we heard a yowling from the weeds beside the dirt road. Elizabeth hesitated but stopped when I began searching through the dense brush for the source. The yowling abated into a guttural, painful noise and then ceased altogether. I trudged forward, swatting through the knee-high grass in the general direction of the last outcry. Taking a quick look back, I made sure Elizabeth was still there. I knew I needed to move fast or she would get scared and leave without me, but I couldn’t ignore the sound.
Peering through the spindly thistles, a set of frightened eyes lured me forward. A cat, gray with white-tipped tail, was lying beside a fallen log licking its gashed leg. Panic flashed from the cat’s golden eyes.
In a soft voice I called out, creeping slowly toward the injured cat. “It’s okay, Kitty. I’m not going to hurt you.” I paused for a second to show the cat I was harmless and knelt beside it. The cat relaxed and proceeded to lick his wound, purring as he did so. I scooped up the cat and carefully walked it over to Elizabeth so she could see.
“Look, it’s a kitty. He’s hurt.”
“What are you going to do with it?”
“Not sure.”
“He must belong to someone, or else he wouldn’t have let you pick him up. Oh, you poor thing—”
At the time, I didn’t understand that the cat reminded Elizabeth of her own aches and pains. Rummaging through her backpack she produced a plastic sandwich bag filled with ointment, gauze, and bandages. With gentle fingers she applied the gauze and wrapped the wound in a strip of cloth that she ripped from her shirt. “There.” She smiled, pleased.
“Where did you learn how to do that?”
“Oh,” she shrugged, “I’ve had practice…” Fear flashed in her eyes. “Oh no...” She started to run, flailing her arms as panic momentarily derailed her sense of direction.
“Wait!” I tried calling after her but she didn’t look back. She just continued to run. Soon she would be a tiny speck on the horizon. I set the cat down on the road and ran after her.
I stopped a hundred yards from the shack, panting, sweat drizzling down my face and back. I lurched forward on my knees as I gasped for breath. I was too late. In the distance I saw the grizzled man drag his daughter inside before the door slammed closed. Now, all I was able to see was the poorly built shack and the closed door.
Timidly I approached the front door and placed my hand against the rough grains of the wood. Pressing my ear to the door, I strained to hear Elizabeth’s voice. What I heard instead made my stomach tighten.
Through the thin walls, consecutive meaty slaps could be heard making contact with flesh, her flesh. My hands clenched into fists at my sides, while heat bellowed from my gut. A throaty voice thundered over the racket of destroyed furniture and the wounded victim. Pete’s babygirl.
Not once did I hear a cry for help. She was silent. The worst sound a victim could make. It was the sound of defeat, of helplessness. She no longer hoped to be saved. I felt sick from the knowledge that my choice to help a cat in pain had come back to hurt Elizabeth ten times over with a fresh spray of bruises, gashes, and pain.
This was my fault. I caused this.
I stayed affixed to the door until the sounds ceased and the television turned on. Slowly I peeled myself away and turned back to the open road. I sulked back home.
Daylight was fading fast as I made it onto my street, but I felt no rush to get home to an empty house. I walked slowly, releasing my aggression on the shrubs that dotted the sidewalk’s edge. Lost in my thoughts I didn’t see the boy skidding down the sidewalk on a skateboard until he brushed past.
“Hey! Watch it!”
The boy gave me the finger and continued swerving down the sand crusted sidewalk, pausing every few seconds to tack a yellow flyer to a lamppost before moving on to the next one. Frazzled, I turned back to see bright yellow flyers tacked onto every post and building as far as my eye could see. I pulled one off the nearest post.
A large black and white picture was printed on the front. It was a grainy and poorly contrasted mimeograph, a copy of a copy of a copy. A svelte white man sporting a mustache, dressed in a chunky black robe belted with a sash around the waist and another around the forehead stood menacingly over a prostrated hulk of a black man with bulging muscles. The br
awny man looked unconscious and the clearly scrawnier man looked to be the cause—you just picked on the wrong scab, Cochise, the diminutive victor’s glower conveyed. In large block letters, I read, THIS CAN BE YOU! In smaller letters near the bottom of the page was a description of the new martial arts center in Ocean Beach. Hargrove Martial Arts, named after the scrawny, mustachioed man pictured above, no doubt. First class free!, it advertised.
I folded the bright yellow flyer, tucked it into my back pocket and ran home. I now had a plan.
After the first session, I enrolled in as many martial arts classes as I could afford with one goal in mind: protect Elizabeth. After weeks of training, unfortunately, I hadn’t noticed any significant change in my overall build except for the scrapes, bruises, and welts I received during class. Time was running out. I didn’t have the luxury to master all the forms, positions, and elegant techniques in time to be considered ready to handle a man like Pete Hayes.
Although scared shitless, I cared about Elizabeth too much to watch another day pass worried about when and how Pete was going to hurt her, feel her, lay an ugly, violent hand over her delicate skin.
Ready or not, time was running out and I had to make a move, and soon.
Then one day during the class’s warm-up session, I overheard one of the students discussing a story about this guy who killed an intruder using just his hands. No strength was required except for the dexterity of his fingers, quick thinking, and fast reaction time to jab the right spots on his opponent’s oblivious body.
“One neck jab and he’s outta there!”
“Na-ah. Stop making up stories, Victor. You’re such a liar.”
The smaller kids joined in, snickering, “Liar. Liar. Pants on fi-re.”
“No, I’m not,” Victor pouted, clearly frustrated that he wasn’t being taken seriously. “It’s the truth, my older brother Dan told me about it. There’s these spots, you see, on the body, that if you hit someone there they go ka-put and their mind goes blank. You can actually kill someone if you hit them right.”
“Yeah like punch their lights out!” The obnoxious boy got a bunch of other guys hooting in laughter again, as they each swung listless punches and kicks at the air.
Frowning, Victor watched the other boys continue to taunt and make fun of him as they threw unwieldy kicks and lazy arm swats. Enjoying the sporadic horseplay, the boys forgot about teasing Victor and focused instead on outdoing the others in a friendly game of who-can-jump-kick-the-highest.
I watched Victor’s dark eyes widen in excitement. Suddenly, he was running over to Sensei Hargrove. Victor gave a brief, respectful bow, and whispered in the Sensei’s ear. Sensei gave a quick nod and motioned him back to the mat where the other boys were sprawled out in a heap of sweat and testosterone.
We gathered around the sweat-stained, blood-spotted sparring mat, staring in amazed horror as we listened to the Sensei tell his story. I was the kid in the back—a foot away from the rest—contemplating, with a glassy-eyed distant stare, the logistics and the likelihood that I’d make it out alive against Elizabeth’s father.
Because of a kid named Victor telling his off-hand story, I learned the basic pressure points from Sensei Hargrove (if a twenty minute synopsis is enough to be considered a lesson). Mainly, I tuned in with keen interest to the parts where Sensei discussed the ins and outs of Dim Mak: the death touch.
“With this power,” said the pacing, earnest Sensei, “one can strike a guy unconscious and possibly paralyze or even kill the guy. You give ‘em a Dim Mak and you better hate ‘em, cause it’s a done deal. Done. Deal.” The Sensei’s pace slowed, almost deliberately, as he stopped and simply stared at me. It was as if he knew what I was thinking and gave me his blessing.
As the pièce de résistance, Sensei Hargrove called over his Sempi—his assistant, and in actuality his son—and gave a live demonstration by striking various pressure points. We roared with delight each time Sempi slumped or howled in pain. The Sensei’s son was a pain in the neck and it was great justice to see him on the receiving end for once.
I tuned out the last part of the lecture about how one should never try Dim Mak unless he or she has devoted themselves to the art for many years overseas. I didn’t have many years. I only had now.
I had found my weapon of choice.
For the next several weeks, I spent most of my free time hanging around the library, surrounded by stacks of picture books that discussed the art of Dim Mak. The cartoon pictures were my favorite but the skeleton bodies with the arrows pointing to the parts of interest were also informative. Every night, I would perform fingertip pushups until my knuckles felt ready to cave in. I would strike the lockers at school, slowly at first, then building up until I could easily dent the metal with knife hand strikes. After school I would strike the unyielding concrete of the handball courts while I waited for Elizabeth. With every opportunity, there was a knife hand strike.
I wore gloves to hide my horribly bruised and swollen hands. Each day built upon the last, pain upon pain, but as I soaked and bandaged my mangled hands—my weapons—each night, they hurt less and less. I felt more and more determined. More and more ready.
Finally, one Friday after school when Elizabeth wasn’t at the handball courts, I felt ready to try my luck against Pete. I sat in the handball courts until the sky began to change color, just thinking about the permanence of what I was about to attempt. Either filled with desperation or foolish confidence, I managed to funnel courage from my mind to my feet and walked straight toward the dilapidated shack.
That day was Friday, May 18, 1979.
The journey over to Elizabeth’s house was long and foreboding. Leaves rustled around me as I shuffled along the sandy graveled path. Other than the sounds of my footfalls and a few chorus frogs, the evening was eerily silent. My limbs were cold and hands clammy. Sweat built profusely above my brow and dripped disconcertingly into my eyes every now and then. How many times had I threatened to turn back? I couldn’t recall, because Elizabeth’s stricken blue eyes clouded my mind and urged my cement legs forward.
The house stood ominous against the sliver of bone-gray moon above. Dark trees rustled their leaves, sending goose bumps up and down my arms. A light was on in the upstairs loft.
Pete was there. So was she.
I could feel it in the curdling of my blood. The trepidation I felt moments before vanished and what remained was a black hole, the event horizon of dread, anger, and love. I was no longer afraid for my life. I only wanted to get Elizabeth out of that plywood shack and protect her from the man holding the key.
The door was unlocked.
Pete Hayes didn’t fear intruders, he salivated for them. Rumor had it that during the night Pete would sit in his easy chair, aim a shotgun at the front door, and hope for someone to cross the threshold. Reports of a shooting never occurred, but no one was ever stupid enough to set the rumor straight, that was, until now.
I took a deep breath before turning the knob. Stepping inside, I felt a cold chill brush against my skin. Tiny hairs at the nape of my neck rose in a haunting wave. At least no shots were fired; no ragged, leaking hole appeared in my chest. I was still alive and whole. But, there was no turning back.
I was in.
The room was mostly dark and dust particles floated in front of my face. Orange light from a broken porch light outside was straining to peek through the grimy windows, which seemed to forbid the outside from looking in. Layers of dried blood spots splattered the peeling linoleum floor and walls of the entryway.
I tried blocking out images of what I imagined occurred in this small space. The idea that I wasn’t there to protect her burned like fire in my chest. Murky smells of sweat hung in the air and it was difficult not to gag.
Past the peeling linoleum entry was the living area. Ratty carpet remnants were laid haphazardly across the space, exposing moldy padding in places and bare plywood in others. Stains made up most of the carpet’s color. A mixture of what seemed (a
nd smelled) to be dirt, vomit, beer and cigar ash was splattered and matted everywhere into the frayed nylon fibers. An old couch, worn and sagging, leaned against the wall facing a beat-up RCA television. Beside it, cocked at a 45-degree angle between the television and the front door, was Pete’s easy chair. Slapping that chair would surely raise a white cloud of fugitive dust. It would have the same smell as the room, only stronger. It would smell like him. Poof! Eau de dirtbag.
My mind was nervous, causing me to freeze up and fixate on this random compulsion. I had to will myself to look away from the chair, to not slap it. What was I doing? What if Pete already heard me and was lying in wait? I’d never been stealth, why would I think that’d change now? What if Pete was listening to my movements now from around the next doorway, resting the cool blade of a hunting knife against his smiling cheek?
I felt transported to an altered state, a dream within a dream. I pressed forward through the dim room, with silent footfalls, implored by an invisible hand.
A tacky flamingo glass lamp glowed wickedly in the far corner. Empty beer cans and stacks of newspaper cluttered what could only be a table, in front of a makeshift kitchenette area.
I could not see as clearly into the dark corner of the kitchenette, but what I saw was enough to haunt my dreams for the rest of my life. Old and new rat traps were placed haphazardly along the linoleum floor—some holding rats in varying stages of decay. Two shadows writhed around one of the dead rats, squeaking every few seconds. I realized then what the shadows were: two live rats were eating one of the caught rats. They were squeaking. Those rats, they were— I had to catch myself again, stifling a gag, feeling a blue tingling in my extremities.