An Untamed State

by Roxane Gay

  People were staring. My voice was loud and tight. I did not care that I was in a library or that my peers were staring or that Michael seemed genuinely apologetic or that I was probably overreacting. I have a temper. I do not handle being scorned with any kind of grace. I stuffed my heavy laptop into my bag and grabbed a handful of books. He grabbed my arm and I narrowed my eyes, looked down at his hand. “Don’t touch me.” He refused to let go. I arched an eyebrow and looked him right in the eye. “If you do not unhand me, I will scream. You know me well enough to know I am not afraid to make a scene.”

  I walked out of the library as fast as my legs would carry me, my rage building, filling my mouth with such heat.

  To his credit, Michael ran after me. He stood in front of my car door with his arms across his chest.

  I started crying and when I cry I am ugly and when I feel ugly I get meaner. “Get out of my way.” I refrained from calling him names.

  Michael refused to move. I threw my keys at his chest and they bounced off his body and clattered on the pavement. He said, “Go ahead, make a scene,” and so I did. I made a spectacular scene.

  Alone, in a stifling hot cage, my arm so sore the pain was the only thing I could focus on, I would have given anything to be a farmer’s wife, anything at all.

  This is how a fairy tale ends.

  Hours passed after the phone call to my father. I walked around my cage. I tried not to move my arm, the bones of which felt loose and very out of place. I ran in a small circle, pretended I was outside breathing fresh and clean air. I listened to the sounds of the street. There was a family with an infant nearby, one who cried a great deal, and maybe a nightclub. Sometimes I heard the faint, tinny sound of fast dance music for hours on end. I closed my eyes and thought about every single hair on Christophe’s head, how when my ransom was paid, I would count every last one of my child’s hairs. I thought about how he fell asleep when I fed him, sighing softly. I thought about Michael drawing me a warm bath, washing my back as I sat with my cheek against my knees. It had been two days since I last cleaned myself, stood under warm water, two days since I had eaten. Earlier that morning one of my captors brought me a bottle of warm water. I drank it greedily, until my stomach ached and expanded uncomfortably. It was not long before I was thirsty again but I knew I could not ask for more, could not give those men a sense of what I needed.

  When the first man came, I knew who it would be. I was jumping up and down in place, singing the song I heard playing in a nearby home earlier, “Mon Colonel,” by Sweet Micky. I stopped jumping as the door opened, and stepped away from the intruder, kept moving until my back was against the wall. He closed the door behind him. I thought fight.

  “The Commander has a message: you should have played the game. Those who play the game don’t get hurt. You got me into a lot of trouble, so I am going to enjoy this.”

  He bared his teeth. My fingers found their way into fists, curled around my fear, held my fear close. I tried to find a way out of the moment, tried to do something with time that would change the circumstance or slow things down long enough for me to find a way out. He rushed at me and I ran for the door but the man was quick too, shifted in front of me, laughed. Once again, my runner’s thighs failed me.

  “I don’t mind a little chase.” He rubbed his hands together. I would never forget that sound, the empty whisper of soft hands preparing to do hard things.

  He stalked me around our tiny cage in a cage in a cage. He was silent, his focus singular as was mine. I was covered in sweat and rotting milk. I stank. I tried to anticipate his every move but eventually he grew bored of playing cat to my mouse. He grabbed me and threw me on the bed. I fought him and he laughed louder, said he would never forget me. I scratched and kicked and screamed and spit in his face. He only laughed more. He stripped me of my clothing, stripped me bare, and then he stripped me of something I cannot name, flipping me onto my stomach, pulling me up by my hips, forcing my thighs apart with his, forcing himself inside me. He ripped me wide open. Everything tore. All I could think about was my body, how the first time in my life I understood the very weakness, the utter fragility of human flesh.

  With his arm pressed against the back of my neck, forcing my face into the mattress, I tried to breathe, tried to free myself but there was nothing I could do. He took a very long time. He grunted with each thrust and there were many. When he finished, he patted my ass, squeezed hard, left quietly. Before I could move, before I could hope for an end to what had begun, there was another man who simply climbed on top of me without ceremony. I tried to crawl away but he was too heavy. My screaming, he said, bothered him, so he shoved his fist in my mouth, making my jaw feel like it was coming apart. I thought fight. I fought.

  The third man made me get on my knees on that filthy floor like an animal. He wanted my mouth. I looked down at my thighs and saw blood in the dim light. I hardly understood it was mine. We are not supposed to recognize our own blood when spilled in such a way. He held a knife to my throat, told me to forget I had teeth. I ignored his threat and tried to bite down. He pressed the blade into the skin at the base of my throat, and drew his knife to the left. I gasped and he shoved his cock down my throat before I could stop him. My eyes watered and I gagged but I did not cry. It was impossible to breathe. I wanted to surrender but I could not. I clawed at his thighs. When he was finished all I could taste was the betrayal of my mouth.

  I began to realize what survival demanded of me. I said, “I will survive this,” and someone else in the room laughed. There was the lighting of a cigarette. I turned my head and realized there was an audience. Sitting on the floor, legs crossed in his lap, was the Commander, smoking, watching. He did not move or look away. It was almost like he wasn’t there.

  The next two men threw me back on the bed, spread my legs wide, laughed at what little fight I had left, my pathetic efforts to protect myself. I tried to count how long each man took so I would be better prepared the next time they came. I needed to know. It was hard to hold on to so many numbers—thirty-four, nineteen, fifty-seven, seventy-nine, sixty-three. I could no longer scream. My voice was already hoarse so the sound I made caused me to cringe. It was the sound of something lost.

  This went on for hours and hours.

  There was a man named TiPierre. He told me his name. Other than the Commander, he is the only one who told me his name. He said he was sorry I was being treated so poorly. He spoke quietly, with kindness. Kindness is deceptive. We were alone. He lay next to me on the narrow bed. I was perfectly still. I thought mercy though I did not ask for it. I was a wild thing, without self-pity. TiPierre touched me like a lover. I fought him the hardest, found something inside myself to resist even though I had no energy left. He was quiet, calm, kissed just above the bleeding cut on my shoulder, kissed around the bruises on my neck. He said, “I only do this because I must.” He said, “Put your arms around me.” I did because I needed someone to hold on to even if it was a transgressor. I held on to him and I trembled. I had no choice. I was lost. He said, “Relax, it will be easier,” but I couldn’t relax.

  Nothing would have made that night easier, nothing.

  Later, he sat on the edge of the bed pulling his T-shirt over his head. “The Commander wants me to take you to him but first you must clean yourself. Get dressed,” he said.

  I pulled on my clothes. My body was not my body; it was less than nothing. I followed TiPierre back to the bathroom. Everything sounded muffled. The taste of blood and men filled my mouth, ran between my teeth. My feet were bare. Something gritty collected between my toes. When TiPierre looked away, I started running toward where I thought the front door was. Hobbled as I was, I did not get far. TiPierre grabbed me by my shoulders. He said, “Be smart,” and steered me to the bathroom holding me by my hair. The mirror in the bathroom was still shattered and what remained was still stained with my blood. I did not bother to look at myself.

  He nodded toward the bathtub, handed me a small towel and t
hin bar of soap. I looked up at the small window. If he left me alone, I could try to fit through the small space. I could hoist myself up and out of this hell. I could be free. TiPierre closed the toilet lid and sat, looked to the floor as if this fraction of kindness would forgive his trespass. My eyes smarted as I disrobed and handed him my clothes.

  “I’d like to be alone,” I whispered. “I need to be alone.”

  TiPierre shook his head and swallowing my anger, I climbed into the shower. I willed myself not to look at him or the window or to imagine anything beyond.

  The water was lukewarm, the pressure weak. I lathered the soap and tried to clean myself. Everything hurt. I hissed as I washed between my thighs. My skin was raw, gone completely. I knew even then that there would be nothing left of me by the time they were done. It was not long before there was a knock on the door. I wanted to beg for mercy but again I did not. I simply turned off the water, dried myself, put my soiled clothes back on.

  My hair hung in my face as I followed TiPierre to the Commander’s room. He said, “Don’t fight the Commander or it will be too much for you.” He squeezed my shoulder gently, kissed my forehead. His lips were moist.

  The Commander’s room was clean and well lit. He lay on a large bed covered with a red satin bedspread, laughing at something on the television, a big flat screen surrounded by expensive electronics equipment. I had never met one until I was kidnapped, but self-proclaimed leaders of men don’t seem to have original ideas for spending their money. The Commander was bare-chested, wore only a pair of cargo shorts. He leaned against a stack of pillows, his hands clasped behind his head. He barely looked up at me as TiPierre shut the door, locking me in a new cage.

  “I love American television,” he said. “So silly, all of it.”

  I turned to look at the screen, recognized an older episode of Friends.

  “I will never understand women like you,” he said. “You make your lives so much more difficult than need be.”

  “I doubt you understand women at all,” I said, softly.

  He wagged his finger at me. “I have a problem finding women who will satisfy my particular, shall we say, appetites. The women in this country, they don’t like certain things, won’t do certain things. Haitian women are proud and stubborn and hard. You American women, though, you will do anything. This is what I hear.”

  “Please don’t hurt me,” I stuttered.

  The Commander laughed. “Now you want to play nice?” He patted the empty space next to him.

  I shook my head. “I’m not coming anywhere near you. You can go straight to hell.”

  The Commander sighed, stood. “You certainly haven’t learned your lesson.”

  I stepped backward, fumbled for the doorknob. He was wrong. I had learned. I had learned so much. “I’ve learned my lesson, I swear.” I started babbling nonsensically.

  He laughed. He grabbed me, threw me over his shoulder, and dumped me on the bed. I tried to breathe. He brought the back of his hand to my face, bone against fresh bruises. I winced.

  “You don’t need to do this,” I said. “I know the rules now. I will play your game, say whatever you need.”

  He removed my clothes, almost politely, and knelt between my bare thighs, lit a cigarette. This cannot happen, I thought. This is not possible. Smoke curled around the Commander’s face. He was a chimère, a ghost. “If only you had learned your lesson sooner.” He ashed his cigarette on my stomach.

  Only then did I understand the kind of man he was, what he enjoyed taking from women. I finally understood fear. What is truly terrifying is the exact knowledge of what will come and being unable to save yourself from it.

  Grabbing hold of one of my thighs, he forced me open, stretching my hipbones. He held my skin taut. I tried to push his hands away, to scratch his wrists, to crawl off the bed, to get away. He held the cigarette so close to my skin, the heat seared. My flesh rose. I began to sweat again, the air filling with the smell of soap and sweat and smoke. The smell of my own flesh burning was almost a comfort. I was alive. There was something of me left to burn. I screamed and screamed.

  When there was no more of his cigarette, he pressed the flaming tip to my stomach, twisted it until my body extinguished that fire.

  “No more,” I said with what I could find of my voice. I was delirious and undone. The smell in the room made me sick. I could hardly hold on to myself. “I have a child. I have a child who is not yet a year old,” I said. “I’m still breastfeeding.” It was important to remind this man I was not merely meat for him to butcher. I was a woman. I was a mother and a wife and a daughter. I needed him to leave something of my body for those who loved me.

  “You have no idea what will happen to you if your father doesn’t pay,” the Commander said. He almost sounded sad.

  He climbed on top of me. He bit my chin. I moaned, turned away from him. He told me to open my eyes, to see him. I refused. He bristled, said, “As you wish.” He said, “You shall not know kindness from me.” I planted my hands against his chest to hold him off, to save some piece of myself. He was a sharp blade. I was a tender wound. I couldn’t keep count. I finally surrendered to the pain, spreading sharply between my thighs and straight into my heart. I opened my eyes and inhaled sharply. As I passed out, the Commander hovered over me, smiling. Finally, I thought, as I drifted into a place where I felt nothing but still, somehow, ached. There was nothing left to count.

  Michael and I took our first trip to Port-au-Prince after dating for a year. Michael insisted on meeting my parents. I tried to prepare him. I explained how he would see things he might never see in the States, difficult and painful things. I explained that there is nowhere in the world both as beautiful and as ugly, as hopeful and as hopeless. He did not quite understand what I meant but he tried and I tried. I hoped he would understand he could not love me without loving where I am from.

  In the weeks before our trip, Michael read travel books and surfed the Internet and took notes. He’d point to a hat and say le chapeau and in the driveway, he’d pat the hood of the car and say la voiture, and when we woke up in the morning he’d say je t’aime, the words always sounding square and strange wrapped in his thick midwestern accent. It was very charming. We had a lot of sex.

  He filled an entire suitcase with bottled water.

  As I watched him packing, I said, “What the hell are you doing?”

  “I don’t want to get sick.”

  “We’re not going off the grid, Michael. My parents have plenty of distilled water. That’s all we drink.”

  He shook his head, and zipped his suitcase shut. “Just in case,” he said, patting his bag proudly like he was making an intelligent decision.

  Miami International Airport often feels like Port-au-Prince. It is crowded and hot and forever under construction though nothing seems to change. Everyone is irritable and sweaty and talking too loudly, often trying to carry too much to some impoverished country where the people have too little. As we stood in line, Michael kept tugging my sleeve, whispering into my ear loudly, “Look at that suitcase. Look at that suitcase. How are these people going to get on the plane?”

  I laughed. “The rules are different for these flights. Haitians ignore the rules anyway.”

  He rubbed his chin thoughtfully and started taking pictures with his cell phone. We sat in first class and Michael grinned like a little boy; it was his first time. I squeezed his hand. His smile always brings out the best in me. Michael had a happy childhood and that helped him become a happy man. My parents love that about him; they love his joy, his red cheeks and his easy smile, the way he isn’t intimidated by anything. They call him Mr. America.

  I tried to ignore my nervousness. I talked fast, so fast, trying to remind Michael of all the things he should and shouldn’t do.

  He said, “Relax, babe. I’ve met the parents before.”

  I leaned back. “You haven’t met Haitian parents.”

  As we descended into Port-au-Prince, we switche
d seats and Michael stared down at the beautiful blue water and then the capital, sprawling in from the edge of the island.

  “Are you ready for this?”

  He nodded eagerly. I hoped for the best.

  We walked across the tarmac, white heat billowing around us in waves. By the time we reached the terminal, where the air-conditioning wasn’t working, Michael was dripping in sweat, his hair clinging to his red face. We waited in customs for what seemed like hours, the line shuffling forward with people cutting at random or clustering when they saw someone they recognized or when they simply wanted to improve their chances of ever getting out of the airport.

  Michael wiped his forehead and shook his head. “This is insanity.”

  I held his arm. “Baby, this is the easy part.”

  At baggage claim, my parents’ chauffeur, Nelson, waved to us eagerly. When he tried to take Michael’s suitcase, Michael said, “I’ve got this,” and Nelson frowned.

  “Let him take your bag,” I said.

  Michael let go of the handle and shifted uncomfortably. A fresh bead of sweat trickled down his neck. We followed Nelson through a throng of people gathered near the airport entrance, cabdrivers trying to grab tourists’ bags to hijack fares, vendors selling Haitian flags and straw hats, armed police trying to keep the chaos to a dull roar. Dozens of young men stood behind a fence shouting to people they recognized and strangers alike.

  The drive to my parents’ house was long and bumpy, the sun-scorched concrete of Port-au-Prince stretching around us. Nelson spent most of his time with one hand on the horn and one arm hanging out the window so he could gesture angrily when someone cut him off or otherwise got in his way. I stared at Michael as we drove, saw his wide-open eyes, how he seemed to be holding his breath. Everything was as dirty and broken as I remembered until we entered my parents’ neighborhood and the city quieted. The streets were cleaner, more orderly, the cars nicer, the concrete walls towering even higher than the homes themselves. Michael relaxed visibly, loosened his grip on my hand. At the gate at the foot of their driveway, Nelson honked the horn and slowly, the steel gates opened. We drove up the long, narrow drive. As the house came into view, Michael said, “Holy shit, this is a castle,” and I said, “Welcome to Port-au-Prince.”