An Untamed State

by Roxane Gay

  He held his hands open. “I have no need to lie. I have never lied to you.”

  The scar beneath his left eye pulsed, slithered across his face and swelled like something serpentine. I tried to pull my hand away from his but he tightened his grip and then he used his other hand to remove my rings. Before I could stop myself and remember I was no one, I stood and reached across the table for that part of myself I was still holding on to. “Don’t take those,” I said. He held the rings, cupped in his hand, and raised his arm. I stepped around the table and jumped up, tried to reach his arm. He laughed, began dancing around the small kitchen, taunting me.

  His sister said a name I didn’t recognize. She said, “Stop being childish.” He ignored her.

  Beads of sweat trickled down my face and neck, pooling in the new, deep hollow above my collarbones. I was so hungry. The air in the kitchen thickened with the smell of grease. The Commander grew bored and grabbed me, twisted me around and pulled me against him, my spine curved sharply against his chest as I tried to break free. His breath was hot on my neck. “You have no need of these rings now that you belong to me.”

  The towel wrapped around me began to loosen. I dug my bare heel into his foot. He wore pristine white sneakers. “My father is going to pay the ransom. I know he will. I will not belong to you. Let me go.”

  The Commander dragged his tongue from my neck, along the bone of my jaw, up to my ear. The smell of his saliva repulsed me. The texture of his tongue repulsed me. The sticky wet sound repulsed me. He held me tighter, like he was trying to pull my body into his. “I would be happy to reunite you with your husband and child in order to further compel your father to pay or you can honor our previous arrangement.”

  My fingers slowly uncurled. The thought of my husband and child in this hell was beyond imagining. “Leave her family alone. Don’t mention them. Don’t even think about them.”

  He pushed me into an empty chair and leaned against the edge of the table. “Don’t you mean your family?”

  I didn’t answer. The woman at the stove, my tormentor’s sister, set a plate of food in front of me—rice and chicken in sauce. My stomach growled loudly and my mouth watered. The food steamed, making me even hotter.

  She set a fork to the left of my plate. “Eat,” she said, gently.

  When I was young, we had an uncle in Cap-Haïtien. He owned a store, sold phone cards and convenience store items at outrageous prices and did well for himself. I once overheard my mother say he also sold other things and the way she said it made me think he was a gangster of some kind, trafficking in something exotic like stolen electronics or maybe even drugs. Our parents would send us to our uncle for two or three days each time we visited Haiti so we could see more of the country. The drive, overland, was a long, miserable affair. By the time we arrived we were always cranky and bickering.

  During one visit, Tante Lola’s driver dropped us off and drove away smirking, his radio blaring as he weaved through the narrow streets and headed back to the capital.

  My brother and sister and I stood in our sweaty, wrinkled clothes in front of my uncle’s store, staring up at the hand-painted sign, MARCHÉ ABRAHAM. I stood in the middle and reached for their hands. I was always in the middle, protected by them. In the store, a large ceiling fan twisted lazily, doing little to move air. There was no room to move. There was no way to make sense of the inventory, a bizarre collection of items bearing little connection to convenience. My uncle came out from a back room, his arms wide open. “My beautiful nieces and nephew, welcome.” He pulled us into his arms and hugged us tight, said, “Come, come.”

  His house was attached to the back of the store and he led us through a small courtyard and into the house, where our cousins, all four of them, were engaged in a serious game of Monopoly. We asked if we could play and Victor, the oldest, sneered at us. “This game is in French.” Michel sneered right back, made it clear we spoke French and could play just fine. We became a team, the three of us against the four of them, played well into the night, trading insults. We slept beneath mosquito netting, my siblings and I in the same bed, me in the middle again, sleeping curled against my sister, who held my hand. In the morning, we woke and found that there was no water left in the cistern. My uncle pointed down the block to a public water pump. The three of us carried a large ten-gallon paint bucket to the pump, filled it, and struggled to carry it back, our muscles straining from the weight of water, the heat of the island, the incredulity of having to carry your own water to do something as simple as wash your face. We spent our whole day that way, ferrying water to do every little thing. There was never enough water.

  Back in the capital, we begged our parents to never send us there again. My father’s disappointment was palpable. He sat the three of us on a couch, all bare legs and knobby knees. He frowned down at us. “You are all so very spoiled,” he said. “It is only an accident of birth that makes it possible for you to enjoy your lives the way you do.” We were young. We had no idea what he meant.

  In the Commander’s kitchen, I grabbed his sister’s wrist. She looked down at me. “A different accident of birth could put you in my place,” I said.

  She did not try to pull away. She gently unpeeled my fingers and set my hand on the table. I wanted to tear the skin from her face so I could see the blood of a woman who would stand by and do nothing while another woman endured what was being done to me.

  The Commander dragged a finger along my bare shoulder. I brushed his hand away, and he grabbed a fistful of my hair pulling me toward him. I curled my fingers around the fork, raised it high, and stabbed it into the backside of his hand. He yelped loudly and began hopping, waving his hand in the air as he flung the fork against the wall. I turned my attention to the food in front of me and began eating with my hands, my fingers quickly slicking with grease. I ate so fast, like something starving, feral. That is what I was, from the Latin fera for wild animal, something menacing, existing in an untamed state.

  The Commander sat down again, shaking his head, smiling happily. “I will enjoy taming you.”

  The woman set a glass of water in front of me and I drank greedily, washing the sticky rice down. I set the glass on the table. “You cannot tame me. Know that.”

  He sneered and started eating. He chewed slowly, wiped his mouth every few bites. I dreaded what would come next. The stink of the food decaying in my mouth, that kitchen, our bodies and sweat, made me crazy.

  As he ate, the Commander told me about his father, a man prone to drink and something of a womanizer, but intelligent and charming. The Commander’s father worked as a chauffeur for a wealthy family and also did other odd jobs. Sometimes, when his employers were out of the country—Paris, New York, Montreal, Miami—the Commander’s father would pick up his children in the black Mercedes of his employer and drive them around the city. They would roll slowly past the presidential palace and head high into the hills where the wealthy lived. His father often said, “Look how these people live. Never forget what they choose to deny you.”

  I rolled my eyes. “My father grew up in a shack with a dirt floor, never had a moment to himself, shared that tiny place with his parents and twelve siblings. You are not the only man to grow up wanting or hungry or angry. My father earned everything he has.”

  The Commander slammed his fist against the table and our plates jumped. My water spilled and spread across the table in a beautiful pattern. We stared at each other for a few moments, the only sound in the room, water dripping over the edge of the table. “Even now, when he has abandoned you, you defend your father?”

  “I have not been abandoned.”

  He reached for a napkin and carefully wiped his mouth. “Let us test your theory. I will call your father. If he answers, we can assume he is still willing to negotiate. If he does not answer, you can accept I am not lying.”

  “I don’t see how that makes any sense. There could be any number of reasons why they don’t answer the phone.”

  �
��If your child were kidnapped, would you be anywhere but near the phone?”

  I shifted in my seat, longed for my clothes, some way of covering my body, shielding myself from the waking nightmare. “Go ahead. Call.” I was defiant and righteous. My father loved me. Even though I was no one, my father loved me.

  He put the speaker on and set the phone between us. The phone rang and rang and rang. A strange sensation began to rise up from my rib cage. I pushed my food away from me and leaned forward. I was starving but had no appetite. The phone continued to ring. I idly rubbed the empty space where my rings were supposed to be. I missed the weight of them already. I missed the man who placed them on my finger. I forced myself to forget him again. I was no one. The Commander pursed his lips and shrugged. He moved to end the call but I grabbed his arm. “Wait.”

  He sat back, slid the phone across the table to me, a cocky smile creeping across his lips. The phone continued to ring. I don’t know how long we sat there listening to the dull echo of the phone ringing but eventually the ringing became a busy signal, the steady pulse growing louder and louder in my ears until the sound threatened to pierce my eardrums. My hands shook as I ended the call. The Commander stood, came back around to me. He held my chin gently, tilted my face up. “As I told you, your father is unwilling to pay a reasonable ransom for the return of his youngest daughter. It is a shame he is not the father you deserve. It is a shame you will continue to pay for his sins.”

  The Commander tried to pull me to my feet but I pushed him away, stepped around him, and went to his bedroom. I did not need him to lead me. I was no one so I knew where I had to go. I knew what I would be made to do.

  After the Commander fell asleep, I found my towel and wrapped it tightly around me. An armed guard stood outside the bedroom door and he took me back to my cage. The house was quiet save for a radio playing in one of the rooms upstairs. My clothes were stiff and dry and I carefully pulled them on, finally felt less anxious. I tried to remember the name of the woman I had been. I could see the shape of that name but nothing more. I sat on the bed, leaning against the wall. It was slowly becoming easier than I might have imagined contemplating the rest of my life in a cage, to hope that life would not be a long one.

  My father was asleep next to my mother, safe, their bodies cool and connected. My husband was asleep with our child or he was awake and worrying. I had to stop thinking of them as my family. I had to continue forgetting everything about them—the wrinkle around Michael’s right eye, the black and gray streaks of my mother’s hair, my father’s laugh, my child, the softness of his bare feet against my cheeks, the steel of my father’s voice, the coldness in his eyes. One by one, I tried to erase each of these memories. I tried.

  I drifted asleep, fitful, but was woken by TiPierre straddling my waist. His boundless, persistent desire angered me. My temples throbbed. “No fucking more. You’ve had enough of me.”

  He held my arms by my sides. “I paid for you. You are mine.”

  I was weary of men claiming ownership of me. “Talk to the Commander. I’m certain he will tell you to leave me alone.”

  TiPierre laughed. “It seems you have seduced him. We are all to leave you alone. He is out, though, handling important business. There’s no reason why I shouldn’t have one more night with you.”

  I went limp. “Let go of me. I won’t fight, not if this is the last time.”

  I felt him smiling in the darkness. “See? I am not so bad, right?”

  He loosened his grip on my wrists. I pulled my hands free and held his face in my hands. He was warm, his skin smooth. TiPierre leaned down, brushed his lips against mine. I tried not to scream, tried to relax. When his tongue traced my lips, I turned my head to the side just slightly and tightened my grip on his face. I grabbed at the meat of his cheek with my teeth. I bit down as hard as I could, determined not to let go until my teeth met. TiPierre roared and grabbed my shoulders, tried to shake me loose. I squirmed beneath him but I did not let go. I tasted blood, his skin came loose, a sanguine taste coated my teeth. His hand circled my throat and squeezed and I had to let go but my whole body flushed triumphantly. I tried to bring my knee up between his thighs, hard, but then he punched my face once and twice and a third time. I couldn’t focus. My ears rang. When I opened my eyes, everything was dark and blurry. TiPierre lay on top of me with his forearm against my throat.

  “You lied to me, American whore. You are not worth the price I paid. I’m glad I lied to your cousin. You can rot here.”

  I scratched at his arm, scratched hard, felt narrow lengths of his skin coming away from his body. “My cousin?” My nostrils flared as I imagined someone looking for me. I could be free soon. Then I smelled TiPierre’s anger.

  “Don’t worry about that. Worry about me!”

  I didn’t dare to hope people were looking for me. I did not dare. “You are insane to think I could ever want you.”

  He pressed down harder. “I was good to you.”

  The absurdity finally made me hysterical. I started laughing again. There was so much laughter while I was in that cage, crazy desperate laughter that became keening each time.

  TiPierre rolled off me, cursing, and stood, moved near the doorway and turned on the light. I squinted. I looked up. My face swelled and my cheekbone felt like it had shattered beneath his fist. A thick flap of skin hung loosely from his face. I wanted to rip it all the way off. If he came near me again, I would. I would tear his body apart before enduring him inside me again. His anger filled the room but my anger engulfed his. I sat up and stared at him, bared my teeth. I hoped they were bloody.

  “You will not touch me again,” I said.

  He cried out, hoarsely, and ran toward me. I quickly jumped off the bed and tried to stay just beyond his reach. He stumbled around the room and even though it hurt to move, I was fast. This is what I know—the body is built to survive. An unknown energy pulsed just beneath my skin. I whispered, “I will survive this.”

  When he finally caught me, he slammed my body against a wall and my vertebrae rearranged themselves. There would be bruises on my back. The bruises would be deep. He lifted me off the ground and slammed me into the wall again. My laughter returned. His eyes were glassy with rage. So were mine.

  “You think this is a game?”

  I spit in his face, smiled as the saliva slid along the curve of his nose and over his lips. He flipped me around so I was facing the wall. His hands were everywhere.

  I tried to twist my body free. I kicked my legs back trying to make contact with his knee. “You have no right,” I said, angrily.

  His hands fumbled with my pants and he pushed them down my thighs.

  “I have every right,” TiPierre said. “You think you’re too good for me? Is that what you think?”

  I couldn’t stop laughing. I don’t know why. Too much was beyond my control. There we were, alone with the stink and sweat of ourselves. “I am too good for you,” I said, defiantly. It was hard to catch my breath I laughed so hard. Then I stopped. I said, “She is married. She has a husband she loves. She will never want you. Never.”

  He unzipped his pants and leaned into me. I understood what he was about to do, what he could still take from me. I reached deep down inside myself. I do not know the exact location of my soul but it was near there. I screamed, “No,” so loudly the walls of the room shook. The ground felt unsteady.

  “What is going on here?” a loud voice behind us asked. It was the Commander. The relief I felt was so sweet and so immediate it sickened me.

  TiPierre released me and I fell to my knees. I had no strength left. I could not even hold up my head.

  “I thought I made myself clear.”

  TiPierre tried to stutter an excuse but the Commander cut him off. “You disobeyed me.” He cuffed TiPierre across the face, right where I bit him. TiPierre straightened himself, glared at me, tried to protest. The Commander hit him again, then grabbed TiPierre by the neck, walked him to the door, shoved him out of th
e room. “I will deal with you later. Don’t think I won’t.”

  The younger man left the room in a bitter wake. I was alone in my cage again with the Commander. He pulled me to my feet and pulled my pants up. He held my chin, turning my head from side to side. He sucked his teeth. “That boy has no finesse. I cannot blame him. The streets are all he knows.”

  My legs faltered again and I had to hold on to the Commander. I mumbled something but couldn’t form the right words. He swept me into his arms and carried me to his room, placed me in his bed like he was a good man. He covered me with a blanket like he was a good man.

  I said, “I am very tired. Please get it over with, whatever you’re going to do.” There was not much life or fight left in me. I stopped caring.

  The Commander brushed my hair from my face. He lay next to me and told me a story about his mother, who scrubbed the floors and washed the clothes and cooked the food for a man like my father. He told me how a man like my father treated his mother like a whore because that’s the kind of thing men like my father can get away with. The Commander said his mother is old now even though she is not old, more ghost than woman.

  When he finished talking, I said, “Your mother did not deserve the unwanted attentions of a man like my father.” I said, “I did not deserve the unwanted attentions of a man like you. It is often women who pay the price for what men want.”

  The Commander grunted, turned on the television, started watching a poorly dubbed movie. I stared into the darkness for a very long time, terrified of how he would touch me next. I fell asleep thinking about the man who was another woman’s husband, the man I could not forget no matter how I tried to remove every trace of him from my memory. His name lingered in my mouth and in my eyes and in my hands.

  I awoke to the smell of coffee, sharp and bitter. I tried to remember the taste of coffee, the taste of anything. My face throbbed and I touched my cheek gently. I tried to remember where I was. Nothing looked familiar. I reached behind me. There was a man and he had a name, a name I loved. I remembered his smell but I was alone. I had a name but I could not recall it, either. I was no one. I sat up and was so dizzy I had to lie back down. I curled on my side, pulled my knees to my chest, covered my body with the blanket next to me even though it was so hot, I was sweating everywhere, between my thighs, beneath my breasts, under my chin. I thought of Alaska, of sitting in a lawn chair on an iceberg and how it would be cold and dry even on a warm sunny day. I had never been to Alaska but I imagined the country to be cold and green and white and blue. “I will never see Alaska,” I said to the empty room.