An Untamed State

by Roxane Gay

  It was the twelfth day though I could not be certain. I had lost count. Time no longer mattered. I was no one and had no reason to measure time or the days between who I had been and who I had become.

  “Would you like to try to call your family today? I am quite certain, if they bother to answer, they will tell you they are still coming up with the money. You will see, once and for all, that I am not lying to you.”

  I threw the covers off and slowly sat up, leaning against the headboard.

  I shrugged and held my hand out. When he handed me the phone, it was yet another cell phone. I wondered if the Commander had an infinite supply of mobile devices. When I called, a man answered. I tried to remember what I should say to him. He knew it was me. He knew my name. I tried to remember how to say his name.

  “We are so close, Miri. I swear we are.”

  He was my husband but I couldn’t be sure, not of anything. I tried to hold on to what I hoped I knew. “You didn’t answer the phone yesterday.”

  “What are you talking about? We are always by the phone.”

  A rush of anger overwhelmed me. Things were clearer now. “You’re lying,” I said. “You’re going to leave me here.”

  Michael made a hoarse choking sound. “That is not true. You have no idea, baby.”

  The woman I was would have believed him but the woman who was no one could not. “I want you to leave the country, Michael. Take your son and leave and don’t you ever come back to this place, not ever.”

  “I thought you weren’t going to be noble. You’re scaring me. I’m not going anywhere without you,” Michael said. He said something else but none of it mattered.

  I hung up and pulled the sheet around me and went to the window. It was covered with black iron bars. Children, bare-chested and wearing long shorts, played soccer in the street. Every time they smiled, I saw a flash of perfect white teeth. I pressed my hand against the window. I wanted to forget all I knew of children, of how they laughed with abandon, even when playing in the filthy streets of Bel Air.

  The Commander stood behind me. His smell was becoming familiar. It was the smell of a cruel man, surprisingly clean. He wrapped his arms around my waist and pressed his lips to my bare shoulder.

  “As you can see, I have not lied to you. I never will.”

  I did not turn around. “I would like to go home. You will never be able to rest if you keep me here. You will never know what I might do.”

  He tightened his grip, held me closer. He sank his teeth into my shoulder like he was trying to gnaw the meat from my bone. When he lifted his head, a perfect ring of pain throbbed in the small indentations of his teeth.

  “I am a businessman. If your family had transacted their end of our business, you would have gone home unharmed, untouched. They chose not to. I appreciate your threat but I can say the same to you. There are people you love and as long as they are in this country, they are within my reach.”

  A small boy, adorable, no more than five, grabbed the soccer ball and held it high over his head, started running in a tight circle, giggling while the older boys chased him. For a too-brief moment I remembered playing soccer with Michael and a group of little boys on a dusty riverbed. I forced myself to forget that too.

  I turned to face the Commander. “You cannot keep me here forever.” It sounded like a question and I hated myself for it.

  He led me back to his bed and dumped me in the center of the mattress unceremoniously. He handcuffed my hands to the headboard, each click echoing loudly. “We shall see how long I can keep you here,” he said, smiling, almost sweetly.

  When the Commander finally freed me again I sat up and nearly fell over as blood rushed to my head and arms. A sharp ache spread across my skull. I exhaled loudly and I stretched my arms out in front of me. A dark red and brown band of raw skin circled the skin and bone of my wrists, naked without their shackles. I felt dangerously free. I looked at my hands, my fingernails torn and ragged, caked with blood and someone else’s skin. My hands shook. My whole body shook. The word mercy clung to my lower lip again, hung loosely, daring to fall. I had less than nothing left.

  I only needed to ask and the Commander would grant me some small measure of mercy, not enough but enough. If this was the rest of my life, there was no need for further fight. There would be no easy life but there could be an easier life. From the bed I could see the sun was at its highest. I looked at the clock on the DVD player. It was four in the afternoon. Time meant very little.

  The children were not playing in the street. The sky suddenly darkened and rain started to fall at a diagonal in heavy sheets. I wanted to stand in that rain. “I’d like to stand in the rain,” I said without realizing I had spoken aloud. The Commander grabbed me by my shoulder and told me to get dressed. I did. He pushed me out of his room and down the dark hallways to the front door. Once again, I tried to memorize everything, just in case I could find a new way out for myself. The thought of escape was a foolish hope and I held on to it dearly. Desperation and foolishness are nearly the same.

  We stepped out onto the street and the Commander released his grip. “Remember your son and husband and what I could do to them,” he said, evenly. He raised his T-shirt, revealing his gun, and leaned against the door, under the narrow eaves of the house. I stood with my arms wrapped around myself. I raised my face to the sky and let the rain fall over me. There was a space between the clouds. Pale shafts of sunlight appeared. The rain continued to fall. It was the heaviest rain I had ever seen. I pulled my hair out of its loose ponytail. My clothes soaked and clung to my skin. I did not mind. An old woman with skin so loose it wrapped her bones in folds stood in the doorway of her small block of a home. When she looked at me, I saw real sadness in the lines of her face. I stared at her until she looked away. The rain was warm. I stuck out my tongue. The rain washed my mouth clean. There was not enough rain to wash the rest of me clean. I was filthy. I was hopeless.

  I stood in the rain until the clouds cleared. As far as the eye could see, waves of steam rose from the pavement. “You’ll have to thank me for this,” the Commander shouted from where he stood watch. I did not turn around but I nodded. There would always be ransoms for any dignity or peace. I was not my father. I was willing to pay.

  Eventually, the Commander grew bored with his generosity and came to get me from the middle of the street. As he pulled me toward the house, I said, “No,” and began grunting like an animal. I forgot how to speak. I only knew I did not want my body forced back in that cage with the other animals. I dragged my heels. I scratched at his bare arms and he flexed his muscles. The scar beneath his eye moved again like it was trying to reach the other side of his face. In the doorway, I grabbed for the doorjamb with my hands and feet. I grunted louder. The Commander bloodied my knuckles with the butt of his gun and then he hit me over the head.

  Michael loves concrete, loves making concrete and testing the compressive strength. The compressive strength is the most important performance measure. The testing is important because engineers need to trust that the bridges and buildings they design and build will stand the test of time. When we first started dating, Michael endeavored to teach me everything he knew about concrete. I did not have the heart to explain to him I had already received a similar education from my father. “Concrete,” he likes to say, “is the purest expression of man’s strength.” I ask, “What is the purest expression of a woman’s strength,” and he says, “You.” Once, he brought me twelve slender concrete cylinders. He called it an unbreakable bouquet. I loved him so fiercely in that moment.

  I did not pass out when the Commander slammed the butt of his gun against my skull. I was breakable but unbroken. I fought even harder, kicking at the walls as he dragged me to his room. I kicked one wall so hard I left a large indentation. I was a breaker of concrete. I found the compressive strength of the concrete in those walls—that of a woman who is no one divided by the memory of the woman she used to be, the woman torn from her husband and on
ly child.

  In his room, the Commander punished me for my tiny rebellion. I did not make a sound. I was no one. Then it was dark and I was alone. I could not close my eyes. When I closed my eyes, all I could see, smell, feel, was the Commander forcing himself on me again and again, his seed staining my thighs, his teeth in my skin, his saliva on my face, his blades and his fire. All I could hear was the unnatural calm of his voice, how he always spoke carefully, how he treated me as both lover and enemy—the only way he could, I think, understand a woman. I tried to forget the Commander for just one moment and instead I tried to remember my name or the names of everyone or anyone I had ever known, loved, needed. I remembered nothing.

  “Mercy,” I whispered even though I was alone. I needed to say the word. I needed to know I could say the word. The utterance was not a prayer. It was more audacious because I yearned to be answered.

  Beyond the closed door I heard the sound of paper shuffling; I heard this sound for more than two hours. I covered my ears but I still heard that sound. Every possible thing conspired against me.

  Something soft was dropped on my face—my worn and filthy clothes. “Get dressed,” a voice said. It was not the Commander. I did not know his men’s voices well enough to make sense of this man though my body knew him. My body knew all of them. My bikini bottoms had long been forgotten. I stepped into my jeans quietly and pulled my shirt on, whimpering softly as the fabric fell over my skin. The man grabbed me by my elbow, dug his fingers into me even though that small cruelty was not necessary. He led me to the kitchen. On the table there were two cash counters shuffling money at a blurry pace, and an unfathomable number of stacks of hundreds and twenties, U.S. dollars.

  I stared down at the ground, my bare feet. I was ready to say mercy to the Commander if he was going to throw me to his wolves once again. Right then, I would have done anything to save myself from the unkind attentions of all those men. The Commander sat at the head of the table wearing a dark pair of sunglasses. My escort shoved me toward the Commander and I stumbled into the kitchen, fell against him as he pulled me into his lap, held me against him, his arm across my stomach. I tried to pry his arm off me, strained to free myself from his embrace. He sank his teeth into the back of my neck and squeezed my breasts, less swollen now, hollowed. I inhaled sharply. The men around the table murmured their approval.

  In the far corner, TiPierre stood sullen, glaring in my direction but avoiding eye contact like a spurned lover. A large bandage covered his cheek.

  I nodded toward TiPierre. “How’s your face?” I rasped.

  He jumped at me but the Commander shook his head, snapped his fingers once, and TiPierre stilled, remained in his corner.

  I no longer gave a damn. I said, “Good dog. Heel.” I stuck my hand in the fire. I was willing to burn.

  The Commander cleared his throat. “You will soon be free.”

  There was a new, louder ringing in my ears. It drowned out the sound of everything in that room, the angry men, their voices, the cash machines still doing their work of calculating my worth. I said nothing, felt nothing.

  “Did you hear me? It seems your father has finally found a reason to pay for his youngest daughter.”

  I shook my head, still numb. “You said the negotiations ended.”

  He squeezed my breasts again. “Perhaps I lied to you, after all.”

  I tried to remember my name. I needed to remember my name but I couldn’t. It was locked somewhere I could not reach.

  The Commander stood and pulled me after him. I resisted, trying to dig my heels into the slick floor. He threw me over his shoulder, ignoring my flailing limbs. His men cheered. “I think I will enjoy you one last time,” he said.

  When he was done, I sat on the edge of his bed, staring into the distance. I said, “You should have killed me.”

  Once upon a time, my life was a fairy tale and then I was stolen from everything I’ve ever loved. There was no happily ever after. After days of dying, I was dead.

  Part II

  Once Upon a Time

  I ran down an unfamiliar street, my bare feet slapping against the pavement. I was free even if I did not know it yet or my body was free and my mind was in the cage. It was hot, early evening, the hush of a day ending. I ran over shards of broken glass, felt my skin come neatly apart. I bled. My feet were slick. I did not stop running. The Commander told me to run until I could not run anymore so that is what I did. My thighs burned. It was strange to be able to move so freely, to breathe fresher air. I wanted someone to find me. I wanted to stop. I kept running. When I passed people standing in their doorways or ambling down the street, I stiffened, knew they could not be trusted. I ran. I saw a cross rising into the sky, reaching up. A church would be a safe place. I hoped.

  I was so tired. I was loathsome. I was not a person. I was no one. I was nothing. Sweat dripped down my face, burning my eyes, rolling uncomfortably into my ears. I took the stairs into the church two at a time, leaving bloody footprints. It was dark and quiet in the chapel, where it smelled faintly of incense. In the far corner, there was a thin line of light and the silhouette of a door. I paused, leaning forward, panting heavily. I swallowed hard. I followed the edges of the room toward that sliver of light. I wanted to find something perfect behind that door. I wondered if I might find someone masquerading as God. My stomach was hollow. I was so hungry. I thought about the sensation of a dry disc of communion wafer on my tongue. When I reached the door, it was warm to the touch. Music was playing, Barry Manilow, singing about the Copacabana. My mother loves Barry Manilow. When I was a little girl, she had his records, and sometimes I caught her staring at them, tracing Barry’s face with her finger. I knocked on the door three times. I knocked so hard it made my knuckles ache. I drew blood. I marveled I could still bleed.

  An older man finally answered. I tried to concentrate on who I had been before I became no one. There was a name and the memory of it lingered on my tongue. “Help me,” I said. The man looked at me carefully, reached for me but I stepped away and bumped into a wall. I hissed. There was a name of a woman I had once been. I rubbed my forehead, wanted so desperately to remember the name so someone who knew who I had been might come for me.

  “Please say something,” the stranger said, staring at me curiously.

  “I need help,” I said, hot air rushing from my chest.

  The stranger shook his head. He said, “I don’t understand you.”

  I repeated myself. My chest tightened. I looked back toward the church doors, hoping the Commander hadn’t chased me down again. I wanted to barricade myself in the sanctuary.

  “What is your name?”

  I pulled what remained of my shirt tightly around my body, what remained of my body. “Mireille. Kidnapped.”

  He approached me again and wide threads of fear knotted around my throat.

  “Don’t hurt me.”

  The stranger smiled kindly. He was a small man, his white hair trimmed neatly. He wore a pair of dark slacks, a dress shirt, and a tan cardigan with thick wooden buttons. “You have nothing to fear from me. What is your last name?”

  There was a man who knew the name that had once been mine, a man with an easy smile and blond hair he wore too long, blond hair that curled in his face in the morning. When this man said the name that had once been mine, the sound came from deep in his chest. The sound of my name in his mouth spread easily, was full of joy. I remembered a little boy who also had curly hair, both brown and blond. His cheeks and thighs were chubby. I leaned against the wall behind me and sank into a tight crouch. I could see their faces, hear that blond man with the easy smile calling out to the woman I had been, calling out to me before I became no one. “M m m m . . . ,” I said. I took a deep breath. “Michael.” The name came out awkwardly, sounded like three different names rather than one.

  The stranger removed his glasses and looked at me closely. “My goodness. I think I know you.”

  I tried to give him some way of making sense of
who I was. I was so lost.

  He nodded eagerly. “Yes, yes. I met your father at the HaitiCel gala. He is a good man. I heard about the kidnapping, terrible business.”

  “Please call Michael,” I said. “Please.”

  The stranger was a preacher at the church, was up late writing his sermon, he said. He excused himself and quickly returned. “I have called your father and he is on his way. God brought you to safety.”

  I did not look up. “There is no God,” I said. I stood, my legs stiff and sore, moved away from the preacher. I did not want to be alone with this man I did not know in a small room. I did not want him to hurt me. I did not want to have to do something terrible to keep him from hurting me. The preacher called for his wife and she sat with me as we waited. It hurt to sit against the curved hardwood of the pew, in such a false place. The preacher’s wife clasped her hands in her lap, asked if I needed anything. She tried to see to my wounds but I refused. I wanted no part of a stranger’s skin against mine. I said, “I am fine, thank you.” I wanted to be polite. It was important to be a good reflection of my family. Somehow, I remembered that too, that once, I was a good Haitian daughter.