My challenge: attempt to forget me. My prediction: attempt to replace me. Give up — there are no other me’s.
And suddenly it occurred to me.
i was eight years old, i was alone and running and frightened of the end-of-the-block-bully. It was four o'clock and i had stayed after school and i had run with burst veins in legs popping, just to get home fast enough so that i wouldn't see him. Or hear him. Or be hit by him.
He was all metal and free government food, and he had left his stains on my legs arms stomach and face. It was a good day, i was running fast, heart beating out of shirt, and i could feel my heavy feet move along the street, crossing over people's yards, running past barking dogs.
i didn't see him, not yet, but i knew he'd be there, he always was, just at the end: just as i almost reached my yard just as i couldn't run another foot and my body, nearly dropping to the ground.
And i was running, still, and my house was only a block away (first house, closer; second house, nearer; nearly there, arms pumping: side to side, up and up, and back, again-) and now: i could see the green brown trim that swished along the edges of my house. Still no sign of him but he's surprised me before (once, i thought i'd made it all the way, only to discover him staking out my yard). Still have no time to fill my mind up with the idea that today i might not see him, today i might not be beaten, and so i'm running, running, still, but my feet are growing heavy.
It could be good to not see him today (don't: you know that when you think like that, you just get beaten, anyway). Could today be different? Could i stop right now, because he's not there, he's not waiting? Maybe a bus, or a car has hit him, or maybe one of the high-school bullies have beaten him up and now he's running from them.
i got home, and he wasn't there.
Instead, an ambulance. Instead, the sounds of people, and feet on grass, and muddy, muddy shoes clomping along the steps leading up to my house.
You can't go in, not yet, son.
What? i don't understand.
Just stay out of the way. We’ll let you go in, in a minute.
What? Why? What’s going on!
i wish i'd seen the bully, now.
Six, seven, eight, you were, when this started? Come on — you are very well aware of the goings on. Don’t act all surprised. Hope for a new jail term, pray that he dies — move very quietly. Move within a parenthesis. Hate, and its soundless, sound: forming to the right of me. You’re quiet and alone and no one speaks to you. You wear your sleeves to cover your life. Very quietly, the bruises leave. Your sleeves, your heart, and your eyes: they all become the color of his beatings.
It’s always soft before he wakes, stretches out his eyes and watches. Always watching, that one. Always plotting. Has to beat me daily. Misses a day and makes up for it the next. i dread the days he misses it; i know if he goes a week, he’ll nearly kill me.
i’ve got to make it back to my room. i’ve got to dress so that no one notices. Such a joke, i know they all know, and i’m the only one not saying it out loud. my scars scream it for me. They scream in different colors.
You know him, right? His father beats the shit out of him and how could he be wrong to? He is the stupidest, ugliest, most worthless piece of all.
i feel like a milky film. i feel like i don’t exist and so if i don’t exist, how can he hit me and i still feel the pain? My room is upstairs. There’s a hallway, another door, another room, and i begin to feel myself fade into the weakness of not fighting back, anymore. What’s the use? He holds my arms back into a reverse k. Adds another reason for me to hate him.
i don’t. i just want him to stop. He hit the left side, last, maybe the right side, this time. Maybe both. Maybe he’ll kick. Maybe he’ll just tell me i’m a stoopid stoopid sshhhhhhhhhttttttt, and move on.
i’m waiting. Always waiting. Sometimes it’s good to be beaten because i know that at least it’s over with, for now, and there’s more waiting time — until it happens again. Jail or death are the only things that can save me.
i think: don’t convince me anymore. Don’t tell me anything at all when you’re hitting me, just do it. Don’t throw me out by the garbage to rot. i will be good, i swear. You won’t hear me scream—you won’t, i swear, not one-word; not even-the-beginning-of-a-word; not-even-if-that-word-were the word itself that would negate all other words. i still wouldn’t say it even if it would make you not hate me, anymore.
Knock, knock.
You okay?
Who’s there?
You heard me, didn’t you? You’re staying with us for a few days. You’ll be fine. Everything is going to be okay! Your mom is in the hospital but she is going to be as good as new when she gets home!
Nobody. That’s who.
