to you, c.,
that day has started to come back. i remember i was maybe almost 6 & shake-shattering into a million pieces on your bed. a wine glass dropped in the middle of a dinner party. a baseball through the window of an abandoned old house. shards and pieces you can’t jigsaw back together with patience and superglue to create a mosaic replica of the original object. no, instead i was loose change, fallen from a hole in your pocket and left uncollected on your mattress. you undid your pants, dropped them to the floor &, at the soft thud, every muscle of mine tensed into the stone form of medusa’s victims. i closed my eyes because if i don’t see it, it didn’t happen. it was the only way i had to try and keep you out. you had just laid your hands on me to push my head down, when there was a meat-knuckled rap on the door. you strangled out a hang-on and fumbled to get your pants up. and for one moment, one brief & beautiful moment, there was a bluebird of hope in the room with me. maybe it’s my mom. maybe she is checking in on me. maybe today is the day she saves me. but no, it was someone else that barged into the trailer before you were able to change the tableau…so in the end it wasn’t a bluebird or even a crow in the trailer with me…it was just another buzzard to pick over my bones.
i smelled this person first…smelled the tang of yesterday’s booze sweating through his pores. there was a taut tightrope of silence as he realized what he walked in on. you assured him, “don’t worry, she won’t say anything, will you, roxanne?” in the dicey-ness of that moment, i remained mute with fear & confusion. your friend said, “yeah, but how do you know I won’t?” and you patted my leg. you patted my leg and he understood. he came over and slid his grubby paw up the inside of my bare thigh, soft as the underbelly of a rabbit… there was no conversation, no arm-twisting, no “maybe we shouldn’t.” no. there was just a pat on my fucking leg as an invite to my body in return for his silence. and then you both began. i cried more than usual and your friend complained. he made fun of me for my nose running. “jesus christ, chris, she’s got a fucking runny nose. gross.”
he thought my runny nose was gross after holding me down so that you could take your turn after him.
since finally understanding the details of this memory within the past couple years, the memory of that moment you patted my leg tortures me…that gesture encapsulates the terms for the loan of my body to him that you drew up without my fucking permission & that he agreed to, by etching his name on my skin with his fingers. and here i am, still paying off the interest…i admit, i have a perverse desire to go on living just to pay off my debt with the hatred i have for you.
fuck you and fuck your ratfuck friend.