I never had to do that.
Never had to deal with law enforcement one way or another.
Somehow, Dad’s managed to avoid any kind of run-in, too.
How?
Sheer luck,
I suppose. I know he’s done things in the past that should’ve
resulted in some kind of punitive measures.
Rhonda’s emerald ring, for instance.
Pawned.
If tonight
had resulted in actual penetration—rape— would I feel differently and report it?
Excellent
question.
Monica Holds Me Close
Until I finally stop quivering.
Then, heedless of spectators,
she reaches up and kisses me
so sweetly I momentarily forget
the ugliness I’m mere minutes
beyond. She wraps me in love,
and it’s almost enough to smother the residual fear and outrage.
Gabe looks vaguely uncomfortable
at our emotional exchange.
Syrah is her usual underwhelmed
self. She ignores us, rushes over to Gabe.
Wow! You were amazing! The words escape in a rush of breath. I’ve never seen anything like that. Hey, wanna be my bodyguard? Then, totally as an afterthought, Oh, and are you okay? Giddy, that’s how she sounds.
Gabe blushes crimson. Other than sore knuckles, I’m fine. At least one of them has granite-strength bones.
He looks down. Sorry about your floor.
Hey, no problem, gushes Syrah.
That’s why they invented paper towels and cleanser. It’s gross, though.
She goes to find the necessary items.
I push away from Monica, swallow
my disgust at the bodily fluids
pooled on the tile. What I really want to do is crawl into a corner and sleep so I won’t think about
the images solidifying in my mind, resurrected by visions of Garrett’s and Keith’s faces. Blood gushing.
Snot dripping. Bruises resembling thunderheads rearing up. A woman, dropped down on her knees, sobbing apologies for “inviting” my dad’s abuse.
I can see her broken face clearly.
But I don’t remember her name.
Funny How the Brain
Manages damage control,
conveniently curtaining
windows that overlook
certain footpaths into the past.
I try to keep the shades drawn.
Monica notices, however.
She moves closer again,
a drift of solace, claims
her place at my side.
Estás bien, novia? No te ves tan bien. You look a little sick.
“I’m queasy,” I admit.
“I’m not real good with blood, and watching someone get
pummeled is more than
I can take. I mean, I’ve seen random guys involved
in altercations, but never
that close. I didn’t realize how brutal it is.”
I’m s-sorry, sputters Gabe.
I couldn’t see another way out.
“No. It’s okay. Not your fault, and not like they didn’t deserve it, especially Garrett. But where did you learn to fight like that?
That wasn’t, like, amateur night.”
Where I grew up you either decided to be a tough guy or you let the tough guys take you down. I chose to be strong, and Dad encouraged me to learn to box. He put in extra hours to pay for gym time and a trainer, even.
Golden Gloves could’ve been my ticket out. I worked all the way up to state, and would’ve been a finalist except Dad’s accident made that impossible. My dream died along with him, but hey, at least I’m still here.
“You could go back to it,
couldn’t you?” I ask, even
though the idea of regularly beating people up makes me
even more nauseous than
the mess on Syrah’s floor.
Don’t think so. I have to get real about life some time, and with Mom coming home at some point soon, now is probably the right time.
Sounds Way Too Adult
As does cleaning up the mess
on the floor, and when Syrah
returns with the supplies,
Gabe volunteers for the job.
I don’t offer to help, don’t dare get too close or I’ll only add
to the ugly puddle on the tile.
At least they managed to miss
the carpet. There’s that, I guess.
Instead, I start tidying tables and countertops, tossing cups
and cans, some with cigarette
butts floating inside. Monica
joins in the effort. “Why are people so gross?” I ask, only to make
conversation. No answer really required, Monica shrugs in reply.
Parties bring out the bad in some and the worst in others. You sure you don’t want to report Garrett?
“No. Let it drop. We should open some windows. It stinks in here.”
It does. It smells like sweat and weed and old booze with a float of tobacco.
We finish the cleanup, windows open, Syrah flirting obnoxiously with Gabe all the while, and
the strange thing about that is I don’t seem to care. To his credit, Gabe doesn’t bite, but if it’s only to impress me, I almost want
him to know it’s okay if he does.
Almost. Shouldn’t I feel more
possessive? Is it just because
I discovered something about
him tonight I never expected?