Survivor

REMINGTON GRAVES

Woeful and writhing, she wondered why and tearful. Automobiles outside her third-story window honked and hit their breaks. The chatter was your everyday buzz for a Wednesday afternoon. Her strawberry-blonde hair beautiful and slithering on the dirty wooden floor as she bit deep into her lips and spurted scarlet and spit. Coughing and cooing a murderous melody–the song he sang for her. Veins protruding on her hands while she scratched into the floor as if upside down encased within a grave and wanting out, anywhere but out. The rusty pipes in her restroom almost oboed in the evening.

A knocking faintly, gently almost tapping at her appartment door. Silhouette stilettos faced her as she opened slowly her eyelids towards the door. “Alex, are you in there? C’mon, if you’re in there open the door. You haven’t been in class for a few days. Sally and I are worried. Open up. Please?”

The silence hung still and a hundred miles away a dancing dandelion waited for the direction of the wind.

“Listen, Alex. We care about you. You have been talking about some pretty wacky things lately and you got us all worried. That’s all. Will you please just talk to me?”

A bell rang in a Mexian village–pigeons exploded in flight, and children chased them with shoelaces untied.

“We are not gonna judge you. We all go through things. Is it your father? You seem to get anxious whenever he comes around. You start to sweat, you retreat within yourself. Does he beat your mom, or you…both? Just let me in. Talk to me. I am here for you. I have gone through some bad things also. We can talk. Just give me a chance. I swear I am a great listener.”

A dim star in an impossible distance stared in silence.

“If you don’t open this door, I am getting the police. Alex, I promise you I will leave in less than a minute and will return with the cops, no joke.”

She stood there facing that door staring at the number sixty-nine and thought for a moment of what a divine sight it was to behold a man in that very position with him on top. Twisting her bracelet she heard a stirring and then a few grunts. Footsteps approached softly and slowly. The doorknob turned and finally, with a reluctant squeak, she croaked: “Why won’t you leave me alone?”

“Alex, let me in.”

“Why won’t you go away, “ she grunted weakly.

“We should talk,” she said as she pushed and walked passed her in the dark.

“I don’t want to talk to anyone.”

“You’re depressed. You need some sun. You need to go on your usual morning walks. Set some goals for yourself.”

“Like you?”

“Like everyone.”

“I am not everyone.”

“I know that. Turn the light on, and let’s have a glass of wine like the old days–lets talk.”

“Then will you go away?”

“Promise.”

“Okay, but no light.”

“Can I at least open the window and draw the blinds? It’s really dark in here.”

“Fine.”

She dragged her feet across the bloody floor and opened the refrigerator door. “White or red?”

“Red.”
The moonlight hit the corner of the bed closest to the window. The streets were curiously quiet. They sat in silence as they shifted and they sipped. A few minutes went by until she was startled by here question.

“Has your dad ever touched you?”

“Like hit me?”

“No…I mean touched you.”

“What?!”

“Just answer the question.”

“I think you should leave.”

“I am not going anywhere. I promised you we would talk then I would leave.”

“You get on my fucking nerves.”

“Answer the question”

“No.”

“No?”

“No.”

“Can I tell you something?”

“What?”

“My father raped me.”

“What?”

“My father raped me.”

“I…I–“

“I was fourteen years old the first time it happened.”

“First time?” She said taking a big drink.

“The first couple of times were horrible. I cried and I even hinted at it to mom. She gave me a look as if saying, “don’t you dare tell me what you want to tell me.” So…I didn’t.”

“Bailey…”

“No, listen…I didn’t know what to do or who to tell.”

“I’m so sorry,” she said tears hot and pouring.

“This isn’t that kind of story. By the third time, I liked it.”

“You what?”

“I did–I liked it.”

“You like being raped by your father?”

“It wasn’t rape by the third time.”

“This is disgusting, I can’t hear anymore of this.”

“Wait…just listen. This went on for a few years. I enjoyed it. He enjoyed it. Mom knew about it. All of us would have breakfast and silently stared at each other knowing.”

“I want you to leave, “ she said standing up and throwing the remainder of the wine in her face.

“Come here, It’s okay, I understand,” she said drawing her near for an embrace.

“Do not touch me. I hate my father, he is a monster. I want him dead. I fucking want him dead!” She screamed throwing her fists in all directions.

“Alex, calm down. I am your friend. Just let me hug you, I am here for you.”

“You are not my friend, you sick twisted bitch. You are a disgusting fucking pig. You make me sick and I want you out of my house!”

“Alex, breathe, It’s gonna be okay. Just hold still,” she said ignoring the blows to her face and her pride.

“Get out!”

“You fucking little bitch, I am trying to help you,” she said as she stared into her mascara-smeared eyes and the dried blood on her chin under the moonlight. Punches kept coming in the forms of fists and stinging words. At the moment she knew exactly what to do. They were two very different people. One woman’s burden is another’s bash, she thought.

And with that she grabbed her by the chin and twisted her face to the side and pushed her out the window.

“You bitch. You’re a sick fucking cunt!” she screamed on the way down with her gaze locked on hers.
“No,” she said smiling, “I’m a survivor.”

∞