FicWad

Its amazing how easy it is for people to adapt to situations. Women can live with their husbands beating them for years without saying anything. Victims of rape can keep quiet about it until the day they die, and people who are emotionally abused will just let it keep happening – they just get used to it. I have just gotten used to the words, and the treatment; grown too accustomed to the hurt to really feel it, the numbness filling me out instead.

I thought that after I gave myself an option to get out of this shithole, it'd be too painful to go back. But really, it wasn't. I'm like an animal, tortured by their master in a too-tight cage, yet faithful nonetheless. I'll stay here, and they'll hate me, and they'll hurt me, and they'll tell me they don't want me around. But they don't ever want me to leave; they're not only dependent on the money, but also having someone to yell at. They like to tell me I couldn't make it without them, that I'm so lucky, that I'm so useless. But when I think about it, its really not the truth at all. They couldn't make it without me, they really couldn't do it. They're dependent on me as an outlet.

One time, I tried to apply for college. I got all of the essays written, the financial aid asked for, the words all finished out, the grades all finalized. But they threw them all away; told me it was community college or technical school – so I could stay home. They said it was because I wasn't old enough - I couldn't handle it – but we all knew the truth.

When I was little, the social workers used to tell me that the next house was going to be better – they promised. But after a while, they really stopped saying anything at all. And when I came to my last place three years ago, they visited once, and then they just stopped calling after a year or so. It was like I got totally abandoned; dropped. I think they called the place and told them they'd just keep me until I turned 18, which is great for them – us older kids don't exactly sell, if you know what I mean. But either way, I'm here, and I'm trapped, and I'm scared – and nobody cares enough to ask.

The processes are the same, since he left. I get up, tiptoe my way out, go to school (occaisonally), go to work, and then come back. I live on my three hours of sleep, unless they're on something and they get violent. Maybe this makes me sound like a pussy, but its the woman who scares me most. Its just her words, and her eyes – the way she makes me feel so dirty whenever I'm around her; the thick, messy hair piled on her head, the pursed lips, the half-smoked cigarette in her hand, poised to fall on my exposed flesh when I least expect it.

I'm always on edge.

But when I go to sleep at night, I dream of him. I dream of him to the point where I wonder if I ever met him at all – if that night is just a little piece of my imagination, from a bad trip or an unfulfilled fantasy. I think of his little white teeth, the skin on his hand, his black hair, the familiar eyes, and his cigarette. I can still feel the hug on my chest, and his chin on top of my head. I pretend that its him I'm touching when I'm getting slick Rick off in the bathroom stall, or that its him when I'm hugging my pillows at night. Its not normal, is it? I'm sure its not, but it makes things so much easier. When I skip lunch, I imagine his surprise at my thinness, and it makes me feel almost high. And when I hold the gun to my mouth at night, I always put it down again. I've got something important to do, I've got something big happening. He's coming back for me; this won't be forever. Something is going to happen, and if its got to do with him, I want in.

Its been about a week since I've seen him, and I don't really know quite how I feel about it. There's something, like the last piece to a puzzle, that I know I'm missing. There's something that I can't put my finger on, but its big and gaping, and I know that I can figure it out, just give me time. Little clues, and bits and pieces, fall in and out of my conscious as I sleep, eating my thoughts and making wonder deeper than I usually bothered. Images keep flashing in my head, but I don't know where they came from, or why they keep making me cry. He has opened something up, and I don't know how to close it again.

I'm three pounds thinner and I'm a little bit proud as I walk into the bar, going through the same motions of getting myself mentally prepared for another night in this dirty, filthy place. One day, I'll burn this place down. I'll come back and I'll burn it all down, and cut it all open, and clean up the mess, and throw all of the ashes. But today isn't that day, so I go to Manny, who points at an old guy with wide set eyes and a hard jaw. He said he'd give me fifty for a blow – not bad.

When you're in my line of business, you figure out what you're really worth. Every piece of you has a price – your beauty, your cleanliness, your abilities, your willingness. The better you are, the more you're worth. I'm not really friendly, and I don't kiss, and I don't whisper little lies into their ears. But they think I'm cute, and they like my skeleton, and that's what I'm worth. But I am not priceless, and I am not one in a million. If this business has taught me anything, its that there is a price for everything – even love, if that's what you call it.

He's pulling on my hair, and shoving me onto the ground in the dirty bathroom. My somewhat friend, although I don't know his name, is right next door, with an angry sounding man, screaming at him in Spanish. I think this was making my guy more violent, as he shoves me off of him and pulls me to my feet. Of course, I cry out, because he's got my hair and I'm scared – this isn't what I get paid to do. He takes me and exits the bathroom out of the back, so I'm not passing by Manny, or many other people, for that matter. I consider yelling, but I'm too scared of the consequences – this shit happens all of the time, and no pervert is going to come and find me again. My stomach hurts as he pulls open the back door and forces me out of the bar, into that lonely alleyway where I tried to die last week.

Swallow, stand, spit, yell, cry, collapse repeat.

I know what's about to happen before it does. He shoves me against the wall and holds a knife to my throat. There isn't any need for words – I know what is happening. I'm looking up at the stars as he pulls down my pants, eyes tearing up at the sight of the moon. Nothing is wrong, I'm okay – this isn't real, you're fucking dreaming. His breath is hot and smells like whiskey; his hands are rough and calloused. He offers me three little white pills and I take them – how kind, maybe it'll hurt less when I'm too high to care. But when his lips come towards mine, I snap, suddenly back to reality. I cry out and push away, sudden fury entering my bones. You can't take my first – you won't be my first.

“You little bitch.”

Standing up for yourself is never a good idea, okay? Let the bullies beat your ass; let the tormentors say their words. But never, ever, ever try to stand up for what is right. If you do, it'll only get worse – you're too weak to do much damage, you're not fast enough to outrun them. They're targeting you for a reason, kid; its because you're not going to be able to win. Abandon hope here.

And repeat.

He slaps me so hard that I can't see; flashing, popping lights entering my eyes and distorting my vision. I hope I die now – I hope he kills me on the wet pavement, and that the knife is sharp enough to cut me deep. Stab me, cut me, slice me; rip me open and let the dirt pour out. I feel myself slide to the ground under the blow, chaffing against the rough brick wall. His kick collides with my stomach and I bend over, pain and nausea falling over me in crashing waves. I can taste the blood on my lower lip, feel my stomach walls contracting against me. This is how I'm going to fucking die, right here. Thank you, God. Thank you so fucking much.

And repeat.

I feel him staggering over me, drunken slurs falling like bombs over the shells of my ears. Faggot, bitch, whore; keep going, buddy – there is nothing you can say that is worse than what I think. I feel him turning me over, and I can't really think straight. But I do know one thing; my sordid virginity is going to be lost to a drunk, overweight, fifty-year-old guy in dirty jeans and a flannel tee. And I'm closing my eyes, and I'm waiting for the pain, and I don't care, and I'm hoping he'll kill me. Just split me in half and leave me here; I could cry louder, if it all wasn't so goddamn unreal.

And repeat.

I'm waiting for the pain, and I'm waiting for the bite, but it never comes. My eyes are squeezed shut, and all I can hear is a struggle – two fighting bodies behind me. I want to open my eyes, but whatever I took is kicking in, and I can't really feel anything as I'm drifting off. Whatever he gave me was strong, I'll tell you that – the pain that I felt suddenly numb, my tongue feeling swollen and wooden in my mouth. I hope I can overdose, and I hope whoever is fighting this guy is strong. I hope that God lets me see my parents before I go to Hell, and I'm hoping that its not too hot down there. But I'm really, really hoping that hazel-eyed boy will come too, eventually, and we'll escape somehow. And then I feel a little hazy bit of sadness, because I won't get to see him anymore.

As I'm falling into a blind stupor, two arms are lifting me up, and I smell some cheap cologne and cigarettes. I think I'm dying, I'm not quite sure though. But this feels nice, and I'm glad its happening. “Shit” that voice whispers softly, shifting my weight. I know that voice, and therefore I really must be dying.

“You come at the worst times” I manage to say, as I feel him start to walk. He mutters something sarcastic, but I don't mind. I think he could have done anything and I wouldn't have minded. He's carrying me, and I'm bleeding profusely out of the mouth, and I can't hear out of my left ear. I find it in me to open my eyes for a second, and I see him, pretty face and all. For this, I'm thanking Karma, and in a really big way.

Then I pass out from the pills.
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I hate waking up and not knowing where I am. It doesn't usually happen, but I remember I once went to a party and I passed out on the back porch. Nobody bothered to pick me up and get me, so I slept there all night. I remember waking up at four am with such panic – it was my first (and only) party, and I pretty much overdosed on Valium and never got to enjoy myself.

The room is soft and grey, and I thought it was plain at first, but then I saw this painting. It was just colors, like fire, engulfing me as I looked on, a victim to its terrible beauty. I had to look away, back to the simple plain of the bedspread. It ate at me a little, pulling on the conscious of my memory, and then I had to ignore it, because my head was hurting like hell, and my stomach was aching with hunger and a bruise. The previous night (hopefully only a day had passed, unless I was dead, then I was fucked) came back to me in pieces, and I felt a little on edge. Maybe this was his room, or maybe he left me with a friend, or maybe I really am dead. I pulled the sheets around myself and felt my cheeks begin to burn as I realized I wasn't dressed, I looked down, and all I was wearing was boxers – they weren't mine, either.

Embarrassment turned quickly into discomfort and edginess, and I took the blanket with me and wrapped it around myself. Cautiously, I left the bedroom and went down the hall, feet padding against the cold wood. It was a small apartment, but it was clean and well-kept, with the prettiest and most haunting paintings I've ever seen. Oranges and reds, golds and blacks and soft browns; charred remains in solid blocks of color littered the plain walls with a defiance. I looked down, the headache pressing me on. I thought the apartment was empty, but when I saw a mop of black hair on the couch, a wave of relief washed over me. Quietly, I made my way over to his sleeping form and stood there, feeling fairly unsure of myself as I watched him sleep.

Part of me wanted to wake him up, and the other part of me could have looked on forever. He was shirtless, blanket thrown to the side, pajama bottoms low on his hips. My pulse quickened as he shrugged a little and sniffed, then turned over. His skin was white and soft-looking, and all I wanted to do was touch it. Because he was real, and I think he saved me. And then I felt the tears come on as I realized how grateful I was to be alive – me, that dirty fuck-up, was actually glad that someone bothered to help me out, and that I didn't have to have sex for the first time outside of a bar. And that the guy who saved me was beautiful, and that he let me sleep on his bed and didn't even try to take advantage, he even slept on the couch. I started the tears, and then they didn't stop, crashing over me and making me unsteady.

“Come here, Baby” I heard him say, and I tried to wipe the tears away, suddenly painfully self-aware. The past three times he has seen me, I'm doing something really weird – I want to tell him I'm not usually like this, but there's really no point, because I actually am like this, and I don't want to lie. So, he lifts up the blanket and I crawl inside, crying, and we're lying on the couch together, and I don't know his name, but I'm getting to know every inch of his skin as he's pressed up against me, hands collecting my hair as I cry into his neck. I get myself in the weirdest situations lately, I realize, while he wipes the tears off of my cheeks.

When I was younger, I used to pray for miracles – I used to pray that I could remember my parents, or that I could talk more, or that someone could take me away. For a long time, I thought that maybe I couldn't get what I wanted because I asked the wrong way, or maybe that people like me just didn't get things. But right now, I think I”m kind of one of the luckier idiots in this world, as far as miracles go, and I don't want to let myself believe this is real, but its kind of nice to think so. Hes soothing me with words I'm not really listening to, and his fingertips are drifting – from my hair, to my ear, to my neck, and all the way up again. I can't really explain how I'm feeling right now, besides confusion, but I'm really enjoying it.

He pulls away, brushing the fringe out of my eyes (something that I never let anyone do, but suddenly don't mind him doing) and sighing. “We should get up” he says quietly, letting his fingers grace my jaw and neck before falling onto the couch. “Today I have to take you somewhere” I falter a little, and sit up, tears drying on my face. We're going somewhere – I know I have work tonight, and we're going somewhere. What if I'm not back in time, and Manny comes with his bird, and ...

“I have school today” I say in a bit of protest, just to test his reaction – of course I want to go, but something about it makes me nervous and on edge. He smirks at me and rolls his eyes, making it clear that on the list of priorities, school is not there. “We'll get to that, Doll” he says, and swiftly gets up and over me, then pulls my resisting self off of the couch. The blankets fall away and I'm standing there in what I assume are this older kid's boxers, and I'm just hoping maybe he'll stop looking at me with those goddamn eyes of his. He gives me a full smile as my cheeks burn, and I'm trying to melt into the floorboards. I'm pretty sure he got me undressed last night, which further makes me want to run out of the apartment, but kind of makes me feel a rush of warmth inside. I know I'm fucked up, but what can I say – this guy has been haunting my dreams since I met him.

“Your shit is in the dryer” He says, nonchalant as he walks to the small kitchen and begins to brew coffee, back to me. “And you're going to want to hurry, Baby, because we have a train to catch”. He turns to face me, hazel eyes questioning me as I stand there, frozen.

“My name is -”

“I know your name, Frankie, just go get dressed”

**

I'm getting impatient as I feel the train start and stop between stations, loading and unloading passengers. My fingers are tapping, my leg is shaking, my head is bobbing. God, they really take their fucking time on these tracks, don't they. The air conditioner is blasting, but its May so its still cold, and I'm fairly uncomfortable. I shiver in my seat and press my face against the dirty glass, then quickly pull away when I start thinking about all of the people who sat here before me. It makes me twitchy.

I flinch instinctively when he puts his hand lightly on my leg. “Take it easy there, twitch” he smirks, and I stop fidgeting. I play with my lip ring and sit back, still uncomfortably cold. He takes off his leather jacket and gives it to me, and I put it on somewhat selfishly, mumbling a quiet thanks. Absentmindedly, I begin to count the cans a man has in a clear plastic trashbag, wondering how he got that kind of time. He was probably homeless though, but I'd be so busy being cold that I wouldn't bother getting cans. But hey, to each his own.

At East 125th and Harlem, the train stops and he grabs my hand, pulling me up. We stumble off of MetroNorth and pass by a few older looking women at the stop before reaching the sidewalk. He is walking with a purpose, and I'm being dragged along. We walk-run through neighborhood after neighborhood, going down block after block after block until I'm tired and start to not be able to keep up with his longer strides. He seems nervous, and a little bit on edge, but he notices that I'm tired and we both agree to sit down on a bench outside of a small delicatessen. We're silent as we watch the passer-bys, and I'm contemplating bringing up some kind of conversation, but I have nothing really to say. I'm a fan of surprises, personally, and I don't want to ruin this.

He says nothing as he lights up a cigarette, taking a few quick drags of it before he offers it to me. I politely breathe it in, then pass it back. I'm not much of a smoker – although I did heroin once, and that was quite the smoking experience. Me and this kid John who works at the bar wanted to see what it was like. Hes dead now though – I was lucky enough to not get addicted, and that kid became such a junkie that Manny fired him, which is a task that's really close to impossible. I wish I could get fired sometimes.

My hand is taken again, and we're off. It stops getting so crowded, and the only people around seem menacing, all in small groups, huddled outside of dirty apartment buildings. I know New York fairly well, so I'm recognizing these areas … but I'm recognizing them a little too well, and I'm getting nervous. I know this block, I know that tree, I know that windowpane. My heartbeat gets fast and angry as I begin to know where we're going.

I don't need to really guess that we're stopping when we do. He stands in front of the apartment, looking anxious. “Do you know this place” He whispers softly, jerking his head towards the door. I nod, because I do. Its my first foster home, and its the first place I was hit. My first cigarette burn, my first purposeful bruise, my first new school, my first social worker. So much for a fun day out in SoHo or Times Square like I was hoping.

“Is this it?” I asked dumbly, staring at the desolate and broken little building. He shook his head slowly. My body was shaking through the flow of memories, the pain building up. I was a little kid back then, maybe eight years old. Big green eyes, little green Converse, slight New Jersey accent, missing front teeth. Just a little baby, and all fucked up from the beginning – a blank mind and an unspeaking child. Selective Mutism, they said. But it became a great excuse for my foster dad to beat the shit out of me for not saying thank you when he gave me leftover KFC for dinner.

I don't realize that we're walking away from the apartment again, and that its getting dark and a little sketchy, which is making him walk much faster, looking tough and pissed as he strangles my much smaller hand. I want to say something mean, but I have nothing to say. I don't really understand this guy, and I don't know how he knows my past, but hes like a goddamn freak or something. “I just needed a starting point of where you started knowing things” He says calmly as some drunk man begins to yell from across the street. I'm getting frustrated as we leave, because that was a lot of build up for a shitty apartment and a whole bunch of memories I keep trying to forget. But thank you, kind stranger, for doing weird shit to me. If I didn't jack off to your face, I wouldn't be here, so you know.

We get to the train station and take a seat – I have to be at work in about two hours, and I can't honestly afford to be late. He looks kind of apologetic. “I had to know if you remembered” He says, biting his lip. I'm not really interested in hearing, because this is the second time I got excited for nothing. “You could have just asked” I respond in monotone, kicking a pebble onto the train tracks. I heard him mutter something under his breath – either 'I know' or 'soon now'. But I didn't ask him to say anything else, because I felt kind of deflated with disappointment.

On the train, I'm silent, and the tension is literally palpable. He's giving me sideways glances and I'm turning away, because I don't want him to know what I'm thinking at all. Its cruel, really, the things he is doing, but I'm so curious now that I'd go to the end of the Earth with him, just to figure it out. With the simplest action of bringing me into Harlem, he's opening up my mind, memories of my darkened and broken past coming back to me, things I thought I had buried alive. It hurts, like stepping on porcelain, and I'm swallowing it down. Because I'm sure he didn't mean to make me feel this bad, and I'm sure that this has a purpose, somehow.

I want to say something, but I can't speak, and I don't mind. I can go for days without talking, sometimes months. Its just an anxiety thing, just a thing I started out of fear. I can't talk when I'm hurting, just like some people can't move when they're scared. Its a normal impulse, and so I'm silent. But I'm remembering all of the punches I got in the second grade, and all of the boiling water poured on me, and all of the dishes that flew at my head. And I don't know when I started shaking so hard, but then I feel his arms around me and I'm crying for the millionth time this month. Maybe I'm losing it by gaining all of this new found memory, but it feels so much worse than being numb.

“I don't want it to be like this” He says, chin atop of my head. “All I want for you is to be happy, but its going to have to hurt first. I'm doing this for a reason, I swear”. My body hurts as I cry, and I can feel the handmarks that I thought I didn't remember, that I thought I forgot. For so many years, I built this shell to stay empty. For so many years I concentrated on dumping my thoughts into the ocean, to not let the pain touch me. But by shutting that all down, I shut out anything good as well.

People who say that they're depressed because they're crying are idiots. When you're sad, you're not depressed. Depression is when you can't fucking feel anymore, but everyone is so goddamn ignorant that they can get some Prozac and think they'll be happier this way. But depression is nothingness, and depression is being stuck in a fucking eternal state of melancholy, and having nothing to really live for. And Cymbalta can't really help, and Zoloft won't save you, and you're not going to chase those aches and pains away; you'll just numb them some more. I've been so empty for so long, and this pain is filling me back up, and I don't know why its so inviting. But maybe, just maybe, its because I trust this guy with a messy haircut and sad, sad eyes.

We get off of the train and take his car, and he asks me where I want to go. I don't say anything, just point to the sidewalk. He slows down a few blocks from my house and pulls over to the sidewalk, then puts his fingers to his temples, massaging them gently. I offer him his jacket and he gives me a small smile. “Keep it, Frankie, I'll be seeing you soon enough” I nod, smiling back, then open the door.

“Wait” He calls out. I turn, and collide with his lips. Its a small kiss, so small and pretty that I'd like to just swallow it and keep it in my throat wherever I go. I feel his sadness as he pulls away first, and I can feel the blush eating my cheeks. “We have to do something less sad next time” He whispers into the air, and I stare at him, jaw on the floor. Then he shoos me out of the car and pulls away, heading back to his grey fire apartment.

I think I forgot my heart on the dashboard.
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