by E. E. Curtis
Sticks and stones do hurt. And so do words. An attack in two parts.
Sticks and Stones
by E. E. Curtis
“You’re coming home late again?! But you’ll miss the 2nd grade picnic.”
He starts to say something, but I don’t want to hear his excuses. So I hang up on him. My heart is boiling inside me, but I have to try to keep my cool as I get the kids ready to go. Still, I end up yelling at my kids for taking too long to get their shoes on.
It’s another situation where I have to paste on the fake. The walls of my son’s class are covered in art, collages of pasted together pictures. I can see clumps of glue. I wonder if my fake smile, glued to my face is as obvious. It makes me mad at myself that I can’t cool down from another disappointment. The kids probably don’t even notice.
I start helping with the hot dogs. Place one limp, boiled hot dog onto a cold bun, pass it to a kid.
“Hey.” I look up. That guy who works at the school is standing with plate outstretched to me. “How’s it going?”
I reply with the standard, “Good, thanks,” that one reserves for acquaintances. Can’t really say, Actually I’m pissed because my husband is missing another thing he promised to be at. I’m so mad I’d like to throw this pot of hot dogs off the table.
“So, your son is Jayden, right?” he continues. I gave him his hotdog, but he’s still standing there, as people go around him.
“Oh, um, yeah actually. Do you work with him at all?”
He shakes his head no. “I’m an aid for the resource class.”
So that’s what he does. I see him whenever I’m around the school but I knew he wasn’t a full time teacher.
“So, is your husband here?” he asks, casually. He reaches down to grab the mustard.
I think my face must be turning red because I can feel it burning. “No, uh he couldn’t come.”
He looks like he’s about to say something, then smiles at me instead. He sets the mustard back down. “Well, see you around,” he says.
By the end of the picnic, when everyone has filtered away and I’ve finished cleaning, he’s back at my side chatting. My kids want to play, so I gesture towards the playground. We sit down on the swings. I trail my feet in the pebbles, barely swinging. It’s pleasant. My kids are a few feet away, running around on the primary-colored equipment playing tag. The sun is at just the right angle, where the light is golden instead of harsh. I’m finally letting go of my fight with Colt earlier. I start thinking of what to make for dinner.
I remember he’s sitting in the swing next to me. I should be polite and carry on our conversation. Earlier he asked me about my weekend plans, my family. My mind was still distracted, thinking about my fight with Colt earlier. Now I feel like I should follow up.
“So what do you want to do this weekend?” I ask.
“I want to suck your clit, and rub my cock between your tits.”
Wait a minute. I thought we were talking about the weather, about weekend plans, you know, small talk.
He tells me every X-rated thing he wants to do to my body. I’m completely shocked at the things he’s saying. This is a man I’ve only politely smiled at as we passed each other in the halls, who I’m still at the stage of hoping I’ll remember his name if we run into each other. This is the first time we’ve ever really chatted and he’s jumped straight to making me the object of his own porn movie starring him and me.
I’ve shut down. I stop swinging. He keeps going. I let him say these things to me. It’s not until later that I wonder why I couldn’t get up and walk away. Why I didn’t tell him in no uncertain terms no I’m not interested.
Instead, I let him go on because I’m numb. I have gone into myself, retreated. I am a helpless little girl. A victim.
Finally there is a break in his monologue. He has to go. He hands me his number and smiles at me before he leaves. And I take it. I take the damn number.
I’m like a robot with no feelings until suddenly I do feel. Now all at once, the numbness has turned to shame and guilt. I feel dirty and violated. Sitting on that swing, I feel like I’ve somehow just been assaulted. He didn’t even touch me. Sticks and stones will break my bones but words will never hurt me.
I throw his number in the trash next to the picnic table as I walk away feeling like trash. I gather my kids to me and we walk home. It’s time to make dinner.
____________________
Man, Dad is yelling at Mikrael again. I came to watch a movie with Mom for our weekly visit, but I can’t even concentrate on the screen at all. I shift uncomfortably on the couch. I try to just filter the yelling out as background noise. He keeps criticising my brother who doesn’t deserve to be treated like this. It build up until it all collides into one crashing yell.
“You’re fucked up!”
“No! You’re fucked up!”
I’m standing now, and don’t even remember standing up. I’m breathing hard. This is the first time I’ve ever thrown his words back at him. I’m a grown man now. It took me too long.
We face each other. I think the man’s actually shocked. He starts to laugh but I know he won’t do anything about it. He’s still sitting down. Coward.
I turn around and grab my things. I’m not staying here one more second. Mom gets up and starts apologizing to me and yelling at my dad sort of at the same time. Same old story. I give Mikrael a little wave as I walk past him, and out the door.
My pace is fast, long strides. In the running world this would be considered over-striding I think to myself. It’s a couple blocks to my apartment. Funny how I swore I’d cut this town as soon as I graduated, and here I still am. I should send out resumes. The air is cold and I forgot my jacket back home. All the swear words I grew up hearing him yell, the most memorable insults run through my head over and over. I want to go back and beat him up. I could now. I’m bigger.
I turn my music up. Thumping bass, a drop in the beat.
Wham! A searing pain spreads across my forehead. I clutch at my head as I stumble, nearly falling to the ground. I put my arms up to block the punches that are being aimed at my face and head. My vision is blurry, but I can make out a couple figures. I strike out trying to make contact, but instead I’m thrown off balance.
There is a momentary break in the punches. I hear them laughing, and someone calls out, “Look at the Haji!”
Their laughter doesn’t last long. I am knocked down.
Now my ribs are being kicked in. With each kick another insult is called out, until they blend together like a kind of soundtrack. Punch, kick, insult. It comes as a kind of rhythm, but one I can’t quite anticipate. I curl into myself, trying to hold all the parts of me safe, and failing. A kick lands in my solar plexus, and I fight desperately for breath. Panic rises in me as I can’t catch it. I’m going to drown and I’m not even in water.
Everything is a buzz in my mind. I’m not making out individual sounds. I clutch at my stomach, curling into myself. I can’t catch my breath or rise above this tide of pain to get up and defend myself.
“You fucking sandhead!” One last kick, punctuating the words. Someone kicks a rock that hits me in the face. Feet pound pavement as they run away laughing.
I lie there, panicked that I can’t see. Everything went bright when I fell, and then turned black at some point during the kicking. I’m trying to stay conscious. I’m going to throw up. My ribs are on fire. My head throbs. At least that means my heart is still beating.
As I lie there feeling my heart pulse painfully through my body, it feels like shame coursing through all my veins. Shame has taken the place of my red blood cells. I should’ve been able to defend myself. I should’ve said something, been able to land at least one solid punch.
I’m going to die lying on the pavement a song away from the house where I grew up. I taste something wet that I don’t recognize. It must be my own blood. Tasting blood reminds me of those words I was going to say to my dad, the fantasy of beating him up that I was having when I got jumped in a random act of racial violence. Life is ironic.
It makes me laugh. And laughing hurts.
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