My poetry comes dark, full of self-loathing. How could it be anything else? Once I was a queen in his arms, beautiful and prized; now I’m alone and broken like an old discarded doll. My mind, my only sanctuary, is no longer safe.
I stay very still, afraid to sit straight because of the stabbing pain in my ribs. My head slumps over onto my chest as I stare numbly from my paper on the bed to a long, red welt on the inside of my leg. I feel sad, tired, and old—ancient, in fact. I get it now, I tell myself. I finally get it. If I don’t resist, he won’t hit me anymore. Thor, my little hero, stays glued to my side. Little man, little man, I speak to him silently with my eyes, how is it you can keep me caring… about anything? You’re so sweet. I stroke his wrinkled, worried brow and flash briefly on the rainy day when John and Sharon let me bring him home for the first time. Nestled in my arms under the warmth of my Mexican poncho, his tiny, shivering, hairless body ached to be loved with every ounce of his being, and we bonded instantly. “Yes, we are still kindred spirits, aren’t we, boy?” He closes his eyes.
When John comes back late in the evening, I am in bed and the room is dark. Keeping the lights off, he undresses in a few swift moves, crawls under the covers, and quickly turns his back to me. Thor and I lie motionless. God, please don’t let him touch me. I cringe as he rolls onto his side. Thankfully, he doesn’t, and instead acts as if his feelings are hurt, covering us in a blanket of silence.
In the morning John continues to mope, banging around the shabby rented room with loud noises and jerks. A stained chair falls against the splintered desk and over onto the floor. Slowly, he becomes aware he has no audience and registers my mental absence… the severity of my injuries. Through his creased and bloodshot eyes, John sees I’m not moving and my trips to the bathroom are labored; I’m bent over in pain.
My own eyes, though swollen, tell me he is out of dope again. Half-assed, he tests me to see if I am faking, casually asking me to hand him an ashtray or a match. Ignoring him, I tell him flatly, “My ribs are broken, John.”
He locks eyes with mine and, for one desperate moment, looks frightened and lost. We both know from the gleaned medical knowledge we picked up from Sharon that there is nothing you can do for broken ribs except to keep them immobile enough to heal. I might be stuck here, I tell myself as I turn my back on him, but he doesn’t have to be important to me anymore.
In the days that follow, John realizes how badly he has beaten me and is apologetic, loving, even doting again. He’s really scared. I can sense it and am curious at his vulnerability. As with every other time when an episode of abuse ends and he finally comes down from his high, remorse consumes him. But this time the reality of how close he came… to killing me… strikes a twisted sense of panic in him.
He brings Thor and me food, gives me Valium to help me sleep through the pain, and carries me to the bathroom when I need it. He is nervous and jumpy. He tries to crack awkward jokes, hoping I will respond with something—a smile or a nod, some gesture that will relieve his terrible mounting guilt. He looks like a gangly monkey, I note, still not connecting him to anyone familiar.
John kneels down beside me on the bed, reaches for my arm, and begins massaging. “Baby?” he chokes and moves in to hold me. “I love you.” His head presses hard against my chest, and he melts down into my lap with a groan when he realizes I’m not responding as I always have when he’s said those words to me. He knows those are the words that move me. It is the love I live for that he manipulates. I freeze and then robotically touch a curl of his dirty blond hair that lies needy; he is more like an unkempt stray dog in my lap than a man I love. An audible sigh escapes him as he wraps his body around me, thinking my resistance has softened, careful not to disturb my ribs. I allow him to draw me a bath and brush the tangles from my hair, hiding the clumps that he has pulled out, as if I can’t see. Putting on his best performance, John moves in to make love to me. I let him guide me through the motions, my arms and legs lifeless, limp like straw. He pours desperate kisses over my naked skin, across my breasts, down my sunken belly. His eyes are closed, and his mouth is pursed tight as he displays for me his erotic movie face. I stare at him as if he’s a stranger. His pounding slaps the headboard above me, sounding oddly like distant hammering, until he is sweaty and spent, holding me as if we have made passionate love.
Thor, who once loved and trusted John with all his little might, now moves warily from him, jumping in fear at every move he makes. John makes an effort to try and be gentler and more playful until, nervously, Thor complies. His tiny legs dance halfheartedly, like a run-down windup toy’s. John knows he has broken more than bones this time. He seems aware that he has fractured the most innocent of hearts and with feeble, stumbling attempts, tries to pick up the shattered pieces.
I can tell from John’s movements that he will be going out again soon and he is trying to make it okay by being overly nice and fussing over me. My stomach tightens when I see the signs that the insanity is about to begin all over again. I keep ignoring him, though. I don’t believe any of his lies anymore, and they are all lies. I am actually glad to have what I guess will be at least a couple days alone.
“I’ll be back as soon as I can, baby,” he says, sweating and looking like he can’t stand to be in his own skin. He bends down to kiss me good-bye. I recoil at his gesture of intimacy. Don’t kiss me on the mouth. I turn my cheek toward him instead. He backs up, sadness flashing in his eyes for a moment; then without hesitation he shrugs it off, grabs his briefcase, and walks out the door.
As the car chokes then sputters off, my stomach unwinds. I’m relieved that he is finally gone. Then panic seizes me. Did I let my guard down too far? The thought that he might be outside shoots me off the bed like a bolt of lightning, and I run for the window.
Snap! The loud sound like a breaking tree branch reverberates inside me.
“Ohh! My ribs!” I cry out into the darkened room, doubling over in pain from the rebreaking of my bones. Falling against the window, I clutch awkwardly at the sill and push off toward the bed, not daring to breathe. I drop onto the slippery polyester spread, pop a Valium, and try not to think about the burning fire in my side, the searing pain in my heart—or the fact that tonight is Christmas Eve.
John comes back the next morning, just before checkout time, high as a kite. “Come on, baby. We gotta get out of here!” He is frantic and reeks of sour sweat.
Mmmmm. Shit, I think, rolling over onto my good side to try to shake the Valium off. Reluctant to leave my dream state for the reality of being with John, I lie perfectly still, until the clamor of the midday traffic forces its bleak way into the room. I keep my eyes squeezed shut anyway.
Then the memory that it is Christmas comes over me, and for a brief moment a dream appears… a tiny hope. Maybe, just maybe, we will go home and see Sharon today and have some kind of celebration. A welcome image appears behind my resistant eyelids. It is our old house—John’s, Sharon’s, and mine. The door is open… beckoning. Our once-treasured red stockings glisten with the gold of our names: John, Sharon, and Dawn. They hang over the stone fireplace behind a slightly crooked Scotch pine decorated to the brim with the bright and silly ornaments we’ve collected over the years…