A low, white-picket fence buttresses a rambling rose. Thick and gnarled, the vine’s trunk indicates a history as old as the piecemeal cottage it guards. Pink flowers; small and sweet. Ethereal aroma fills my senses as I bend through the arbor, pushing open the wonky gate. An original front door and its porch are enclosed in a window-walled room. Curtains block the view. A lopsided path twists to the side of the once-upon-a-time shack. I am expected, but instead of going straight in or knocking, I look in through the patio French doors to access the internal state. No one in sight. I quietly turn the knob and ease the door ajar allowing my nimble limbs through. Quiet. It is probably nap time and David is putting little Caleb down in his crib. I sit on the couch in the main room of the miniature one bedroom house and wait. A large TV fills half a wall. Stagnant air of sour milk, must, and institutional hardbacks remind me I am not at home. The L-shaped sectional fills almost half the space. The single mom’s student collection of legal precedent stand at attention along the shelves. I, also, have done lots of babysitting and know settling a toddler down to sleep can be tricky so I wait without a sound.
David tiptoes from the bedroom, putting a finger to his lips. I nod. His lanky body a bit like a full grown puppy’s: slightly awkward and clumsy. Fatigue flushes through me as dread settles into my stomach, feeding the resident knot. Each time I see him the picture from six months ago at the end of summer flashed across my mind: The two of us walking to the high school fence, the field and outdoor halls empty, desolate. Me telling him I want to break up. Him telling me he could change and that he loved me. Squirming, unsure how to maneuver out of the sticky situation. Suffocating. Loss of control. Surrender.
Small prickles of heat and disgust catch in my throat. He gives me a big grin, and takes my hand. Pulling me into the enclosed porch where various furniture and papers collected in a no man’s land. “Let’s make love here. We don’t want to wake Caleb,” he says. “We shouldn’t. You should keep an ear out. We don’t want to wake him,” I say. My voice sounds pleading and weak. I think I don’t want to, but it doesn’t come out of my mouth. He has always been the one moving us through our time together. He has always been in charge. I follow.
As a child, I had been trained to follow. I was considerate. Selfless. What started as being quiet, watchful, and obedient turned into disempowerment, then self-destruction. My truth just didn’t seem to come out of my mouth.
He angles me onto the daybed, pulling my shirt over my head. “It can be a quickie,” he says. At least it will be over soon, I think. He pulls down my pants, and his. His fully erect penis springs to attention after catching on his white undies as they descend his hips. I feel a ping of arousal, yet the knot in my stomach tightens. For a brief moment, as his hands move over my hips, I am hopeful of tenderness. The weight of his pelvis anchors into me as his penis pushes against my labia, plunging into my young vagina. His eyes close. He pumps. The abyss between us widens, the wisp of tenderness dissipated. I am alone. Trapped. trapped.
An uneasy coolness spreads across my skin. My heart grows louder, faster. Pain, of anguish and disgust floods my cells. Like a switch that has flipped, everything changes. No pain, airy lightness, floating. No longer pinned underneath his fucking, I am on the ceiling, watching a fifteen year old girl below, enduring. A nineteen year old boy, consuming. There is no balance here, no love, no kindness. The kid finishes, lifts his body free of her.
How I could see all that from a corner of the ceiling I didn’t know.
Moving back, slowly, with caution, I feel a drop of liquid release from the side of my eye and crawl down my cheek. The hollowness that has been at the center of my resident knot has grown to consume my whole heart. I do not exist. I know there is pain on the other side of the grey, but it is no longer mine.
I am dismissive as he talks, not hearing his words. When he has moved away, I stand up, get dressed and go to the bathroom. I grab the door. Wooden and white, it needs an extra pull to latch closed. The one room in the tiny house where I will be left alone. I can touch the porcelain sink as I sit on the toilet, wanting, waiting, for everything he put in me to spill out. Only a pathetic trickle of semen finds its way to my pubic hair, which is then caught in a stream of my urine. The pee, entirely the product of myself, is cleansing, fresh. I want buckets of pee, gallons, to wash everything away. What small teacupful comes is disappointing and reminds me of the grey emptiness at my core. I wipe, flush, and wash my hands. The bathroom is right off the kitchen. I hear David in the living room turn on the TV, volume low. I open the freezer, looking for ice cream. Then the pantry for cookies. I want gravity and weight inside me. Sugar to ease the grey. I am desperate for something nice, something good. Searching, I find a bag of chocolate chips. I palm as many as I can. Looking out the sink window at the molding loveseat under the split plum tree I eat the chocolate. I feel my breath deepen. Calm reclaims me. Licking the melted chocolate from my finger, I smooth my hair and turn toward the living room.
