The room is full of smoke. A hazy overcast of unfiltered menthol dreams. It floats above her head resting on her shoulders; shifting its full weight into her and taking her knees for granted.She only weighs so much and the trouble it causes isn’t so much trouble, as it is claustrophobia in the works. It only took a whisper and hot breath of life to sneak into her brain, taking over the mechanics and letting loose within instantaneous moments.
“I’m paralyzed from the soul down”, she says painfully, as she pushes the words from the cracks in the fists. She never knew what she was really getting into. Three months ago seemed liked a walk… in the park…or there about. Her mind slows and catches up with her reaction. Maybe tonight wasn’t the best night to return to your reality. Her bruised trust still has his grip embedded deep in it. She began to question his presence more and more after each return.
“Tell me what you’re thinking”, he encourages. He encourages more then he’s ready for. The room fills with more haze and I wait for someone to open a window or door and let the confusion filter out. Everyone is caught up in their own, and drives on apathetically in their skin.
The dark thoughts reveal the shadows my ancestors wished to hide. It’s us. It’s who we are. It’s the malevolent, grotesque walking reflection of ourselves. Wearing a resemblance of ourselves, once pure but never the same. He was a pyromaniac. She was in the cross fire. Momma always said, "don't play with fire...or you'll get addicted. She may be in her twenties, but her ancestors grow me old. Her family remembers the 23rd psalm, yet blind to why she is broken. “Even though I walk through the darkest valley, I fear no evil; for you are with me…” In her family, they live together far enough from the city, yet close enough to each other’s demons. Love it. Live with it. Learn from it. She has become accustomed to stories. The babaylan, diwata, and Gabriela. An opaque screen connecting demons and children with angels and adults.
She talks in skeleton terms and ask that you refrain from picking on her funny bone. It’s tough, to say the least, when vultures are perched above her mind ready to swoop on any piece of heritage she compromises and tosses aside. Her shadows are her enemies; and she makes love to them whenever she can. She loves the way the body feels in the nude. Secrets and all. He knows her inside and around. She loves that. There’s no way another could and she appreciates the time it took to do so.
This room is a claustrophobic’s anxiety attack. She tries to leave, but mental games entice her. "What do I do?" manages to escape her mouth. Smoke along side the desolate or go for a ride with my thoughts? she's claustrophobic. I think I’ll take that drive.
"I can't believe you had to wear a skirt today!" Bubbling with excitement, the libations take hold of my neck beckoning a reponse to surface. Playful banter, honest dialogue, and post-dinner laughs compliment lighthearted reminiscences. He looks at me, fumbling for words like he’s playing football with my thoughts. “How can I score a touchdown with her?” he thinks, but not about sex-about redemption and retribution. At least, that’s what I assume. They’ve played this dance before, and every time he wins.
I look back at him, the street lamp piercing in, bouncing off the lake onto my windshield on to his face. I hate that thoughtful stare he has. “You’re so transparent,” I tell him. I knew who he was even though I couldn’t anymore. I trespassed on reliance, raped confidence, and strangled trust.
The raped becomes the rapist.
Fatigued-emotionally, mentally, physically, I forget what I’m saying. Mimicking air, words slip through my teeth. Unaware of the abusive hands they form, I come to. Look at him. Wait for a response. “I need time and space”. Words all too familiar envelop me like a cocoon. “I’ll walk home from here” he continues. I don’t know what I said, but the words blanket me, and like a python start to constrict my chest. Squeezing my neck, so to forebode any speech to rise. The door slams, and the street lamp seem to beam into my car so strong, as to match the anger that wins. Anxiety, fear, confusion flush my face. Every time, anger wins. “I didn’t wear my seat belt,” I think to myself. I didn’t plan on buckling up for a conversation. Now, I know. Maybe I’ll stop driving.
I’m left. Alone. Again.
I can never be honest. I will be left. Alone. Again. I choke up the key that locks my heart, weld it to my wrist, and sentence it to solitary confinement. With a past packed with unfulfilled consequences, she clings on to her pride with terror. “There’s something therapeutic about self-destructing” an ex-best friend once told me. “There’s also something therapeutic about remembering how utterly alone you really are” I realizes. In my past, bad deeds went unpunished. So, this must be retaliation, in karma’s realm. It’s the consequences to my action.There is a action, reaction, consequence [In that cyclical order]. Obviously, I must break the pattern a rapist reaps from it's victims. Rehabilitation and "imprisonment" seems to be in order.
-Jean Tolentino
