Victimized

by Richard Thomas

  Again.

  He lunges and she moves to the side with ease, dancing on the balls of her feet. She lashes out one quick right catching the back of his head as he stumbles past, opening up a gouge behind his ear.

  He wants her so bad his face is purple with blood.

  But she won’t let him get near her. Laughter erupts from the crowd. His eyes dart to them, breath speeding up. Some kids in the front row, punks with shaved heads, long hairs with eyeliner, mohawks with safety pins shoved through their cheeks. Torn denim and acne scars. She stops moving and watches him. She watches the punks.

  “No,” I whisper. “No,” I say, louder. Toad turns to me, then back to the ring.

  Without looking his right fist tightens. Staring at the handful of kids his right leg bent, as if leaning into the crowd, he launches at her, left leg extending, swinging around too fast for her to move. She squeals, her eyes wide as the fist catches her in the throat, crushing her windpipe. Her fingers splay as arms go wide, eyes rolling up in her head. She stands on her feet for a moment, dazed. He advances and beats her about her head and chest. She doesn’t move, against gravity and logic.

  Jab, jab, jab.

  Uppercut.

  And she falls like a cord of wood. He is on her before she even touches the ground. Tearing at her clothes, popping the clasps on her vest, ripping her shirt off, lapping at her pale breasts, tiny pink nipples pointing to the sky. I’ve gone deaf amidst the screams. I close my eyes so that I don’t see more. She knew the risks. She knew the price.

  Most of the crowd turns away, disgusted and disappointed. The punks stay, cheering him on. He pulls at her pants and moves to yank them off. A squat figure, dark and solid, slithers onto the stage and pushes a gun in his ear. A quick pop and down he falls, on top of his victim. Not for the first time, but surely the last. The shadow is gone, blending into the crowd. The kids at the ring stand slack jawed and stunned. One bends over and vomits on his feet as the blood soaks into the mat, another layer of life spilled into it. Officials wander on and kick him off of her. They place hands on wrists, on her neck, over her mouth. A stretcher slides under my thin pale girl and they disappear her into the night. I look for Michael in the crowd, his usual spot, the exact opposite of mine, across the way, low, by the ring. He is gone.

  #

  Back then we moved around a lot. But he always seemed to find us. Find me. Standing alone at a bus stop in the rain, smoking a cigarette outside a coffee shop, wandering around outside school. I wondered sometimes if he was real.

  A gas station outside Kansas City waving the heat off me while the nicotine and tobacco bits coated my throat. Parched and sweaty, a long black car would pull up and down the window would go.

  “Get in, Belle,” he’d say.

  And I would. I don’t know why. I was bored. He’d buy me beer. He’d let me drive whatever hot rod he had, silver steel and leather, candy-apple red and the smell of oil. It got me hot. He knew it.

  Walking out of a bar in Fargo, black knit cap pulled tight, oxblood leather boots stomping into the snow drifts, out of money and patience. Up would pull a battered old gunmetal blue pick-up truck, and in I’d jump. A pint of cheap bourbon, not even a label on it, just scratched glass and brown liquid. The streetlights bouncing off the copper madness, pulling it down my throat as if gasping for air. He’d hand me a gun and we’d pull to the side of the road. He’d reach across me, one hand landing on my thigh, the other rolling down the window. I’d stick it out the gap and holding it with two shaky hands, fire, blasting a hole in the stop sign, and off we’d drive, peeling around the corner, rubber burning, back-end swaying, cackling in the night like a couple of old hens.

  And every morning I’d wake up in my own bed, in nothing but my white cotton panties and an old black Ramones t-shirt. It scared me the first time it happened. Every alarm in my head went off, every inch of my stomach lined with knots and the threat of purging. And yet I was numb to do anything. Except cut myself.

  On the nights that he wouldn’t show, and there were many, on the cold, dark winter nights I’d run the razor blade over my translucent flesh and mark the occasion, slicing open the thin layer of skin until it beaded with blood, and ran down the side of my arm. Then I’d go out. And I’d find a wayward soul worse off than mine and eat it. I’d do to some poor sap what had been done to me, over and over again. I’d bury one waif in an empty grave. I’d lay another over the train tracks. I’d fling a third over my shoulder and toss the broken colt into a dumpster, the stench of rotten milk and kitty litter floating up to me. And I’d cry. I’d cry until the mascara ran down my face and neck into my cleavage, staining my breasts with the empty depth of my frantic scrambling, my howling at the moon and lost nights. I couldn’t stop. His face was on every skull that I broke.

  #

  Sinuous. That’s the word I am looking for. I stand in front of the floor length mirror, and stare at my naked body. Twenty pounds of muscle replace twenty pounds of fat. I am preparing to go to war and need only apply the paint. I hold the razor blade up to the dim light, shades drawn, a slice of sunshine piercing through the gaps. I have emptied out this space I inhabited. If I ever really existed here. There is nothing of mine left, for I may not return. I may have to run. There is only the bed, the stained mattress a study of my history, a Petri dish boxspring stuck to the floor. The dresser, beaten and chipped, the way I found it.

  Names my father used to call me: princess, bunny, doodlebug, sunshine, honey, baby, sweetheart, angel.

  I slide the blade down my left bicep and forearm, all the way to the wrist. Just enough to break the skin. Then I do the other arm. Down my ribcage, the bones protruding, just a fraction deeper, a bumpy ride to my navel. Bending over it glides down my left thigh and then my right. I stand up straight and place the sticky razor on the dresser. I run my hands over the seeping cuts on my arms, and spread the paint around. I’m an Indian now, redskin. I dip my right index finger in the expanding droplet at my knee, and paint a line under my left eye. Then my right.

  Names my mother used to call me: whore, tramp, slut, loser, waste, darling, pervert, sick.

  #

  Leaning against the black GTO, I run my hand over the edge of the hood, back and forth. 1968. Blue jeans and that damn Ramones shirt screaming I want to be sedated. I wasn’t even a gleam back in ‘68, but this girl has the curves, the muscle, and I’d been drawn to her for a long time. She used to belong to my father. Kind of like me. I lift the clear glass bottle to my lips and sip at the liquid gold. Just a little to steel my nerves. A pint to nip at. I won’t vomit again.

  A crunch of gravel behind me, but I don’t turn. It’s early still, the sun hasn’t even set over the horizon yet, and I stare at the orange dust over the warehouse, as it slowly darkens, the light slipping away. I don’t turn because I know who it is. It can only be one person this early.

  “You ready, honey?” he asks.

  “No.”

  “Little courage, huh?”

  “Just a little, Bookman.”

  “Make sure it stays that way. You gotta be sharp tonight.”

  “I know.”

  I turn to him, and he is ancient. Or maybe I’ve become fourteen again. Wrinkled skin and liver spots and I suddenly feel sorry for him, eeking out a living here, watching the blood spill, skimming off the top.

  “So what am I up to?”

  “Huh?”

  “The odds Book. What am I up to?”

  “Well, you know...after last night...”

  I smile.

  “What is it? Twenty? Thirty-to-One?”

  “I haven’t taken a dime yet, Belle, but it’ll be fifty-to-one to open.”

  I exhale. They have no faith.

  “Here. Take it.”

  I hand him a roll of money. I’m not even sure how much it is.

  “I’ll either be rich or I’ll be dead, Book. Just take it.”

  “Okay.”

  He stares at me, eyes bulging.

  “
Good luck.”

  #

  The roar of the crowd is deafening, my ears washed over by the weight of the ocean. He stands across from me, eyes glazed over, a sparkle buried there, as his head fills with the past.

  I am a deception, an illusion, I am not what I seem. The black spandex shorts and tight sleeveless t-shirt are a very thin mesh, a chainmail of sorts. They cannot be penetrated with a knife. It took me awhile to find the other device, but it still exists. Chastity belt. It is surprisingly comfortable and simple to wear. Thin, pliable rubber, lined with metal braces. There is a slot to urinate, but not to penetrate. He will not violate me if I lose. Not again.

  I place the rubber mouthpiece in, and crack my neck from side to side. His heavy stare has been on me since I stepped in the ring. Practically salivating, this blood of mine. A sheen of sweat coats my body, as I shake out my legs, as if ready to sprint. I shake out my arms, and crack my knuckles, wrists taped tight, my smoking gun buried over the scarred flesh, waiting for the final act to reveal itself.

  He is not impressive. He is less than I remembered, and a part of me feels sorry for him. A small part. The part of me that liked his hand on my thigh, the part of me that turned a blind eye to his indiscretions. In my mind’s eye I see a faucet, with two silver handles on either side. There is hot scalding water streaming out of the opening. I reach over and turn it off.

  I finally allow myself to look out into the crowd, to see the faces of my enemies, my neighbors, my chorus. My addiction. They want me to lose, to be torn asunder and punished for my beauty, for simply being a woman. They want to see him get beaten down by the lesser sex. This fickle school of remoras is waiting for the chum to hit the waves, for us to tear each other apart. They will get their wish.

  I know Michael is here, I feel his eyes as well. His is a mountain range, a presence on the periphery, and if I look at him I will turn to stone. I am weak, I am strong. I am nothing, I am everything. I take the chance and find his concern, and embrace it. His eyes are ice cubes, blocks of cold disdain. In reality they are holding down his worries and doubts. Like me, he keeps it buried, for fear of letting that weakness destroy him. One simple nod is all he gives me, and it is all that I need.

  The bell.

  It has started, and I am not ready. I cannot move. My arms hang at my sides as he slowly approaches me, a hyena laughing, his head bobbing up and down, as he eases up to the kill that lies rotting in the African sun. I have forgotten my plan. I have forgotten the face of my father. Uncle Jon advances anyway.

  I watch him as he lumbers forward, more fragile now then I remember him, but still very capable of beating me to a pulp. I cannot lift my arms, they are encased in cement. Panic washes over me, and there is nothing I can do. I do not hear the crowd, I hear the screen door slide open, I hear crickets in the back yard chirping, I hear a dog up the street bark and cigarette smoke fills my nose. The crisp snap of a beer can opening and a chuckle in the dark.

  He raises his fist and punches me in the face.

  It is dark again. As if underwater, sound fades in and out, deep murmurings like a tape being played backwards, and the sharp tingling of needles on my skin, panic, and I open my eyes. His face is all I can see, his mouth open wide, crooked yellow teeth and dry cracking lips. I reach up my hands and shove my thumbnails into his eyes.

  And the world rushes back in. I choke on my own blood as he falls off of me, so I turn my head to the side and spit. My mouthguard is gone. My nose may be broken. A hive of bees fills my face, buzzing while the dull stinging spreads to my cheeks. Placing my hands beneath me I am up as fast as I went under. The room swims, and I take a quick glance around, to remind me of where I am, and why I’m here. Jon writhes on the canvas, holding his face in his hands. Over to Michael, again a quick nod.

  One cautious foot in front of the other, I ease over to him. On his hands and knees, still holding his face, a dull moan escapes his lips. I kick him as hard as I can in the chest. He flips over like a turtle on the side of the road.

  “Get up,” I say.

  His eyes blink open, they are still intact. He can still see.

  “Get up, you stupid man.”

  He scrambles back like a crab on all fours, grabs a hold of the ropes and pulls himself up. He blinks again, the flesh around his eyes gouged, bleeding, but his eyes are still on me.

  “Goddamn, Annabelle. And after all I did for you, sugar.”

  I raise my fists and come after him. I pummel his head, but he has raised his arms, and the blows glance off his bony forearms. I pause, he lowers. I sock him in the left eye. Moving too slow, as I go in again, a gray blur fills my vision and he punches me again. I reel backwards, stumbling, but regain my balance.

  “Come on, Jon,” I say. “This is it.”

  He moves forward, a bounce in his step. The initial shock has worn off, but he still thinks this is a joke. Still thinks that deep down he will prevail, no matter what. I’m just a little girl, after all.

  When he gets close enough I move to Plan B. A roundhouse kick to the head catches him off guard, sending teeth flying, littering the grimy canvas like a box of spilled Chiclets. Holding his hand to his face, his mouth a bloody gash, I keep coming. A step, a hop and a kick to his chest, the ribs cracking, giving way as his breath flies out of him, staggering back. One more step and a kick to the face, my heel connecting with his nose, head snapping back, blood spraying the air. Drops land on me, my face, spatter my arms and chest as he bounces off the ropes and collapses on the floor.

  Standing over him, he lies on his side, a pool of blood forming by his head. The crowd is screaming, they want me to finish him off. But I’m not ready yet. It’s not enough.

  “Get up,” I say. “Get up, you sick fuck.”

  Slowly he stands up, pushing himself to his knees, grabbing hold of the ropes again, up tall and proud now, his face mangled, eyes swelling shut.

  “Let’s go you bitch,” he says.

  I back up.

  “Sweetest piece of ass I ever had,” he gasps.

  I deflate like a balloon. It has been said, out loud. It has a name, it has been called out.

  “You used to writhe under me like a worm in the sun,” he says, a crooked grin spreading over his face.

  I back up further to the center of the ring.

  “You’d grab a hold of my ass and tell me faster...harder...give it to me baby!”

  My arms fall to my sides, my stomach a knot of twisted muscles and sharp pains.

  “And you kept coming back for more.”

  I stop and stare at him and he raises his fists. My head snaps back and forth, and all I see are his knuckles retreating, and a moment later, the pain reveals itself. A pause and he takes a breath and he does it again.

  Left, right, left.

  I can’t feel my face. My vision is white snow, television noise at three in the morning. My left hand reaches over as he takes another breath. I peel off the tape without even looking at it. I’ve done it a hundred times. In my tiny little apartment, in front of the mirror. I’ve done it with my eyes closed. Blind, much as I am right now. I peel off the layer of tape and expose the smoking gun, in this the third, but not final, act. I snap open the straight edge razor in my right hand, down by my thigh, and he doesn’t even notice. He’s moving in for the kill. And so am I. He thinks I am dazed, lost, a wounded deer caught in the headlights.

  When he takes that final step, and pulls back his right arm, I have my gap, my moment. And I take it. Instead of a rag doll waiting for him to pick me up and set me in his bed, I lunge forward, swinging my right arm with every saved up scrap of rage. The blade slices the air as he steps into it, cutting across his throat, my wrist bending, hurting as it connects, cutting through. The gash opens his flesh up, passing through cartilage, opening his windpipe, his head lolling back. His fist glances off the side of my head as the weight of the punch pushes him forward, bathing me in his fluids for the last time. His heart still pumping, the artery shoots the dark liquid in
to the air, over my head, as he twists away, holding his hands to his neck. Blood surges over his splayed fingers, eyes wide, choking, spitting blood.

  Our eyes.

  None of it plays back, only the hissing of air as my mind collapses. A tone rings in my ears as I blink my eyes. He wants no forgiveness, for in his mind, he did nothing wrong. To him, I was an accomplice, a keeper of his dirty little secrets, aiding and abetting.

  His enabler.

  He falls to his knees and I say nothing to him. Pointless. He falls on his face, blood racing across the canvas, creeping into the fabric, and my arms are made of lead. There must be screaming, there must be something, but I am deaf. I am stone. Down my face flow my tears and I stare at my uncle, my lover, my teacher.

  I am grateful for none of it. I am rotten and diseased.

  #

  It was many years later when I returned to the ring. They led me in the back door this time, with an escort. Not for Jon, for the others. I was famous now. They didn’t want any trouble. I was the only woman to ever win here. I’m a little older now. Still in fighting shape. I’ve been riding the wind, moving around, lost, unable to settle down. Like oil and water, the real world and I don’t mix. Up the back stairs, dark concrete, cold and damp, like sweat socks traipsing through a rain filled gutter.

  It’s the match of the night, the main event. The building is packed, overflowing into the parking lot, cars on the gravel, spilling into the grass and dirt. Stomping boots, pounding fists, bursting at the seams for my return. When I enter the light, my mouth parts and a smile crosses my lips. My entourage brings me through the ropes, holding my shoulders, my head so I don’t fall. And hurt myself.