John is becoming steadily abusive on every level now and steadily more insane.
“Where’s your ring?” I ask him after answering his frantic rapping at the garage apartment door.
He was wearing the large dragonfly when he left, and I have a bad feeling now that it’s no longer on his hand. I know men who have lost everything. They’d sell their mothers to get high. His warning lectures from months ago echo eerily in my head. Lose everything they own. Lose everything they own.
He doesn’t answer but only brushes past me to set up his pipe in the bedroom.
“John, are you all right?” I follow him nervously. “What’s the matter?” He looks shaky and in a foul mood. Snapping his pipe together, he makes himself a big hit of freebase, grabs his stomach, and holds it in.
The stream of residue billows around my head as he exhales at my face. Uh-oh. My heart thumps like a drum in my chest; my palms sweat and twitch. He’s mad again. I straighten up the room, desperate to become invisible.
“Where did you go today?” He flares his nostrils and glares accusingly.
“Nowhe—”
Wham! In one forward lunge, he flings his pipe into his briefcase and throws me on the bed. As I struggle to get free, John sits on top of my chest, pressing my arms down above my head. I am paralyzed. “Now!” he hisses dangerously, deliberately slowing his breath from our scuffle.“Where—have—you—been?”
“Stop! John!”
He yanks my arms down and pins them with his knees, taking one of his free hands and covering my mouth. “I’ll rip your eyes out, you lying bitch!” he sneers, plunging his thumbs into the corner sockets of my skull.
“Noooooo!” I try to yell, but his forearms muffle my voice. Like a bobblehead doll bouncing wildly on a bumpy road, I frantically turn my head from side to side.
The sweat from the battle and the heat of the claustrophobic apartment cause John’s thumbs to slip roughly off my eyes, his nails slicing the edges of my lids.
“Ahhhh!” I scream at the pain.
John’s bloodshot eyes widen in disbelief at my ability to escape his grip; then, in another fit of rage, he draws his arm back and punches me in the mouth.
The room is black with flashes of light like electric sparks. Blood splatters crimson on the pale sheets at my head.
John pushes himself off of me, smears the blood from his hand on the pillow by my face, and walks away.
I spit out a warm metallic mouthful of blood and roll to my side, holding my face. I feel the hole in my lip and the tooth that juts through, and I scream pitifully from the pain. I want to die. How can this be? I can’t comprehend. What’s going on? The horribleness of this overwhelms me.
On the way out the door, John holds up a stack of papers that look familiar through the burn of my cloudy vision. “Here. Now you can give these to your new boyfriend!” he spews venomously. One by one, he tears them to shreds, tossing mutilated pieces of the deepest, most private years of my life in the air before leaving me to my wounds.
“Noooo!” My breath catches in my throat when I recognize the scattered papers. Oh God, no. My poetry! I stagger over to the fragile paper fragments now littered on the gray and mildewed carpet. Precious words from all levels of my soul—words that brought me comfort, joy, release, and love—now scattered like a discarded jigsaw puzzle. “I wrote this one for my father,” I cry out loud, a new stab of pain stinging me with the loss of treasured memories, all I have left of him. “And this one. This, this one. I wrote this for him.” Unbelievably, more tears find their way down my bloodstained cheeks as I realize John mistakenly assumed these were written for someone else. He really doesn’t think I love him…How can that be? Eyes stinging and mouth throbbing, I clutch the precious tattered bits of me in my arms and rock in place for hours, blocking out the violence, willing the devastating destruction gone.
To and fro, to and fro, the constant, simple rhythm carves a space in time.
A safe place.
John sticks his head in the doorway later that evening. I jump out of my skin. “Come eat,” he says, abruptly turning to walk back to the house.
Sharon, I think. She probably wants to have dinner. I gotta think of something to say about my face! I can’t tell her what happened. But what can I say? Oh God, maybe she’ll figure it out! Maybe she’ll be able to stop him. He’s out of his mind. He’ll hurt me again; I know it. Maybe she’ll help me. Maybe? My mind races wildly, seeking a way out of John’s torturous grip. I head to the sink to splash cold water on my face. My lips and eyes are swollen red, the right eye almost shut. I roll my tongue over my bottom lip, numb now, and poke it easily through the hole made by my tooth. Oh shit! She’ll definitely see this. I hold out small hope that I can still make this not real. I’m gonna need some bandages, I acknowledge, feeling a jab in my heart. I clean up the blood and sweat as best I can, take a deep breath, and harness my sinking sadness. Hiding my face with an old cleaning towel, I follow John’s order and make my way across the courtyard.
The big front door squeaks, and the doorknob clicks my way in loudly. Please don’t let her hear me. I rush swiftly across the varnished floor to my room. I don’t want to be here. The shame of Sharon seeing me beaten and bruised pains me as much as being punched by John did, but I’m scared John will get violent again if I don’t obey him.
In the back of my mind, though, I pray Sharon will see how badly I have been beaten and help somehow. John is afraid of Sharon. “I’m Italian, John,” she has said. “I can kill you in your sleep. Remember the penicillin you’re allergic to? How about some spaghetti?” Sharon has always let him know she’s the boss if he pushes too far.
John is in the bathroom. I can hear the water running, and the tink, tink, tink of porcelain on glass from the kitchen means Sharon is washing the dishes. He won’t do anything with her around, I reason. Thoughts about my poetry slam into my spirit again, and my eyes are ready to cry. But I’m spent; the weeping well is dry. In my room, I fidget with my stuffed penguin and shift the few knickknacks on my nightstand. There is my jewelry box, pink and heart-shaped with a delicate ballerina that spins to “Somewhere Over the Rainbow.”
Something doesn’t feel right. I open the box, cautious, hoping my gut is wrong. Oh no! Not my rings! And my fairy—my beautiful gold fairy’s gone! I stifle a wail. Drugs! He’s been selling our stuff for drugs. Just like the guy who lost everything. Just exactly the same. I can’t believe it. How can this get worse? Numbly, I walk into the kitchen. “Shh, Shh, Sharon.” My voice cracks, barely a peep. “Do you have anything for a cut eye—eyes? An, an, and my lip?” I stutter, raising my head into the light, averting her gaze.
“Oh. Okay?” She sighs and studies my face. “All right. Let me see what I’ve got.”
“I, I, I had an accident.” My lie falls flat, like the hollow ping of rain on a cheap tin roof, but I desperately want Sharon to know what John’s doing to me—killing me—without having to tell her. She will know. She has to know, I pray.
“Oh,” she responds simply again. Removing her glasses, she squints at my face. She says not a word, but squeaks over to the bathroom door in her white, polished nurse’s shoes. “John. I need to get in there,” she calls into the doorjamb. There’s a rustling, and a minute later the door flings open and she steps inside, closing the door behind her.
She doesn’t know, I tell myself with disbelief. Did John tell her something?
She returns with eyewash, antibiotic ointments, and bandages. “Come over here and sit down.” She guides me to the couch and silently commences tending to my wounds, wrapping a patch on my right eye and placing a butterfly bandage on my lip where my tooth has punctured through. Her tone sharp and crystal clear, she recites the proper instructions for the continued medical care of my face.
“Thanks,” I mumble, forcing back a sob. I sit for a stinging moment in a last, hopeful silence, willing her to ask me for the truth. Please, please. Just ask me how this really happened. Please see. See what he is
doing.
Sharon gathers the bandages and tubes, lines them neatly on the counter. She snubs out her cigarette and wordlessly walks to her room, leaving me to sit on the couch, staring blankly into a dark and dusty corner of an overly decorated bookshelf, numb with despair.
Hours later I lie in my room, the lights turned out, pretending I’m asleep. I’m too scared to really drift off. I know John is listening for any noise that may come from my direction. He and Sharon watch television together, parts of a Benny Hill episode I know Sharon doesn’t care for, in the living room. A thick, suffocating silence hovers like a deadly fog on a winding highway; not one word is spoken. The tapping of the dogs’ toenails on the polished wood floors tells me of Sharon’s movements. She is up and heading to her bedroom, leaving John by himself. No! I think futilely. Don’t leave me alone with him! I can see her shadow cast against the entryway walls from her bedroom light, on for only a minute, and then out with a final click, leaving my desperate, silent pleas unheard.
Just as I have dreaded, John comes into my room after plenty of time, when he thinks Sharon is sound asleep. A silent tornado ready to wreak havoc, he hisses, “You can’t hide behind Sharon.” He walks past the foot of my bed into his back office. “I’ll find out sooner or later.” He slams file cabinet drawers and rifles through books up on high shelves. I hear the familiar tapping of a razor on glass and a quick, harsh snort of cocaine.
If I’m loud enough, Sharon will hear and he won’t do anything. I get brave. “I’m not cheating on you, John!” I yell out. I hope he will get nervous enough to leave me alone if he thinks Sharon will wake up and catch him. I want Sharon to catch him. Maybe she can stop him.
It backfires. John’s temper flares. He jumps quickly from behind his office wall, pretending he’ll walk past me to the living room, but then he spins around and springs on top of my chest in an instant replay of the action earlier that day. This time I’m expecting him and thrash ferociously before he can pin down my arms. I struggle free and run. John charges after me. I think for a quick instant about calling out for Sharon, but head for the bathroom instead, locking the door behind me.
Adrenaline slams my heart against my chest; my breath is ragged and wild. I can take no more.
Bang, bang, bang. “Open this door, Dawn. Now!” he demands, his voice, demonic, burns through the crack of the door.
I can see the wood molding buckle from his crushing weight. Desperately, I search the room. Escape! I’ve got to escape. I gotta get out of here. For a second I imagine squeezing through the tiny window above the sink and know there isn’t enough time. He’s almost in. He’ll catch me for sure. What do I do? What do I do? There’s no way out! My mind frantically examines every corner, every crevice I can possibly disappear through. Where? Where? Where? There’s no way out! There’s no way out! Pure, doomed terror engulfs me as if I’m falling through quicksand.
Then I look down…and I see a way. The long white cabinet drawer…the medicine drawer where Sharon keeps the medical supplies for the house…the multicolored bottles of pills smile at me like a friend who has shown up to help. Darvons, I remember with clarity. That’s where Sharon keeps her Darvon. I leap for its shiny brass handles, yank it open, and plow through the meticulously lined prescription bottles and tins one by one until I find the pills that will grant me refuge, give me peace, blessed oblivion.
John’s banging gets louder, but I can ignore him now. I have a way out.
“Dawn!”
I’ll take them all, I convince myself. I’ll get out of here right now. This is enough to never come back. I have to get away from him. I have to get out of here!
I hear tapping at the lock. John has a set of David’s lock picks. A surge of fear races through me, and like a cornered animal willing to jump to its death, I hurriedly fling off the lid and down the entire bottle, scooping handfuls of water from the sink faucet. There. I slide to the floor. It’s over. He won’t be able to get to me; he won’t be able to get me now! I curl in a ball and weep.
The door bursts open. “What did you do?” John yells harshly with acid under his breath. He picks up the empty bottle, smashes it into the sink. Bits of broken glass rocket out across the room. “What the fuck did you do?”
I don’t move. Let him do what he wants now, I think. It’ll be over soon.
He yanks me up by my arm and scans my eyes. “Shit!” he curses, then panics and runs to the refrigerator.
Almost instantly I feel lightness in the air, a floating, and then my head begins to spin in a centrifugal force like on the Gravitron ride at the carnival as I sense the downers spreading through my bloodstream. Grabbing hold of walls and doorways, I stagger back to my bedroom, uninterested in John’s banging in the kitchen, and collapse back on the bed. The room and ceiling whirl wildly around me; my body is the only thing in the room not moving.
John’s distorted features appear near my face. He is kneeling next to me on the bed. “Here. Drink this!” he demands in a low, short hiss, pushing a glass filled with half a dozen or so raw eggs in my face.
I shove the glass away, my hand feeble and lame, almost spilling the slimy liquid.
“Drink it!” he orders again, his face swollen red with anger. Then, in a second that I don’t understand, Thor’s little face is sandwiched between John’s large calloused hands. “If you don’t drink this right now, I’ll squeeze his fucking head till his brains pop out!” The brown of my tiny Chihuahua’s eyes bulge out of his skull; he is terror filled in John’s viselike grip.
“Stop!” I cry.
Thor lets out a paralyzed yelp, his face crushed brutally tight.
John keeps squeezing.
“Okay!” I wish the pills will take me faster, but they don’t.
“No. Don’t hurt him, John. Stop!” I let out a sob. “Okay!”
John drops Thor like a worthless river rock and thrusts the glass to my lips. He tilts my head back and pours the slippery fluid down my throat.
Falling back on the bed, I look up at the ceiling and smile. I already see stars, like the heavens have come. John is pacing back and forth from his office to my room. Those eggs aren’t going to work, my body tells me. The pills are beginning to take a stronger hold. The room swirls…stars spin…sounds fade away…
“Are you dying yet?” a male voice rings like a bell tone through space…
Since birth, a voice answers from deep inside my core.
“Are you near?” The male voice is impatient.
I don’t know…I’m afraid to look.
As if sucked through a vacuum of time and space, I become aware of a shape—my body—spiraling, consumed by a black hole abyss. Then, without effort, body and mind are one again and spontaneously the vomiting begins, purging my entire body, from the roots of my hair to the veins in my toes.
The next morning I feel rough, like I’ve been run over by a semi. I awake not knowing where I am. It takes me several minutes to pierce through the blurriness of my vision and see Sharon standing at the foot of my bed, dressed in her uniform for work. She asks curtly, “You up?”
I raise my throbbing head. Whaaaa—? Quickly, I lie back down. The pounding is immeasurable, splitting my temples. I gather my bearings as best I can. Slowly I remember the night before. Oh no. John. I wince. I’m still here. Despair consumes me. The vomiting—all over the floors, the walls…Thor! Where’s
Thor? I lift myself up on my elbows with difficulty. My skin. What are these bumps all over me? I am covered in red, swollen welts that look like bee stings and itch like mosquito bites.
Sharon brings in a pail of soapy water, a mop, and rags. “I’ll do that, Sharon,” I rasp. “I’ll get that.” She throws me a dirty look and walks out. She had to have heard everything. She must know the Darvon is missing. As I worry, I laboriously set about cleaning up the smelly mess. Then I numbly walk into the living room to face her. “Sharon, I’m sorry. Ssssorrry for the mess.”
“Here. Put this on your skin.” She hands me a tube
of ointment. “It’ll help you with the swelling and itch.” She stares at the television as if she is using it to hypnotize herself away from this moment; the flashes of light and conversational tone of the narrator take her to a safe place for a moment. Her eyes still mesmerized with the glow of the TV, she robotically recites the physiological reasons for the welts on my body. “Your circulatory system was in the process of shutting down when you took the pills. You puked before the major vessels were affected, but the capillaries near your skin collapsed—they’re the first to go—and that’s what’s causing your reaction.”
“Oh.” I blink. Is that all she’s thinking? I wonder, amazed. I scan the house for John and notice with relief his leg sticking out of the blankets of his king-sized bed. A few minutes more, her eyes still fixed on the TV, Sharon picks up a white envelope from the counter and presents it to me. Then, walking into her bedroom she turns and, for the first time, shuts her door.
It is a letter. My hands are shaking, and my skin is crawling with itching bumps. Nervously I open it and cry. The long, sharp points and curves of her handwriting are like daggers in my open wounds. Through the blur of my tears, I read.
Dear Dawn,
How could you do such a thing? I am a woman who respects life; nurtures and cares for it. My career in nursing is a reflection of how deeply I feel about human life. I have always believed that I taught you that and that you understood and believed the same. To treat life with such poor regard—to do this to yourself—is to me, an insult to my kindness in letting you live here in my home. I am extremely disappointed in you, that you would have such little respect for me and especially for yourself! We will talk more when I get home from work. There has to be some changes from the behavior I have witnessed last evening or you can no longer have a home here. I hope you can see my point and can find the strength to look into yourself for this utter failure of character. This must never happen again.
The Road Through Wonderland: Surviving John Holmes Page 27
