"He's not alive this time," I promise myself. "He's dead and rotting beneath the floorboards."
Nothing significant has come from my suffering. I’ve reached no greater epiphany, except for an understanding of a never-ending cycle that flows from the worst day of your life. I remember feeling that nobody cared. My attacker finished and abandoned me, but none of those righteous, courageous souls that everyone speaks of came to help. I expected them to sense my suffering and come for me. All I wanted was for the world to care. They didn't need to comfort, but at least care. I expected hundreds of millions of arms to wrap around me and tell me that things would get better. I wanted to feel like a person.
Ever since I moved to the city, I learned to trust strength in numbers. Millions of people flood the streets every day. It's overwhelming seeing the unending wave of people marching in the same direction. Soon enough, the waves diverge. We go our separate ways, but the wave remains the same. It's never-ending and all-powerful. If you don't follow the wave, it's like you're not a part of this beating human creation.
Then, if you join it, you realize it's not a wave. It's thousands of confused people who only know where they're going by rote memory. We've done this a million times and have yet to find that catharsis that will set our souls free. We're waiting for the rapture. Since that doesn't seem anywhere near, we must obey the rhythms of the wave. It tears itself apart with every person who pulls away. One person is never enough to destroy it, but piece by piece we are set free.
The wave is tearing. Society is imploding and humanity is falling through the cracks.
It was only my second week in the city, when I was assaulted. People who are new to the city don't know how to act. It’s like being ‘born-again’ when you move to a big city. You need to relearn how to walk. You need to time your breaths, so that they match the vital pulse of the city. Eye contact is one of the first things you need to learn, well, more like forget. Your eyes have to follow a direct path, where you never make eye contact. I find that if you stare about ten feet in front of you and keep your head down at around a forty-five degree angle it helps. If someone is in front of you, keep your eyes between their shoulder-blades and the bottom of their rib cage.
Never, by any circumstance, raise your head beyond a ninety degree angle. It'll make you look like a gawker. Thieves and drug-addicts always find the gawkers, because they're easy prey. They're unsuspecting and assume the best of people.
I didn't come to the city to assume the worst, but that's what happened. When I first started out, I liked watching the skyline, as I walked to work. People would shout obscenities and tell me to get out of their way. I’d move to the side with the vagabonds, as the world passed me by. Stepping out of the wave was the first time I felt whole since coming to the city. It felt good to break free, but after a few moments I realized what I’d become a part of. A man sat with blankets and worn towels over himself with a sign planted at his feet that read:
“Homeless. Please help.”
I used to give them money, but broken, dehumanized creatures are more common than pigeons in the city. You can’t give them all money or you’ll end up the same. It’s such a difficult thing to ignore. You see it every day, but only in sideways glances. You never stare straight on, unless you want to get sucked in.
That’s what’s so horrible about the city. I used to care, but it’s much more exhausting when you’re surrounded by hundreds of thousands of people. The wave picks us up and drags us to where we belong. For most of us, that’s work or school. Those that have no purpose are in the way. The homeless never seem to get in the way. They stay off to the side, so that the wave doesn’t take them. They’re like lost children playing on the beach. Sometimes I imagine them frolicking in the park, masturbating behind bushes and throwing semen at pigeons. You need to make yourself laugh at things in the city.
It started with the letter. Someone nailed a letter to my door. Whoever left it wrote out my entire name with a heart around it. For about an hour after the assault I didn’t remember the letter. It seemed so important after. At the time I guess I assumed it was nothing more than a distraction.
His hand wrapped around my mouth and he pushed me up against the wall.
“Give me your keys.” He spoke in a whisper.
My keys were in my right hand. I dropped them and he pushed me harder against the wall. Something stuck into my lower back, as he bent over and took my keys. I thought it was a gun, but I never saw it after that. He played with the lock for a minute and the door swung open. He grabbed the collar of my work-shirt and threw me inside my apartment. I swung around and he grabbed the back of my head, yanking my hair and pulling me back. My head smacked against the door and he held me in place. He walked into my apartment. My bag flew across the room and the contents spread out over the floor. He took a moment to look around my apartment. I didn’t think to scream. I was so terrified. I hadn’t spoken to anyone outside of work (excluding my mother) for the few weeks I’d been in the city. This was my first interaction with an actual human being.
He tore my shirt and bra away and moved his hands over my breasts. He unzipped me from behind, but I kicked and begged him to stop. He took the back of my head and slammed my face into the ground. Pain exploded between my nose and forehead. I let off an embarrassing gasp. I was so horrified. Tears poured out of my eyes, as he dragged me over to my sofa.
“Stop crying!” He yelled.
He mocked me, as he knotted his fingers in my long hair and slammed my face over and over into the sofa. He touched me in places that I can never make clean. He punched my sides and when I tried to protect myself he took my arm and threatened to break it. He made me beg him not to. I cried and scream and he twisted my arm. He yanked my arm and I heard my shoulder pop out of its socket. My entire arm went numb. I screamed louder than ever. He brought his hand over my mouth and I screamed between his fingers. I couldn’t stop the flood of pain and fear that washed over me. It came on so fast and left me numb.
I couldn’t stop the wave, so I let it pull me under. He could do what he wanted to me. I wanted it to end. He finished inside me. That’s the first time anyone had ever done that. I felt so ashamed. He relaxed behind me, with me broken and embarrassed. He left without a word. I would never see him again.
I got up when I was sure he wasn’t coming back. My arm felt numb and hung without purpose along the side of my body. The door to my apartment sat open. I didn’t want to move. I collapsed to the ground with my back against the couch, staring at the open doorway. The letter hung from a thumb-tack along the door. I remember thinking that someone would come for me.
For a while after the assault, I had to thaw. I had to come around to understand what happened to me. That never happened and I doubt it ever actually does. Instead, I collapsed. My body felt too heavy. I couldn’t carry the weight of it. I had to lie down. My arm hurt so much. It dangled from my body without a purpose. I let the tears come. I wept for hours. Nobody came. I thought for sure someone was going to come. Someone had to hear me. For the first time in my life, I understood what people meant when they said, ‘we’re alone in the universe’.
The buzz on my phone went off. I had a text, but I didn’t feel like moving. My cell phone was somewhere in the wreckage. My bag fell and scattered everything across the floor. I sat and listened to it buzz over and over. I thought if I sat here long enough someone would find me. Between my nose and the top of my forehead throbbed with pain. A new jagged point formed at the center of my nose, pulsing with heat and pain. My forehead had a bump, forming into a hard bubble against my head. It stung to touch. It hurt to breathe. My ribs cracked if I inhaled too deep and jabbed into my lungs.
"You don't know me. You'd never recognize me, but you belong to me. If I see you with anyone else I'll kill you."
He promised me over and over in the letter that ‘You will be mine’, before telling me he loved me. There were three pictures. The first was of the building where I worked. The other was of the bar I went too only a few times with my coworkers. The other photo was my gym that was a few blocks away. These were the few places I went to in my first few weeks in the city.
That's all I'd like to share from his diatribe. He claimed me, establishing what he must've thought was a 'logical' argument about how I belonged to him.
My body went numb to different sensations you never consider, until you become the victim. You don’t think about how unflattering your body looks when you’re in so much pain. The only shame I felt remained because of the attack. I didn’t care what people saw, because I was sure nobody would come. It had been a few hours after the attack and I hadn’t moved, except for a few inches. Besides pain, I had no concern for my appearance. I wiped away tears and noticed my makeup smeared all along the bridge of my nose, down my cheeks and across my chin.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” I shouted.
Nobody wants to deal with a broken person. I felt shame, because I was the victim. I felt like I let him hurt me. I had to feel that way. I had to.
After that day, I kept a knife next to me wherever I slept. I used to sleep in my bed, but after the assault I felt much more comfortable on the sofa.
A few weeks back I read a story about a girl who was raped in her apartment. The attacker ransacked her underwear drawer, tossing them around the room. He pummeled the girl, before destroying the rest of her apartment. His assault was so aggravated, so cruel and brutal. It left me wondering if there were more monsters in the world then actual human beings. People are heinous. That poor girl. Can you imagine?
You see this: ‘WOMAN ATTACKED IN HER APARTMENT’. All CAPS, of course. The tradition of a single photo for every headline is still a thing. You go online and it’s the same thing. They say a picture is worth a thousand words, but none of these images ever show the girl. They never show her so shattered by reality that she rocks back and forth in the corner. They never show the comatose state that follows, where you know you’re supposed to move, but you can't. You're so ashamed. I'm some kind of freak escaped from her cage.
Everyone looks the same. They're the enemy. Even those who come to help. They don’t show the scars on her ribs, face, neck, legs. Assault is as much about claiming your victim as it is making someone ‘the victim’. The real scars are in her head. No one gets to see those scars. You feel marked, as if there's a label printed on your forehead. Everyone sees it, but no one says it out loud.
A lot of people tell you that you’re the victim. They repeated that over and over. After a while, you’re expected to ascend to something… something I didn’t want. They want you to become a survivor. They’ll never show the girl. The busted apartment is some place far away. It's never you. Blood spatters in places with her overstretched panties and torn clothing. That's never you.
A lot of times when I come home from work I’m so afraid that I don’t go beyond my living room. I can’t enter my apartment anymore. I have to burst through and fling myself across the floor. I’ll rest on the floor and consider how to act. I know to toss my purse in a way that everything inside it scatters across the floor. Then, I tear off my clothes. I tear them, but leave them on. I wasn’t naked when he attacked me, but exposed.
I leave a pair of pajamas on the stand by the couch. My bedroom doesn’t feel right. The city can see right through my window. Across the street is an abandoned building that blocks my view of the rising sun. One night, I swear I saw a light flickering through the dark corridors between windows. Someone was over there. It was the middle of the night. I’m used to seeing only darkness, but I swear I saw a light shining from the abandoned building.
If I enter my apartment too fast and without this ritual, I swear it feels as if the walls are closing in on me. I let the food rot in my refrigerator. There’s no more reason to eat. I don’t feel hunger. Showering has also become non-essential. You’re too exposed and vulnerable. A long, hot shower used to calm my nerves, but that was a long time ago. Now, the thought of someone lurking is too much. The bathroom in general makes me nervous. You’re so exposed. I’ve gotten to the point where I put another lock on the door, a dead bolt. I hope my landlord doesn’t mind.
I’m always considering what horrible thoughts rattle the mind of my attacker. You have to think about ‘what would they do to me’ so that it never happens again. It’s always ‘they’, because your tormentors are many. It isn’t one person, but the entire world that’s plotting against you. Everyone wants to see what your blood looks like and most of them want a taste.
Shadows lurked around every corner. When I approached the subway they became much bolder. Darkness enveloped the streets between red lights and stop signs. They filled in the cracks of this warped, depraved collapsing ecosystem. My steps became faster and my legs trembled. He had to have been somewhere behind me. There were no more shadows. Everything that survived folded into reality, until they were ready to pounce. He followed me from the bar. I looked back and, although I saw nothing I ran.
The weight on my chest lifted. It spread through my lungs in a cold exhale that sent a paralyzing chill through my entire body. I felt dizzy and on the verge of collapse, until I saw the subway down the street. I was sweating, as my body flowed between hot and cold. I slowed down and walked onto the subway. A few people were staring, as I fought for air, but nobody said a word. Everyone kept their distance, which is normal for the city. Everyone keeps their distance and their eyes move like hummingbirds. No one tries to study the other person. That doesn’t happen here. You spend too much time looking at other people and sooner or later someone’s going to do the same to you. Everyone’s trying to figure you out, but they can only do it when they sense weakness.
In the beginning, I couldn’t help from being a gawker. It took a while to break out of that habit, but you must. It becomes exhausting. You give up once you realize these people are shit. They’re black holes come to erase the planet from existence. They’re bottomless pits of despair. We reach out for someone to help, to consume them in the unholy fire that created us. When you realize it's time to move on from being a gawker, it's time to seriously consider becoming a monster.
I have no one out here. I find it hard to eat, because I’m alone and because, for some reason, for the past few days I haven’t been hungry. The stress is getting to me. Some nights I never sleep. Others I collapse and remember nothing.
By the time the subway reaches my stop I feel as if I’ve slept for a hundred years. It feels so great. I carry the weight of so much fear and hostility. It lifts off of me and I am free. Animosity waits around every corner. The other night, a guy got stabbed and shot by a gang, his own gang! They let him bleed out after they kicked him and beat him within an inch of his life. He survived with a few broken ribs, busted jaw, fractured skull, a broken arm and three fingers.
Someone came for me. I couldn’t feel his hands, but they touched me for a moment. I’m not sure where. I was staring up at the ceiling and I felt a blanket falling over me. I saw it floating over me and then resting over my body.
“Oh my god,” he said. “Don’t worry. I’m gonna get you help!”
There was no sense of relief. I wasn't at peace, but being numb to the world around you offers a sense of peace most people will never understand. I don't remember much about that man, except for his voice. If I could've relaxed, it would've been because of his voice. He moved with such panic, such a caring individual. I don't know why I found his presence grating.
I forgot about my phone. Someone messaged me during the attack. I remember my phone buzzing, but I forgot about it for hours after.
“Is everything okay???” It was from my friend. She was on the other side of the country with the rest of the people I cared about.
“I’m fine.” I replied.
“What happened?”
“Nothing. Why?”
“Megan. You text me that you killed someone. What the hell is happening?”
I had to go through my messages. After the previous message, I sent another. I told her that I killed someone. I went into such detail, claiming to have hit him over the head with a lamp beside my couch. The lamp was no longer there.
“Haha Jk. It was only a joke!”
“Are you sure nothing’s wrong?”
“Yes, I’m sorry. I’m fine. I didn’t mean to alarm you. I thought it was funny. Please, take care. I love you and miss you!”
She said she loved and missed me and couldn’t wait to see me again.
Panic turned to indifference. I went numb. I doubt I'll ever come back from it. I pulled myself up and saw the body. The man’s face collapsed into itself. Everything sank in from his nose. I had a vague recollection of digging into his eyes like a raccoon clawing through the trash. Blood covered my hands, as well as my body. It ran up my arms and legs in long trails. I bathed in his blood. All I remember is that it felt good rubbing his warm blood into my wounds.
My shoulder was back in place. The pain was everywhere. I wore that blood all over me, like a cloak of invincibility.
Nobody ever goes out on my street. They sit in their apartments, staring at me from their windows. I always feel them watching. There are more windows than there are people. I’m sure I see eyes narrowing on a marked path toward me. They wait to sense weakness, so they can attack. I’m numb by this point. If they’re going to take me this is the perfect time.
The sense of my vulnerability returns when I’m about a block or so from my apartment. I never take the stairwell. The lights buzz too often. One time they went out, flickering floor to floor, until everything went dark. I remember it so well. I couldn’t move. The darkness moved its hands all over my body. It had complete control. What else could I do, except cry and curl up into a ball in the corner?
I took the elevator. Before it could close, a man pushed his way through. He made it in time and squeezed through the doors.
"How are you?" He asks.
"Fine. Thank you." I reply.
He's thinking of what else he can say. I knew that, but wouldn't accept it. I made myself consider that he was thinking of the easiest way to hurt me. He could follow me to my apartment. It seemed so easy. I imagined his knuckles beating my face into a mess of irreparable scars and broken bone. He'd break down every inch of me, until I was finally free. There would be no more fear. I'd be broken beyond repair. It felt good to imagine and by the time I came back to reality I was alone.
I went to my apartment. The letter stood out against my door. I look at it as I always do, with a breath of uncertainty. This time it will say something different.
Someone put the time and effort into writing this letter all for me. I’m suspended between two incompatible realities. In one reality, someone loves me so much that they can’t control themselves. In another, there are monsters everywhere that believe I’m their property. I take the note. I always take the note. There’s no sense of leaving it. It belongs to me.
I go into my apartment. It’d been five months since the attack. I couldn’t just walk into my apartment anymore. I had to cleanse the air, as if I walked into a monastery. I took a deep breath, before stripping naked. I tore off my clothes and stood in the middle of my living room. I threw my bag aside and let everything fall out. Picking up the pieces the next morning… I found cathartic. The rush of expectation never left me. I expected the attack. When it didn’t come, I had to make it myself.
The door has to be open. It’s the expectation again. I have these expectations that I can never live up to. ‘What if he comes again?’ or ‘what if someone else comes for me?’ There are too many people in this city. There has to be another monster out there waiting to turn me into their victim.
When I’m naked, I pace back and forth, as the memories assemble themselves without rhythm or clarity. I’m bombarded by memories that don’t make sense. All I see is depravity and violence and it’s so overwhelming that I shatter to a million pieces. I crumble, collapsing to the ground, as I remember everything. I’m broken again. The knife is sitting on the coffee table by the couch. I usually sleep on the couch, because it’s in the middle of the room. I can’t defend myself from the middle of the room, where someone could come out of any corner and attack. He can get me there and the fear will finally be over. I won’t be afraid any more.
Broken, lying naked on the floor, I notice the crack between the floorboards. It's big enough that I can fit my fingers.
“You’re there aren’t you?” I whisper into the floorboard.
He’s waiting for me. One eye peeks through, glassy white surrounding a vibrant sky blue. His scent is everywhere. It’s death and rot, as decomposition accelerated from the heat between apartments. Even now, it leaks through the boards and stifles the horrifying nightmares. It brings a sense of revulsion and I gag, but it suppresses everything else. It sets me free. I rest naked on the cold ground, letting the rancid death within the floor absorb my warmth.
I should really consider what my mother tells me. She wants me home. Maybe that’s where I belong. But here, on the ground, I've found a connection that I can’t explain. It used to be that I was afraid to leave the apartment, but now it’s a selfish desire. I want to be here with him. We’ve shared something so intimate. Every night, I present him with offerings of fresh oils, sage and lavender. I whisper my fears and he listens. The smell is something I’ll have to deal with, but still… it’s the intimacy, really, that I've learned to appreciate.
Submitted July 03, 2017 at 09:58PM by Sin_Crow_7 http://ift.tt/2uiqvFi nosleep
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