XXXVI | Something I Did
❦
Tammie’s
bruises
change colour
every day.
I watch her dance
without music,
hands caressing the pole,
sliding down her back,
feet hiked up,
legs wrapping
tightly around her lover.
She catches my eye,
smiling
shy and apologetic.
It’s nauseating.
Doesn’t she see
the red bruises turning blue
the blue bruises turning black,
the light in her grey eyes
unwavering—
like a mannequin’s.
New bruises form
over the old grey ones.
The smell of puke
gets stronger
every
single
day.
Upside down,
her pants ride up again,
revealing
nightmarish shapes
embedded
into her skin.
My throat is dry,
I need coffee.
You’re running away.
‘I’m not,’ I retort.
There’s no reply.
It doesn’t matter.
Even I know
I’m running
because I’m ashamed of her.
It’s confusing,
Pole dancing to rebel
is one thing,
doing it
to die
is another.
The dream I insisted on holding onto back then
was the same.
A toy
that’s no fun.
A dream
that only causes
pain.
Isn’t it funny? The harder you try,
the more likely you are to fail?
The ones who want nothing more than to die,
end up living a
very
long
life.
The coffee scalds my throat
but I don’t really notice.
You’re scared for her.
‘I’m not,’ I retort.
There’s no reply.
It doesn’t matter.
Even I know
I am.
Caring (about another person)
is something
I stopped doing long ago.
Those memories
are part of what
I’ve lost anyway.
If I’m worried
about her now,
then somewhere
in the past
when I was the one who hurt her,
I was probably also worried too.
And look what happened.
Who am I
to stop her?
Who am I
to worry about
her?
What good does it do
to get involved
in the life of
someone from the past?
Fifi,
I want coffee too.
My hands are bleeding.
She holds them out
for me to see.
The blisters
have burst open.
The blood
is drawing
smiling cheshire cats on her palm.
I pull her to the sink
and wash the grinning felines
away.
She smiles
apologetically
at me.
Not saying a word.
Waiting.
I won’t say it.
I won’t stop her.
Why should I?
I’ve forgotten who she is.
The question is:
Does Tammie really want to do this?
The question is actually
about me.
Do I want to live in a dream
I define?
Or in a reality
that someone else created.
Which one will you choose?
It depends,
(don’t you think?)
on which is more
painful.
Pain?
If it’s a matter of pain,
It’ll be painful
either way.
This question is
the only choice—
the only real choice—
that you get in this life.
‘Tammie,’ I say.
She’s taken my cup of coffee
and downed the rest
(because I was stoning
instead of making her a drink).
Now she’s licking her hands
with her
coffee-stained tongue.
‘Stop it,’ I tell her. ‘Stop this.’
She smiles,
wide.
Not apologetic.
Not even shy.
Pale colours
light up
her translucent cheeks.
It was on a whim then.
But now it’s something
I really want to do, Fifi!
She takes my hands.
They’re slimy
with coffee-coloured saliva.
I’m doing this for you,
so you have to be the first to see me dance
when we get out of here!
You’ll do that much for me, yeah?
No. No, I won’t,
is what I should say.
When we get out of here,
I’ll never see you again.
But I just stare at her,
my mind, a black hole.
Butterflies spin
in a frenzy
in her sparkling grey eyes.
Even her bruises
seem to fade a little.
Hey Fifi, I never got to tell you
that I forgive you.
I shake my head
even though I’m already
trembling.
My hands are going cold.
I want to scream.
This is
obviously not reality anymore.
Even though
you ruined my life back then,
it’s worth it
because I’m here
because you’re here
and I’ve got a dream now.
That’s great,
is what I should say.
Let’s go back
to how we used to be.
But “how we used to be” is exactly
what I can’t remember.
My guilt,
my crime and what I should do
so I don’t
have to remember it
ever again.
I want you to disappear.
I nod.
Tammie smiles.
That wide, child-like smile
that breaks my heart.
I nod again.
Mn.
I should just die.
❦
