The Horrible Grandmother

In the spring of 1998, it was my fourth year of teaching and my first year at what was considered to be the “worst” elementary school in my county.  It serviced a very poor neighborhood on the edges of a huge military base.  At various times it was, in fact, off-limits to military personnel.  Not a weekend went by without a murder, a robbery, a domestic dispute that erupted into violence, “court” versus “court” rumbles, and at least one arrest – and usually more than one.

The school population was predominantly African-American, and eighty-nine percent of the student body received free breakfast and lunch. 

During the 1996-1997 school year, the state threatened to take over the school due to poor test performance and behavioral issues.  The principal was replaced mid-year.  The new principal told the school board and the Superintendent to forget any change in test scores that first half a year; she had to get the school under control before any academic changes could occur.  To that end, all staff had to go through the hiring process again – more than half were thanked for their time and sent on their way.  Mrs. T. changed everything about the way that school did business and stuck to her belief (which I share) that students must feel safe before any learning can occur.  The home lives of most of our students were so unstable, so crazy, that it was no wonder academics were the last thing on their list of priorities.  Making it through another day in one piece was number one for most of them.

I’ll save the rest of the story about the school itself for another day.  Let me say, though, that Mrs. T. and her new staff and positive student/family policies made a really huge difference to those children and their families. 

Anyway, during the 1997-1998 school year I taught a self-contained class of about thirteen students.  I was lucky enough to have an assistant, Mrs. M.  She was wonderful.  I don’t know how I would have managed without her. 

The students in our class were in grades two through six.  One child had mild cerebral palsy, three were borderline mentally retarded, five were emotionally disturbed, and four had a learning disability.  Scattered throughout the children were other issues, such as ADHD, Fetal Alcohol Syndrome, and Autism.  I was teaching all four academic subjects (English, Math, Science and Social Studies) across all five grades, trying to differentiate everything so it hit everyone at their own level.  It was a difficult assignment, but I truly loved it.

One of my students, the one about whom I was thinking today – hence this story – was a third grader named D.  He was small – maybe, maybe, three and a half feet tall. He had a well-above-average IQ.  He was emotionally disturbed.  His head was shaved, he was thin, he was fast, and he could be really mean – his temper was legendary in the neighborhood. 

At the age of five, D. had seen his cousin murdered.  He then took a knife, used a mirror so he could see his shoulder, and carved a “V” into his shoulder blade.  He did this, he later explained to me, to remind him of his cousin’s murder and his vow to avenge him.  He was very disturbed.

I loved him, but I didn’t trust him very much, until one day in December. 

I had this thing with my elementary kids, where, if I thought they weren’t telling me the truth, I would say that I could smell their hair burning when they lied. (A trick my aunt used on her kids to great effect back in the day.) 

One day a student approached me and told me that D had done something offensive (I can’t recall what), but when I asked D. about it he denied it.  I looked at him suspiciously.  He hopped up and down, rubbing the fuzz on his head.

“Mrs. B.!!  I’m not lying, I swear!!”

“Are you sure, D?” I asked.

“Smell my hair!!!  Smell my hair, Mrs. B!!  I’m telling the truth, I promise!!”

I smothered the laugh that threatened to erupt, knelt down and obliged, making a pretense of smelling his hair.  Nodding, I hugged him and told him I believed him.  He smiled, relieved, and yelled, “I told you so!” when the child who had come to me initially hung his head in shame and admitted he had lied.  From that point on I trusted D. and knew he trusted me.

That he trusted me was proven out even more later that year.

One afternoon in May I walked my students out of the school at the end of the day.  Mrs. M. had left early for a doctor’s appointment.  I watched as the students moved, en masse, to cross the street and return to their homes.  Smiling, glad the day was over and I, too, could go home, I went back to my classroom to get my things. 

I was startled, upon entering, to see D. sitting at his desk, drawing.  I asked what he was doing back in the classroom.  He refused to answer me, just kept drawing, scribbling, really, with a black crayon, making huge sweeping movements on the white paper in front of him.  I walked over to him, knelt by his desk and tried again.

“D.  D?  Honey, you have to go home now.”

He shook his head in the negative.

“Yes, dear, you need to go home.  I have to go home, too, because my son will be getting home from school soon and I need to be there for him.”

He shook his head again and kept drawing, refusing to even make eye contact with me.

Five more minutes of talking – in a calm, quiet voice – proved fruitless.  The only responses I received from D. were head shaking and one, “NO. I am NOT going home.”

At a loss, I called the office and asked for our head of security, Mr. P.  He came down to the room. He had no more luck with D. than I did.  After several minutes, Mr. P. told me to leave the room and said he would have to call the police.  We are not allowed to touch students, so we couldn’t MAKE him get up and go home, so calling the police was, apparently, the only option.

Reluctantly, I left the room, asking D. one more time if he wouldn’t, please, come with me and go home.  He looked up at me, finally making eye contact, but shook his head no.  I walked out into the media center, which was also the center of the school, and decided to wait there until D. had gone home. 

I watched the policemen walk towards my room a few minutes later.  There were, I noticed, three of them.  Three really large policemen, all to deal with a little third grade boy not even four feet tall.

Suddenly I heard yelling.  Startled, I looked towards my room. 

The three policemen rounded the corner carrying D.  It took all three of them.  In their arms he was bucking, flailing his arms, and screaming at the top of his lungs –

“Fuck you, you mother fuckers!! Put me the fuck down or I will fucking kill you!”

He tried to bite the policeman whose arm was closest to his face. 

“Goddammit!!  Fuck you, pigs! Let me fucking go!!!!  I fucking hate you, fucking mother fuckers!!”

I wanted to cry as they passed me on the way to the office.  I looked around the media center and was sorry to see four or five general education teachers standing in the media center, watching D.’s not-so-graceful exit.  I was sorry they were seeing him at his worst, knew it would forever color their dealings with him.  Shrugging, I turned to follow D. and his escort, determined to see if there was anything I could do to help.

They had taken him to a small conference room off the main office.  I walked into the room to see D. sitting in a chair much too big for him, his little hands gripping the arms of the chair so tightly that his dark cream colored skin showed almost bone white.  Tears were threatening to run down his face.  The three policemen were standing together at the end of the conference table, about six feet from D.  I sat in a chair opposite D. and smiled encouragingly at him.  He looked at me; stared, really, tears still filling his eyes.  After a few moments he appeared to calm down a bit.  I spoke to him softly.  I don’t really remember what I said.

Mr. P., the school security officer, came into the room, nodded at the police, then looked at D.

“I called home, D., and someone is on their way to get you.  I am sorry it had to come to this, son, but we really had no choice.”  Mr. P. was an African-American gentleman of average height and build, with a usually smiling face.  Not smiling at that moment, though.

D.  looked up and said, “Fuck you, Mr. P., and you cops, too.  Fuck you. I’m not going home!” His body had tensed again at Mr. P’s words, almost as if he was expecting a blow. 

No one spoke for the next few minutes, we just waited for someone from D.’s home to arrive. 

“Where the fuck is he?” I hear someone growl in the main office. 

“I don’t have time for this shit. Where – “

The door opened and in walked a very dark-skinned woman in, perhaps, her early fifties.  Her face was angry, her eyes bulging, her hair in disarray. 

D.’s whole body language screamed fear as soon as she entered the room.

She approached the table and began screaming at him immediately.

“What the fuck wrong with you, boy?”

As she spoke, she reached toward him and he flinched away from her.  I knew what that meant and I was already sorrier than I could say that we had called this woman to come and get him.  I was to become even sorrier.

“You think I’m gonna put up with this shit?”  She screamed.  “Well, I won’t, dammit.  You think yer gonna grow up to be like yer damn father??  Well! I tell you, “she leaned forward, index finger in his face, voice lowered menacingly, “I tell you that I will fucking KILL YOU MYSELF before I let that happen!”

Her voiced raised to a near scream. “You hear me, boy?” She slapped his face.  “You fucking hear me???”

D. said nothing, just nodded, crying even harder.

I looked at Mr. P. and at the three policemen, totally in shock.  How could they let her treat him this way?  Wasn’t her behavior illegal?  Certainly they weren’t going to let this crazy woman take him home?? 

Mr. P. was looking at the floor, obviously uncomfortable.  The policemen were looking at each other or at the wall, one of them even smiling.  I was nauseated.

The woman, D.’s grandmother I found out later, then uttered her piece-de-resistance:  “You’re such a bad child.  I will not let you upset yer mother anymore.  She has cancer, boy, and it all because of YOU!  You’re killin’ yer ma and I ain’t gonna let you hurt her no more!!!”  She raised her hand as if to strike him again, and, finally, one of the policemen did something.

“Ma’am,” he said in a very stern voice as he shook his head in the negative. 

She started in on D. again and I could no longer take it.  I got up, like a coward, and left the room, leaning against the wall, tears now streaming down my face, my breath ragged.  A moment later the door I had just used opened again and out walked Mr. P.  I could still hear the grandmother screaming at D.  I put my hands over my ears and cried harder.

Mr. P. tapped me on the shoulder.  “Robin.  Get back in that room.”

I stared at him as if he had told me to fly to the moon.  “No.  I can’t go back in there.  I cannot listen to her anymore.  Please…” I looked at him pleadingly.

“Robin, that boy in there needs you.  Now go splash your face and get back in there.  Now.”

I hung my head, crossed the hall to the staff lounge, and splashed cool water on my face.  I grabbed  a few tissues and headed back to the conference room.

Stealing myself, I took a deep breath and opened the door.  It was quiet – at last – in the room.  Mr. P. looked at me and said, “Ah, Mrs. B.  Glad you could rejoin us.  D. is going home in a few minutes.  Shall I go get his things from the room?”

“I’’ll fuckin’ go,” the grandmother jumped in.  “I got to get the fuck home to the kids, no time for this shit.”

I looked at D. and then at her.  “How about if I take him to the room, Ma’am?  You rest here and we’ll be right back.”

She started to argue but Mr. P. cut her off, saying, “I think that’s an excellent idea, Mrs. B.  I’ll escort you both.”

I took D.’s hand and we left the conference room followed by Mr. P., but not, thankfully, by the grandmother. 

We talked quietly about homework and “normal” things til we got to the classroom.  Once in the room I helped him pack his backpack, slipping a few pieces of candy into the outside pocket.  I smiled at him and he smiled shyly back.  Mr. P. stayed in the background, giving D. some space.

As we started to leave the room, D. pulled my hand and called my name.  I turned around and looked at him questioningly.

A tear trickled down his cheek.  He held out his arms to me.  I got on my knees and hugged him tightly, and he hugged me back.

“I love you, Mrs. B.” he whispered.

“I know, D. I can’t smell your hair, so I know you are telling me the truth.”  We looked at each other and laughed, then I said, “I love you, too, D.  Now let’s go.  When you come back on Monday we’ll have a great day, right?”

He nodded, and we headed back to the office.

Mr. P. and I stood in front of the school and watched them cross the street on their way home, waving at D. when he turned around to look at us helplessly.

I looked at Mr. P. and said, “What the hell?  If I lived with that lady I’d be emotionally disturbed, too, wouldn’t you?”

Mr. P. replied, “For certain sure, Robin.  For certain fucking sure I would.”

 

Street of Dreams

Rose sat bolt upright in her bed and looked around, confused.  That’s odd, she thought.  Why would I dream about him now?  She shook her head, took a drink of water from the carafe on her bedside table,  and settled back under the comforter.  Jeff slept soundly beside her, mouth open as usual, snoring.  Sleep claimed her again, and this time it was dreamless.

At work the next day, she felt off somehow, like something was nagging at the back of her brain.  Throughout the day she drifted off into space, her mind blank, and it took her much longer than usual to get the client billing done.  Then she had to complete an inventory of the editing truck they had brought back from the beauty pageant two days before. 

By the time she got home, she was exhausted and eager for bed.  Luckily, Jeff wasn’t home when she got there, so she quickly showered, brushed her teeth, and put on her nightgown – an old, comfortable flannel one.  She crawled into bed and fell asleep almost immediately. 

That night, when she awoke, she knew something was dreadfully, terribly wrong, and it wasn’t only the dream in which she had been trapped that filled her with fear.  Afraid to look around the room, she opened her eyes only a very tiny bit, little reptilian slits darting around the room.  Outside the moon was nearly full and the silvery glow was pouring into the bedroom window, making it easier to see than usual. 

Suddenly she knew what was wrong, but she couldn’t quite wrap her mind around it.  Jeff was on the bed, on top of her – perhaps it seems incredible that she hadn’t known that sooner, but she had been deeply asleep, dreaming, and it had taken a while for her consciousness to fully rise to the surface. 

He was on top of her, naked.  Her nightgown was pulled up around her hips.  This in itself was not particularly odd, as he had some weird habit of fucking her (yes, fucking, it certainly wasn’t making love) when she was asleep – almost like he believed she would reject him if he approached her when she was awake.  Which she probably would have done.  This had happened several times now, though, and she just let it happen because it was easier than fighting him off.  She had, to her credit, asked why he did that to her, had asked him to stop. 

His only answer to why was, “I don’t know”. 

His answer to being asked to stop was to wait a week or two before assaulting her again. 

This time, though, something was different.  Yes, he was on top of her naked and he had removed her underpants and pulled up her nightgown, but he wasn’t having sex with her.  He was masturbating.  Realizing this, she suddenly wondered (like a really slow game of connect-the-dots) how/why she felt him moving inside her, too.  She opened her eyes a little more, but not much, because she didn’t want him to know she was awake – she didn’t want to face what was going on; it was too embarrassing.  (How stupid a girl she was, being embarrassed when HE was the one who should be embarrassed!  But, that’s how it was.) 

When she looked a little closer, she understood what was going on.  He was masturbating while simultaneously inserting the rubber handle of a hammer into her…She thought she would vomit.  How did I end up in this situation???  Why is this happening???  What do I do??? 

Of course, she did nothing, as usual, except close her eyes and pretend she was somewhere else.  Invariably she saw herself sitting on the roof of the barn, a clean, fresh breeze blowing through her hair, making her smile.  She’d look down into the yard and catch a glimpse of someone making his way through the trees towards the barn to join her.  She could never see his face clearly, but she knew it was him, nonetheless:  Christopher.  Then she would smile even wider and all would be well, and she could make it through whatever was happening.  Totally ridiculous, she supposed, but, hey, people do whatever they have to in order to survive, don’t they?

In a mercifully short time, Jeff was finished.  She thought she would give herself away and jump up when she felt his hot sperm land on her stomach.  It was all she could do to keep from wretching and flinching.  She did stiffen like a board, knowing by then that he was too drunk or high and too aroused to notice much of anything except his own need.  Her eyes tightly closed, she heard a dull thud as the hammer hit the floor, and the squeak of the bed springs as he fell over to the side.  Within moments he was snoring. 

She lay there, tears flowing from her still-closed eyes,  pulled down her night gown and moved as far from him as she could in the double bed they shared.  She kept repeating to herself, That didn’t really happen.  It didn’t.  It was just a bad dream.  He wouldn’t do that to me…

To prove it,  she forced herself to look down on the floor beside the bed to see if the hammer was really there.  Shit.  It was.  She got up then, quickly, heedless of waking Jeff, and ran into the bathroom where she (who NEVER vomited) threw up repeatedly.  She cried as she knelt in front of the toilet, great wracking sobs. 

Finally spent, she got up, washed her face and brushed her teeth, and returned to her house of torment.  She climbed back into bed, careful this time not to do anything to disturb Jeff.  She stayed on the very edge of the bed, tense and taught as a bowstring, waiting for the snake next to her to strike again.  But he snored on peacefully.  She hated him then, more than she ever had done in the past, but her hypervigilence took it’s toll and eventually she fell asleep again.

In her sleep she saw Christopher.  He was in a car when suddenly there was a bright flash of light and a nauseating crunch of metal.  The next thing she saw was his crumpled body in the car.  His face was bleeding, as was his arm, profusely.  His leg looked to be at an odd angle.  She screamed his name and woke up.

Jeff grunted and rolled over.  Rose’s heart was pounding mercilessly and she could barely breathe.  What did it mean???

                 ****************************************************************************

 Little more than a week later Jeff hit her for the first time and knocked her down the stairs.  Later she would find it curious that he had done the two things she had specifically said she could not, would not, tolerate:  sexual abuse (she’d had enough of that already),  and physical abuse.  The night he hit her, after she returned home with his “two fucking packs of cigarettes”, she had told him he had to leave. 

“I am going to my dad’s in two weeks to stay there for two weeks while he’s out of town.”

He had looked at her angrily and replied, “Alone?” 

She nodded. 

“Well, I don’t want to stay here at your mom’s house alone!”

She smiled at him.  “That’s the general idea.  Pack your shit and get the fuck out of my house.  I don’t care where you fucking go,  but you cannot, repeat, NOT, stay here.  AND I want a divorce.”

At that he cried and apologized for being such a bad husband.  She just sighed and told him not to worry about it, that their marriage had been a mistake from the beginning, made for all the wrong reasons.  She loved him, but not like a husband. She had felt gratitude towards him for “rescuing” her (or so she thought) from the relative who was sexually abusing her. 

When Christopher had written and told her to marry Jeff, be happy, and have lots of babies, what else was there for her?  (Of course, that was partly her fault, too, as she had not told him the truth about what was going on or about how much she still cared — what if he didn’t want her?  What if he was repulsed by her now that she was damaged goods?  What if he didn’t love her, only pitied her?  Nah, better not to take any chances with that, just hope he would see through the lies she told him.  But, he didn’t.)    No one cared or believed her when she tried to tell them about what was happening to her…She was angry at Jeff, but felt guilty because she, at least, had known she was doing something wrong in marrying him.  Maybe that was why she took his abuse for so long:  she believed she deserved it.

Once it was said, Rose felt much better, much calmer, more at peace than she had in a very long time.  She was able to sleep, although she went downstairs and slept with her sister. 

And again the dream came.  The car wreck, Christpopher covered in blood, leg broken.  This time, though, there was more.  She was in the hospital standing by his bed.  His head was bandaged and there were all kinds of IVs in his arm.  She was holding his hand and talking to him, telling him that she loved him and that he would be fine.  At one point his head turned towards her.  She smiled at him and told him he would be fine, that she was with him.  The shock on his face was almost comical.  Then she woke up.  What the hell???? she asked herself.

The next day at work she convinced her friend, Donna, to call his grandmother’s house to see if he was okay.  She had told Donna the whole dream and that she was worried that something was wrong with him.

“Please just call for me, Donna.  Please. ”

“Why don’t you call yourself?”

“I’m afraid of what I will hear….I don’t know.  Won’t you do this for me??  Please, pretty please with sugar on?”

Donna sighed and said, “Oh give me the damn number, Rose.”

Rose handed her the slip of paper and hugged her.  “Thank you!!”

As Donna dialed, Rose paced the room.

“Hello”, she heard Donna say into the phone.  “My name is Rose and I was trying to  reach Christopher.  Is he there by any chance?”

The grandmother replied warily, “Rose?”

“Yes, ma’am, Rose.”

“Rose from Virginia?”, the grandmother asked, obviously surprised.

“Yes, ma’am, Rose from Virginia.”

Instantly the grandmother’s tone changed to one of welcome.  “Honey, let me give you his number, he will be so glad to hear from you!  Call him right away!”

As Donna wrote down the number, Rose whispered to her, “Ask if he’s okay!  Ask if he’s okay!”

Donna frowned at her but said, “Thank you so much for the number ma’am, and I will certainly call him, but may I ask, is he doing alright?”

“Well, honey, it’s funny you would ask that because about two weeks ago he was in a pretty bad car accident.”  Donna’s eyes nearly popped out of her head and she looked at Rose in awe. 

“A car accident?”  Rose’s heart sank. 

“Yes, dear, and he broke his leg, and had some other hurts, but he’s okay now.  So you give him a call.  Bye now.”

“Bye, ma’am”, Donna said as she hung up the phone.  “Did you hear that, Rose??  He was in a car accident, just like your dream!  And his leg was broken!  How did you know?”

“I can’t tell you, Donna, because I don’t know myself.”

“Want me to call him, too?” she asked Rose sarcastically.

“No.  This is one call I need to make myself.”  Breathing deeply, Rose picked up the phone and dialed the number Donna had scribbled on the paper. 

The phone was picked up on the second ring.  It was him. 

“Hello?” he asked.

She was at a loss for a moment and didn’t know what to say.   She lamely ended up saying, “Uh, hi.  Bet you don’t know who this is!” 

How lame was that,  she thought to herself.  Dead silence greeted her.  “Um, hello?  Are you there?”

A few more seconds passed and then she heard him say, very quietly, “Oh yes I do know who this is.  Rose.”

“Oh, well.  Yes, it is me.”  Jeez, could I sound any more stupid???

They began to talk, and it was like they had never parted, really.  Suddenly he said, “You know, Rose, it’s really strange that you would call me now.  I mean, at this time.”

“Why’s that?”

“Well, a couple of weeks ago I was in a pretty bad car accident”, he began.  “I’m okay now, but the strangest thing happened while I was in the hospital.  There was a nurse there, and I couldn’t see her, but she was holding my hand and telling me that I would be fine.  And she called me “Christopher”, not “Chris” like everyone else, and, well…it was YOU.  I know it was you.   Isn’t that stupid?” 

He sounded embarrassed, like he wished he hadn’t told her.

“Stupid?  No, I don’t think so.  Let me tell you why I called….”

And so it began again.  For the second time.

Falling Down the Stairs…Again

The next time she fell down the stairs, Rose didn’t trip on her pajamas.  She tripped on her husband’s fist.  She was twenty when it happened, and they had been married for nearly a year and a half.  Already she was disenchanted and was trying to find a way out of it.  Actually, if she was honest, she had known the day she married him that she was making a mistake, had cried throughout the entire ceremony, knowing she didn’t love this man, that she loved someone else…but somehow events had worked against her and she didn’t know what else to do. 

She worked for a video production company and had been up since four in the morning.  She had been on a shoot at five, working hard, pulling cable, setting up equipment, assisting one of her favorite cameramen, Rick, as he climbed all over the newest addition to the Saudi Royal Navy’s fleet of ships.  It hadn’t all been hard, dirty work. There had been a few light moments such as when two of the Saudi sailors had offered Rick two camels and a great deal of gold for his assistant.  They had been quite insistent, too, until Rick (who was like a big brother or uncle to her) had finally put down his camera and grabbed Rose in a huge bear hug and told them, “She’s mine!”  Kiss on the lips.  “You may not have her, not even for fifty camels!!” 

They had escaped the ship then, amidst a flurry of laughter.  Rose always enjoyed working with Rick, had no idea how sad she would be several years later when he suddenly collapsed and died on the set of a nationally popular religious show.

After the shoot  had come the clean up, the long trek back to the studio where everything had to be put away.  Bill and Jim had begun the arduous task of editing the footage from the day, and Rose knew that in the next few days she would be busy getting copies transferred from the United States NTSC standard to the Saudi PAL and SECAM.  This night, however, she had to clear up some client billing paperwork before she could make the forty minute drive home.

By the time she arrived at her mom’s house, it was after ten o’clock, and she was exhausted.  All she could think of was a shower and bed.  She had to be back at work by eight thirty the next morning.  She pulled up to the house, turned off the car, and just sat there, eyes closed, gathering the strength required to carry herself inside.  She was surprised to see that her mother’s car wasn’t in the yard, but thought nothing of it.  She looked up to the window of the bedroom she shared with Jeff and was sorry to see the light still on.  Damn, I was hoping he would already be asleep, she thought to herself.  Finally she opened the door and exited the car.  It was dark out in the country, but the moon was full and she let its silvery shimmer guide her to the front door. 

As she walked up the stairs, she could hear the television in their room.  As she reached the top of the stairs she forced a smile to her lips and walked into the room.  Jeff was lying on the bed, a beer can leaning haphazardly on the bed beside him, two more, empty, lying on the floor.

“It’s about time you got home, Rose”, he snapped. 

“Sorry”, she replied sarcastically, the smile fading from her face.  “I was working.  We had a Saudi commissioning today and I told you I would be late.”

“Did you bring me any cigarettes?” he asked angrily.

She felt annoyance begin to rise within her as she responded.  “Uh, no. I worked until after nine and I came straight home.” 

As she said this she looked around the room and noticed the ashtray was overflowing with his cigarette butts.  She hated the way he smoked his Marlboros down to the filter. She didn’t know why it pissed her off so much, just knew that it did. 

“Couldn’t you walk to the store to get some?” 

The store was only a mile away, no big distance for a corn-fed country boy, as he liked to call himself.  More like ” fucking redneck”, she thought whenever he said that.

“How was I supposed to get to the store?” he shouted.  “You had the fucking car all day!  And then you come home without any cigarettes for me?  How selfish is that?”

Now Rose was really angry, but she tried to remain calm.  Confrontations repelled her.  “Path of least resistance”, that’s me….”Sorry I had the damn car, Jeff!  Sorry I was working, but someone has to.” 

She turned away from him to put down her purse in an effort to stop herself from saying anything more.

“Oh, so now you’re giving me shit because I don’t have a job?” he yelled.  “What the fuck is up with that?  I look for a fucking job every fucking day.  Don’t you dare treat me like that, Rose.  Who do you think you are, your mom?” 

“No, I didn’t mean it like that, Jeff.  Look, I am sorry I didn’t bring you any cigarettes, but I didn’t know you needed any.  I am sorry I had the car all day, but I had to work.  I should have thought of bringing you something on my way home.  Sorry”, she mumbled, defeated. 

When anger was directed at her she just folded.  She didn’t know why she couldn’t get angry back, but she just couldn’t.  Once she had known someone with whom she could get angry because she trusted him.  She didn’t trust Jeff, though; or anyone else for that matter.

“I had to walk to Brinkman’s, Rose!  It’s a fucking mile there and a mile back!  Luckily I could stop at mom and dads on the way for a break and to get something to eat since there is never anything here in this fucking house!” 

Right, Rose thought.  You stopped at your folks’ house and then your dad drove you the rest of the way to Brinkman’s and then brought you back here.  You damn fucking liar…She said nothing, however, just stared at him.

“I can’t believe you didn’t think of me at fucking all!  So, why don’t you go to the store now?”

Rose gave up.  It just wasn’t worth the fight.  “Whatever.  I’ll go, but dammit, you are such an asshole!” she yelled as she picked up her purse and turned to leave the room. 

He was behind her faster than she could imagine.  He grabbed her arm and glared into her face; she realized for the first time that his eyes were glazed over, his pupils the size of pinpoints. 

“What the fuck did you just say to me?”  He whispered menacingly.

Now she was truly afraid.  “Nothing, Jeff” she said as calmly as she could.  “I’m going to the store to get you some cigarettes.  Would you like anything else?” 

She tried to sound as conciliatory as possible, tried to be soothing.

“You hate me, don’t you?” he snarled. 

“No, Jeff, I love you.”  In her head she was screaming, damn straight I fucking hate you!,  as she surreptitiously moved backwards towards the door.

“You’re a liar!” he screamed at her. 

When he lunged at her a split second later she almost got away.  She made it out the bedroom door and was nearly to the steps when he grabbed her hair and swung her around to face him. 

“You are a fucking bitch!” He yelled.  “Go get some cigarettes!” 

Then he did something he had never done before:  he hit her.  Hard. In the face.  She felt pain, surprise, and confusion as she stumbled backwards, and then suddenly she was tumbling down the stairs.  Her back, her hip, her head, all slammed repeatedly onto the wooden stairs and into the stucco covered wall.  She landed in a crumpled heap on the first floor landing.  She was never sure if she lost consciousness, but the next thing of which she was aware was looking up to see Jeff glaring at her from the top of the stairs. 

“Get me two fucking packs”, he yelled.  Then he turned and went back into the room.

Oh Christopher, she thought as the tears began to fall and the pain set in.  What have I done and why aren’t you here to save me?  A few moments later she got up and headed to the store, wanting to get there before the bruises began to show.

More Random Pictures…

My Best Friend Lately: The Angel of Grief

One of My Faves: "The Accolade" by Edmund Blair Leighton

Me - Around My High School Graduation

One of My Fave German Castles: Hohenzollern

Me and "Gene Simmons" (My friend Charley before his death in 2000)

My Inclusion Parnter, Melissa, and Me at School for Halloween - I'm the Witch, She's my Black Cat Familiar

New Hair Color a Couple of Months Ago...

Me at Five or Six

When I Was About Eleven - in the "secret room" at our house

A Bigger, Clearer Version of My Fave Picture of Myself

My Tattoo the Night I Got It - In Color (Duh!)

My Tattoo the Night I Got It - Sepia (Aug. 2009)

One Step Closer

Rose's barn...

Rose closed her eyes and tried to imagine herself on the roof of the barn, the sun shining, a warm wind blowing, her eyes seeking out Christopher.  Nothing happened. 

She could feel the wind, alright, but it was a chilly wind and there was no sun – or even the moon – to warm her.  For a moment she wondered if she would ever be warm again.  Violent tremors were wracking her body.  Surely this could not be happening to her again. 

What did Vezzini always say in The Princess Bride?  Ah, that was it:  Inconceivable!  Apparently she didn’t know its meaning any better than he had, because it was, indeed, happening again.

 She wanted to crawl out of her skin as Jeff’s hands groped her and his mouth bit her neck, kissed her face, moved to her breasts.  She couldn’t stop the tears falling from her eyes or the frightened whimpers that escaped her mouth in between pitiful cries of, “no, please” and “stop”.  Nothing moved him to cease his assault on her.  In fact, her tears and pain seemed to encourage him to act even more boldly. 

He pulled her shirt off her shoulders – please don’t ruin this shirt, she thought to herself.  I got this shirt for my trip to see Christopher.  I wore it when we went to the lake…Oh, Lord, where is he now??? 

Jeff’s hands pulled her bra straps off her shoulders.  His mouth bit down on her breasts as his right hand slid down inside her pants.  She tried to pull away, but he bit harder and pulled her closer to him with his left hand.  She became still, stiff as a board, aware of nothing but his moaning and her whimpers…and the pain and degradation of what was happening.

How did this start?  She asked herself, trying to focus on anything other than Jeff pushing her backwards, his hands and mouth everywhere on her body like some nightmare-world creature.  We went to dinner.  We talked, for the five millionth time, about the fact that this relationship – in any romantic sense – was over.  I told him that it wasn’t working with us being friends, either.  I told him he needed to choose someone else and just move on, that he deserved someone who would really love him and that I wasn’t it.  I had tried to help him defeat his demons but it had been useless and he had simply abused me…for years.  He had taken the whole conversation well, and I was quite pleased with the outcome.  Until now.  I brought him home.  He got his things out of the car – his beer and his leftovers from dinner.  I got out to check the passenger side headlight to see if it was actually out.  It was, dammit.  He’d asked me for a hug.  Lulled into a false sense of security by the pleasant-ish tone of the evening, and the safety of the car idling beside me, I said yes.  Ah, that was the mistake.  He had hugged me for a moment then had begun kissing me, forcing his tongue into my mouth almost viciously.  When I tried to pull away and asked him to stop, he increased the pressure of his arms and his lips.  So, that’s how I ended up here with this asshole again….Will I never learn??

 Jeff continued to move her slowly backwards, away from her car.  At first she didn’t realize his objective, just kept crying, and begging, and looking for a moment to escape.  At last he had maneuvered her behind the huge oak tree in his mother’s yard, and he tripped her so she fell to the ground, out of sight of the house.  As her head hit the ground her face turned toward the left and she could just see her car, safe, warm, idling, waiting for her, just on the other side of the tree.  She could hear it humming, could hear Boyce Avenue’s acoustic version of “Bleeding Love” floating toward her. 

Christopher!!!  She screamed in her head. 

 Just then Jeff jerked her shirt up and bit down hard on her right breast.  She cried out, again asking him to stop – although there was a part of her brain that begged her to just shut up and get it over with so she could go home sooner.  That part of her seemed to believe that if she was just still it would be over and she could forget it quicker.  He put his hand down her pants again, attempting to stimulate her manually, but she was as dry as a bone; her whole body felt like it was shriveling up into a raisin.

 Frustrated, Jeff pulled her pants down without unzipping them, nearly ripping the waistband.  Again Rose begged him to stop.  Again he did not.  His mouth moved down to cover hers and she jerked her head away, slamming her face into the ground.  He climbed on top of her, and began to dry hump her.  It hurt.  A lot. 

Even angrier (was he angry? or was he just determined?), Jeff slid off her.  He was flaccid.  Leaning on her with his legs and groping her breast with one hand, he used his other hand to pull her hand to his penis.  He placed her hand on his limp dick and barked at her, almost pleadingly, “Help me, dammit!” 

Long years of abuse and stupidity caused her to obey him for about five seconds.  Then she pulled her hand away and said through her tears, “Fuck you!” 

With that he shoved his right hand inside of her.  This hurt more than she thought possible, and she cried out, “Stop, please! That really hurts!” 

In answer, he leaned over her and smiled, then growled savagely, before continuing on.  Oh, shit.  Why did he have to growl at me like that?  How does he know that is my private joke with Christopher?  I love it when he growls at me.  Is Jeff going to ruin everything in my fucking life?? 

She cried out in pain again as his hand moved quicker and harder inside her.  She realized that he was using his legs to hold her down, attempting to stimulate her with one horrible hand and masturbating with the other.  Nothing was going as he wanted it to.  Giving up on the dual stimulation, he pushed her flat down again and moved himself between her thighs.  She covered her eyes and sobbed.  He moved down her body and put his mouth on her vagina.  With the first swipe of his tongue, Rose went over the edge of hysteria and screamed, “Nooooooo!!!”  while simultaneously kicking him in his shoulder. 

Suddenly, it was over.  He looked like someone who had been slapped and had just awakened from a dream.  Rose sagged with relief and cried even more, trying to slide herself along the grass and away from him.

 Softly he said, “Wait, Rose.” 

Almost lovingly and tenderly, he pulled her underpants and trousers toward her and tried to begin putting them back on her.  She jerked away from him, saying, “Don’t fucking touch me!  Just get away from me!!” 

She scrambled up off the ground and pulled on her clothes.  She hurried to her car, still idling, still waiting patiently for her; only by then “One Step Closer” by Linkin Park was playing on her cd player. 

Too fucking right I’m about to break!  she thought to herself. 

Jeff followed her to the car, apologizing, saying he had wanted to make her hate him so that their separation would be easier on her.  She looked at him, dumbfounded.

“You are a fucking idiot”, she told him.  “I already hated you, could have gone my whole life without this shit.  Dammit, I cannot believe you did this crap to me AGAIN!  You got what you wanted:  I hate you!” 

Still crying, she threw the car into “drive” and peeled out of his driveway. 

 She didn’t look back.

A Poem For a Friend…

I’m quiet, he says, but

Truly he is not.

He is as loud as a snowstorm,

As bright as the sun -

His words more than whispers

He is equalled by none  – when

He speaks we all listen, our souls enrapt

In the magic he sings us -

His tune forever trapped

In our hearts.

Some Random Pictures…

My Favorite Picture of Myself...

Me and my tattoo about one month ago

 

My Current Motto

Frequently How I Feel

Praise the Lord, Pass the Ammunition

Just had to write this down -    

My television is on one of the XM radio channels – 40s on 4.  Love those old tunes.

Anyway, a group called The Merry Macs is singing.  The chorus caught my attention:

Praise the Lord

And pass the ammunition.

Praise the Lord

And pass the ammunition.

Praise the Lord

And pass the ammunition

And we’ll all stay free.

Huh??  Just made me laugh in a confused kind of way….(And yes, I get it:  World War II, bring everyone together, etc.) 

Wonder if George M. Cohan wrote this one, too?  Somehow I doubt it.  Doesn’t seem quite his style. 

Never mind.

It’s 4:03 and I can’t sleep…

Nah, I lied.  It’s not 4:03.  It’s 4:23.  But close enough for me.  Guess I’ve been singing that Shinedown song too much. 

Not so sure, though, if the poblem is that it is four in the morning or that it is the sixth of February.  The day I got the message for which I had waited for sixteen years.  First contact from you.  Do you remember my reply?

Huh? I am nearly in tears.

And your response?

So am I.  I don’t even know where to begin…

And you know, from the beginning, there was a phrase you repeated over and over and over.  A phrase that, as a Special Education Inclusion English teacher I should have seen as foreshadowing:

No more time for lies, baby girl.

And yet, that’s all it was a time for, wasn’t it?  Lies, lies, and more lies.

(My failure to recognize the foreshadowing explains, I suppose, why I am the Special Education teacher, right?)

My head is pounding again. 

I am so annoyed.  For the past month, maybe, I had been doing really well.  I wasn’t crying everyday or anything.  Then that stupid migraine.  And then my sister being so upset.  And now:  6 February.  Oh this sucks, and I am sure that Valentine’s day will probably be unfun, too.  No great story to read, over which to sigh and smile as my heart flutters. 

Ouch. 

Then will come 7 March.  Fucking-A.  Happy Anniversary, Baby, got you on my mind - thank you, Little River Band.

Could someone please just come knock me out so I can sleep through the next month?? 

I am running out of pain meds for the pounding in my head that never seems to truly stop…my ativan is running low for my erratic heartbeat…my body is running down from lack of good sleep…my eyes are frequently swollen from the tears I am again shedding — even in my sleep.  I hate waking up to a wet pillow.

Well.  I can handle it.  And I will be fine.  This next month will be the bad patch, I think, then I will be okay again.  I mean, hell, I’ve done this (lived in limbo without you) for more years than I haven’t (thirty-three, actually, and I’m only forty-seven), so I can make it through the rest, I suppose. 

I just have to get through the next month without cracking up again…and considering what I have managed to get through already, a month should be easy-peezy.

Yep.  Easy. 

If only I can avoid any thought of you whatsoever and if I can sleep past 4:03 more nights than not.  Damn Shinedown for putting that time in my head!! 

Why don’t I just hate you and not think of you?

Oh wait.  Again, there’s the answer: 

I‘m Special Ed. 

That explains it all, doesn’t it?

Gotta go.  The pain meds are calling to me….

 

P.S. to “The Iron Door…”

You always claimed to know me so well -

Oh, and you did; you do -

So you can’t pretend you didn’t understand

The effect your actions would have

On me -

You can convincingly emote surprise

To the despair of Allie and my sister -

I mean, why would they care?

I can hear you thinking.

But don’t use that excuse to yourself

With regard to me.

You know me better than you know yourself.

Yes, you knew what you were doing -

In some way, probably even enjoyed it.

Every fucking time.

That’s the sad part.