by Mary Mellon
When I was six, I cut off my hair and dressed like a boy. Sometimes I think I had the right idea back then.
It hurts to walk. My legs are mottled with bruises and in the mirror, my left eye is swollen shut. It is the shape and color of a plum. I pull down my eyelid to pry it open so I can see. I apply mascara and make my eyelashes long and dark.
In 2027, GRACE & GRAVITY will be edited and published by the Washington Writers’ Publishing House. Submissions for Volume 12: Grace in Justice are open through November 15th.
People look at me when I pass them on the street. Some are overtly judgmental as if I did this to myself. In the pharmacy, a man in a white coat follows me into an aisle where I am looking at eye patches and asks me if I am okay. I tell him yes. I believe that. I still did my makeup today.
I am visiting New York. There are people I am supposed to see but instead, I sleep for days. I burrow under a tunnel of blankets into a tunnel of dreams. I am wearing the pajamas my aunt bought me. They are orange with palm trees and tigers. There is a bar in her apartment. I sneak vodka into a glass to dull the pain and drink in the tub. The water sloshes comfortingly around me. There are more bruises on my back and arms and butt. I am a patchwork of different colors from angry pink to red to purple.
The day arrives when it is time to leave. I forget to bring cash when I get in the taxi and the driver stops outside an ATM, holding my luggage hostage while I try to remember my PIN. He is shouting at me and articulating with loud gestures. I finally get the money and am free of him but now I am confused. I cannot find my bus and the streets are suddenly difficult to navigate despite New York City being on a grid. Two veterans flag me down and walk me to my bus. I am absurdly grateful when they offer to beat up the man who did this to me but would not want to put them through any trouble.
I shuffle toward the back of the bus and watch the city disappear. I close my eyes and when I open them again, I am in Maryland. My mom takes one look at me and her face crumples. He did not only do this to me but to her. She wonders why I did not tell her. I have never been good at keeping secrets from her. She insists on taking me to the hospital.
The emergency room is a blur. My mom will later say I could not remember my social security number. We learn I am concussed and there is deep tissue damage to my entire body. A forensic exam is offered. I do not remember being photographed but see the images later. I am wearing black underwear. In one photo, a gloved hand nearly the size of my torso spreads my hospital gown to reveal what looks like male fingerprints on my lower back. In another, my underwear is pulled down to show a fuming bruise on my upper thigh. A close-up of my eye shows a cut to my brow ridge.
I am too weak to get to the bathroom on my own and am attached to machines. The cords trail through a crack in the door every time I have to pee. My mom, little brother, and dad each take turns visiting. I spend seventy percent of the time sleeping and cannot be great company. But it is like turning the nightlight on as a kid. I can actually feel that they care about me.
My dad has been out of my life for nearly seven years. Now he paces the hallways and talks about his connections in the Secret Service. He is furious.
My rapist sends a thirty-page short story to my mother’s address victim blaming me. It was not enough to hurt me. He had to hurt my mom, too. My mom throws the piece in the trash.
I still sleep with a stuffed animal, Seferis, that he got me one year for my birthday. In retrospect, I question why I thought he was mentally stable enough to friendzone. He is a malignant narcissist. Of course, he would not accept rejection and felt entitled to take what he wanted. I am 5’4” and typically weigh between 104 and 110 pounds. He is over six feet tall and weighs over two hundred pounds. Body dysmorphia created a false sense of security. I never stood a chance, and I am angry at him for proving that.
Seferis arrived in the mail after a two-hour chat with a kidnapping victim I worked with at RAINN. They had cut off her finger and glued her closed and we were waiting for the police to come when my shift ended, and I was forced to transfer the chat. I was still imagining the layout of the apartment she was in and hoping she’d communicated clearly that there were three perpetrators and what rooms they were in. They said they would kill her if she told anyone, and I did not want them to get to her before the police. I opened the box with a sense of awe. A bunny from Vermont Teddy Bear was exactly what I needed. I decide Seferis is blameless. He fits with me perfectly when I sleep and ironically makes me feel safer. I take a Sharpie to his bow tie to cross out my attacker’s name.
I am unsure if some actions are unforgivable. My rapist’s version of madness is a storm I have never experienced, and the forest protects him. He can get lost in the trees. It is easier not to directly confront the fact that you are interacting with a psychopath at the forefront of your consciousness. Like avoiding the eyes of a leopard stalking toward you. But later, that oversight slices.
I continue to write. I continue to work as a crisis counselor. I date a man for a year and then end the relationship. I meet someone else. Sometimes I think about suicide, but it has nothing to do with the rape. I can feel that potential resting beneath my skin like a nesting doll. A shadow self that wants to depart before I fade into complete obscurity. Being a woman is hard. It often feels like society is waiting to strangle and abandon you. I would rather exit the vehicle and lay down on my own. Put the noose around my own neck.
Mary Mellon earned her MFA in creative nonfiction from Sarah Lawrence College and has been published in Chicago After Dark, Breadcrumbs Magazine, 3Elements Review, Soundings East, and elsewhere. She works as a crisis counselor and is currently earning her MSW from the University of Maryland.
