She Lied. She Was Wrong.

She says to go in the room and wait. She’ll be there when she gets good and damn ready, there’s no telling how long it’ll take. She might go out with *R* for dinner then come back or she might come in right away. The room has a bunch of plants and a mix of African masks from various tribes. The blankets are mustard with a small flower on it. Above the bed is a horse whip. There’s a belt she puts around my neck. I don’t think of those, my eyes go around the room and look at things as if they’re new to me. The closets are filled with boxes containing old Reader’s Digest Magazines, old Life Magazines and religious literature. One box contains old McCall’s books, crafts and clothing she started and never finished. Ideas stored away is what they were. She was a big talker. “We’re going to do this. We’re going to do that.” Then she’d go out and buy all the stuff for it but we didn’t ever get to it. There was always an interruption. Those ideas got stored in a different closet. I remember thinking of how ugly the carpet was. A deep dark chocolate brown that ate up any light that seeped through the balcony drapes. The light switch is by the door but I never even think to turn it on. I smell urine but I try not to think about it. I feel stupid because I know I’m going to vomit again. I always do that and it makes you so angry but it just comes right up and so fast that I can’t stop it. Now you’re really angry because I’ve made a mess.

I wish I could hear how wrong you were and not feel like I have to defend you. My immediate reaction is to defend you, you of all people, you. It feels wrong to call you a liar, wrong to say what you did was abuse or criminal. Who pulls a belt so tight around the child’s neck they just might pass out? And why does that child grow up and stop people short of saying, “She lied and she was wrong.” You know, when I sat on the bed waiting for you I never thought of leaving. I never thought of life outside your house. I thought of rearranging the place, redecorating. I never considered freedom. Now that you are not here what am I to do with this freedom? What am I to do with no owner? Everyone is a liar but you and everyone is untrustworthy but you. I feel nearly blinded by freedom. It’s as if I left the dark stage of a low budget S&M flick and went outside into bright, screaming sunlight. I can’t see a thing but I can hear you and I can hear myself. I can hear myself ………There is not a place in my head where I can escape the echo of “I’m sorry.” “I’m sorry” mixed with fear and confusion, but mostly fear.

Trusting one person, even you, is less frightening than trusting the world one person at a time. It almost feels right to say I belong to you.

I hated and needed you, perhaps equally.

Robert

I Am Sorry – Monday, October 06, 2008-7:16PM EST