day four: breakable

it was the last day of my ditched two weeks, a friday. that boy with the green streaked hair, i was going to see him, at that puke brown van. it was parked in the back by the dumpsters. no one really parks there. he took me there, showed it to me, told me that sometimes he slept there, got high there. and he would lead me there to mess around; me and who knows who else. i wish i’d asked his name, told him mine; maybe it would have made things mean more, or less. i’m not sure.

robert told me to write this down, to tell someone, even if its just this piece of ripped out notebook paper that i’ll probably burn away. i don’t think i need proof of this lying around. robert says we can cover the bruises the same way we did troy’s. that i can sleep here anytime. that i’m not broken. i’m not broken. i’m not broken. i'm not broken.

wasn’t there someone that said if you say things in three it makes it true?

i didn’t tell robert what troy said about me, or what i’ve been doing these last two weeks. he might think i deserved this. i probably do. deserve this.

my wrist hurts, it hurts to write with. that boy was there. he wasn’t alone. there was this older man, younger than a father, older than someone still in school, i think. he had these long, bony fingers, had them around the back of that boy’s neck. he was leaning him over that chair in the back of the van. a chair like that one like in my grandparents’ motor home. a captain’s chair, i think. it swiveled back and forth. he was holding it steady with his other hand. that boy was screaming. how come no one heard him screaming? How is that possible?

he was shoving himself into the boy, over and over. i felt dizzy. i wanted to run. i wanted to scream. i wanted to pull him off that boy and make it stop. i think i did scream. i don’t know. i don’t know. maybe i did, maybe i didn't. i know he saw me then. he turned around. he had this wild look. he looked like the shadow man from my dreams. i wanted to wake up, to just fucking wake up. but i was awake, wasn't i?

he had let go of the boy. left him slumped across the chair. and i saw blood coming off of him. i tasted blood in my mouth. i think i was biting my lip. it is crusty now, sore and scabbed.

why do i have to write this? what will it change?

i want to just lie in robert’s bed and not speak, not sleep. i want to just lie there. he keeps telling me i need to eat, that my ribs are showing more, too much. he keeps touching my hair and saying i’ll be okay. he wants to call sam, i don’t want him to call sam, i don’t want him to call anyone. i don’t want to write this. but he’s watching me. he is changing the record, but he keeps looking to make sure i'm still writing.

the man grabbed my arm. i didn’t feel it then, but i feel it now. there is a handprint bruise where he grabbed me. he said something, some mismatched words i can't remember. he called me a boy. i was wearing that skirt, and i don’t look like a boy. i know i don’t look like a boy. even with my ribs showing i still have curves. i’m still a girl. even now. i’m still a girl in this skin.

there was another one of those chairs, across from the boy. i guess you could sit like that, have a conversation, or something. i don’t know. that boy and i had always sat on the floor, putting our cigarettes out on the stained carpet.

it smelled like stale beer, like vomit and piss, like the bathroom at anaheim stadium. there were igarette burns all over the place.

he pulled me over to that other chair and pushed me down. my face was smashed into the fabric. i could taste it, feel the frays of thread stick to my tongue, and in between my teeth. i could still taste blood, but more now. i closed my eyes. i think i screamed again. i know i wanted to scream. i wanted to become a scream. and i wanted to disappear.

i lost a shoe. i don’t know where it is. i don’t know. he ripped my skirt, my stockings, my everything. ripped me bare, quickly, with one hand. it felt like a knife inside of me, like cutting, tearing. that isn’t even where it is supposed to be, is it? not where my fingers wandered to, under the covers, the warm feeling of putting them in and out. or where that boy across from me had put his fingers.

i can hear his sobs. this raw punctured sound where he had once touched me. even though I went numb. it wasn’t like this when he had touched me.

troy could be some fucking sage. is it sage? is that what they call them? fortune tellers telling that girl that I like it like that. there was all this blood and this sound.

i can’t write this. robert will have to deal. i can’t write this anymore. it has been two days. i haven’t slept, and i think i want to sleep now; i think i want to sleep forever.