Disclaimer: This is long, intense, graphic, and difficult. Also, out of context and chronology of the other pieces. It's finally ready to be posted, although it still needs a lot of revisiting before it's complete. Self-therapy in progress.
Untitled.
Eyes
are windows
They are open.
Blue like rain
Streaming and dancing and washing it all away
They are honest.
Brown and deep
Stable and certain and anxious to speak
Green emeralds
That sparkle.
Grey skies
That cry.
Red blood
That smokes too much.
Black eyes
That die.
August 2,
2006 Early Morning
I haven't slept. I slap the mattress and throw
my head into the pillow. The empty beer bottle next to me is steaming and I can
the feel the stink crawling all over me. My mouth is crusted with the morning
air and there’s black soot and cigarette ash trapped in my fingernails. Mascara
is smudged down my cheeks and my dark hair is matted to the side. It’s been two
weeks since it happened, but it’s only 11:30am, and too early in the day to
call the day quits.
I roll over and grab my morning coffee off the
nightstand, which usually consists of three shots of whiskey and a cigarette.
It’s never about the taste when it comes to whiskey. I wash it down with my
cigarette anyway.
The
mornings are clockwork hell. Get up from bed, brush my teeth, stare out myself
in the mirror for about 30 seconds, and pick at the little scar on my chin. I
have to be at the office by 1pm, but lately I’ve been showing up around 2:30pm,
lost in wasteful time and disorganized thoughts.
I stopped picking up the
phone, and my friends stopped calling. When the last drop of the bottle wets
the glass and my head stops spinning from the night before, I’m barely
breathing.
13 days
and counting since I’ve recognized the attack. 13 more days and I go home. Back
to reality. Back in the arms of comfort, even amidst this black soot covering
my openness to live, whiskey and blood mixed in my veins, drowning me in
guilt. I finally pick up the phone and apologize
to my mom, because she worries and knows I’m alone, and she hears it in my
voice and she misses me and wants to hug me and tell me I’m strong and will
survive this. She speaks gently because I’m fragile. I’ll smash in a million
pieces, like glass, razor sharp, and shattered all over the floor. Hi honey, how is it today? You want to come
home yet? I tell her I don’t know
what I want to do. I know, Baby. She
says softly. Well, your flight to come
home is in less than two weeks from now
at JFK Airport. You can call them and get a sooner one if you want.
I hear
her, but I’m still too defiant to be defeated. The scene just replays in my
head. It was one single moment that stole my strength, and my courage. Still,
there’s no way I could leave sooner.
I walk to
work with my head down and sunglasses on. The sidewalks are all cracked and
uneven. The sunlight is glaring, bouncing the midday reflection back into my
eyes. I'm cautious, careful, and aware; peeping over the lenses every couple
minutes just to be sure that I am alone. But I’m not. I yearn for peace,
closure, solitude. Everyone can sense I’m broken. This anxiety that just won’t
go away. Even when I close my eyes, its ravenous beam is still there.
***
MixxLounge Bar had a savage smell. It was a mixture of perfume and sweat. The
floors were slick from spilled beer and the air was intoxicating. Elvis, the
owner, would ask me to hike it up, or let my cleavage show. It’s the Manhattan high class, you sell it
and the drinks come with it, he would tell me.. I move around the bar and
start setting up the bottles. The cheeky old men, sit across from me all night,
watch me bend over to pull the glasses from the rack. Their sports jackets reek
of cigars and expensive cologne hanging over the bar stools, creating an aroma
that only swanky businessmen can produce.
At around 2:15am every Saturday night, Elvis would disappear into the
backroom, assisting the boys to end their night with a fine white powder that
covered up anything that money could not. I would watch them walk out, ten
minutes later and $300 dollars less, with a little baggy and an unstable
swagger.
Ruggiero,
the kitchen manager was an addict. He waited around for the shake at the bottom
of the bag, or the crumbs that spilled across the table, scanning the residue
with a straw, slurping it into his nose. I remember his eagerness. He never
talked much, stayed to himself in the back, frying up chicken skewers and
spring rolls, and remained a slave to the men who have it all. He’s worked here for years, Elvis told
me. Don’t worry about Ruggiero, he won’t
bother you. But I could see him by the corner of the bar. His black eyes
swollen with misery, lips pressed tightly, head held low. I never had anything
bad to say to him, in fact, I barely spoke to him at all. I made sure to smile
back though. After all, what’s the point in making matters worse for someone
who scrapes the leftovers.
****
Earlier in
July 28, 2006
I tell Ruggiero one last time I do not want to snort a line. He wipes his
nose off with his apron. I tell him to shut the bar down, Elvis is gone, I’ll see you at work tomorrow, I say with a deep
and hopeful smile. Have a good night
okay? I reach over, pull my purse off the counter, and turn towards the
door. He moves around the bar and stops me in front of him. His black eyes are
bullet holes, deep and fierce and destructive. I pull the strap over my
shoulder, and check for my wallet. Take a
shot, he says again and reaches for the tequila. I’m already sickened by
the smell. His accent thickens as he raises his voice. TAKE A SHOT! He makes a quick move, and two shot glasses hit the
floor by my feet. He growls and stumbles around the bar. I feel my heart plunge
into my stomach, a force reaction to an instinctive premonition that something
terrible was about to happen. I back away from the spill. The floor smells of
old Cuervo and rotten limes. He drags his feet through the glass, and I turn my
head, but his hands are already on my waist.
His strength holds me hard. He presses his lips against my ear, Permanezca aquí, stay here, he whispers.
I can’t release myself from his grip. He leans into my neck, spins my body and
throws me face first against the bar stools. He thrusts his hips towards mine
and heaves me forward. I’m bent over as he digs me into the bar and I anchor my
fingernails into the seat backs. He rips my straps and grabs my shoulders. I
can’t speak. I can’t think. I push against the counter trying to free myself
from him, but his body is suffocating. I inhale, but it feels like I’m only
sucking air, gasping, panting… He grabs a fistful of my hair and throws me to
the ground. His grip tightens and I want to cry but, I can’t. I squeeze my
eyes, hard enough so that any emotion inside me would come out. But there was
nothing. Not even a sound. Barely a wimper. Black out.
I come to.
The tile is cold and wet. He rips off his belt and holds me down. My heels clatter like
hail. My shorts are soaked in beer and my palms are cut with glass. He towers
on top of me. I look at the spotlights on the ceiling. His silhouette is a
black shadow. I can feel his hand on my thigh and his big black eyes are all
over my body. His fingers are rough like splintered wood. I kick him as hard as
I can and he doesn’t stop. I roll onto my stomach and grab the leg of one
of the bar stools. He slaps it out of my hands. I thrust my back into his chest
and slip my legs underneath me. The broken beer bottles cut my shins and palms. He grabs my
shoulders and pulls me close to him. I fight him. He wraps one arm around them
and pushes his other hand down my throat. I make a fist with my left hand and
bang the side of his face. His fingers taste like iron and lime juice. I bite down. I am an animal. Clawing and scratching and
biting for safety. His blood seeps into my mouth. And I finally begin to cry.
There’s no conviction in his eyes. He stares at
my chest and moves like a machine. He rips my shirt open. I hit him again and
crawl towards the back door of the kitchen. He grabs the back of my neck with
both hands and flings me towards the basement. The doorway to the office down
below is a gaping pit with concrete steps right in the middle of the kitchen
floor. He pushes me headfirst towards the hole. The pit opens its mouth before
me, its fatal lair beckons me to just give in to him, and give up the fight.
I dig my fists into the floor and arch back against his body again. I hold
steady. Still. His hands are still all over me. Time stops. He reaches and rips
my shorts from the back. I hit the floor. He turns me over. I start kicking him
again. I shove my heels into his groin, but there’s no pain. He wraps both
hands around my neck.
I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe. I can’t
breathe.
Please don’t do this! A surge
of energy suddenly barreled out of me. I scream. I finally scream again and
again and again, desperate for someone would hear me. Anyone! No. This is not
where it ends for me. Not here.
Not now.
A power
takes over me with indisposed defences, blinded by survival. I grab a metal rod
lying underneath the sink next to the door. Next thing I know, his head gushes
with blood. His big black eyes looked deep into me, and rolled into the back of
his head as he hit the floor.. I get up from the ground and turn my back on
him; hurl my bloody legs one right after each other, running as fast as I could
towards the front door. My feet stop moving as soon as I get to the street
corner. I just stop, and fall to the ground on my knees. The tears fall down my
face, soaking my face, and washing the blood off my mouth. I can’t believe that happened.
Did that just really happen? What just happened to me? My shorts are
shredded and my whole body is shivering.
A couple walking their dog
across the street run over to me. The woman pulls her jacket off and throws it
over my shoulders. Without asking any questions, they tell me it’s going to be
okay, and call 911.
***
I’m a case number.
I’m a file.
I’m a statistic.
I am completely fucked.
My body is shaking
uncontrollably. The paramedics tell me I am okay but I need to come in for
questioning. They tell me that I need to try and remember everything. I could
barely get the words out. I’m not even sure if I am saying the right things.
Three police officers climb into the ambulance with me and drilled me with
questions, screwing into the painful
pockets of my memory.
We arrive
at the hospital. Mascara is running down my face. I am still hysterical in my
tiny black shorts and high heels. I am
holding my purse against my chest and rocking back and forth in the wheelchair
as they veer me into the ER waiting room. The patient rooms are draped in green
plastic and the nurses are just shadows moving against them. My stomach is
empty and the smell of latex is stale and completely uninviting. The psychologist
comes in and tells me I am going be okay even though the nurse in the room is
sticking me with tetanus needles and drawing blood. Protocol, she says. She tells me to stop moving, but I can’t. Every
nerve in my body is trembling. The blood stained my face and legs, so she grabs
a towel and solution to clean the wounds. The peroxide sizzles on my skin. I
just can’t stop crying now. You’re safe here,
Ms. Belfiore, you were attacked, but you’re alive and you weren’t raped, right?
Just relax now.
They've
seen all this before. It happens all the time. I was an obvious case. The nurse
put my file into the drawer and two more officers come in to wrap up my
statement.
Name: Erica Jean Belfiore
Age:
20
Offense:
Sexual assault and battery
Location: MixxLounge corner
of Bleeker and 7th Ave South
Injuries: Lacerations and bruises on
knees, back, and arms.
Rape Kit:
Negative
Offender:
Ruggiero last name unknown
Nature of attack: sexually
driven; influenced by narcotics, cocaine, and alcohol.
Investigation:
In progress.
****
August 2, 2006
It's 12:30 am and I'm already late for my internship. But, I don’t care. My
mind is elsewhere. Like today, for instance, rather than calculating the amount
of time I need to be punctual, I am counting the amount of cigarettes I can
smoke from the time I leave until the time I arrive at work. I realize it
usually takes me four cigarettes along the way, but today, let’s shoot for
five. One on the way to the train, and three in between bus stops in midtown.
Maybe I'll find an empty bench with an empty seat big enough for me and my
emotional volcano. My feelings spewing out and covering everything around in a
thick molten lava of insecurity, smothering all that comes close and killing
off any positive energy that could possibly survive the blast.
The bus is
three minutes early today. Any other day I would have been happy the bus was
early, but today, I’d rather have my fifth cigarette. There’s something about
the smoke and how it enters my mouth. It’s the control. Inhale. Exhale and six
minutes later, it is gone.
August 2, 2006 12:59pm
I have one
minute to get to work. Whatever.
I climb off the bus at 53rd
street with one more block to walk towards my office. I walked passed a group
of construction men carrying large concrete blocks towards the building. I
can’t even close my eyes to keep my head from spinning without seeing them
looking at me again through dark eyes on the scaffolds. Workers like beasts,
hanging off the railing, hounding iron and metal but ravenous for attention. My
head drops down and I swerve to the inside of the sidewalk. Don’t look, don’t
listen. Don’t look into their eyes. Just keep walking. “Oye mami!” A zealous
brute whistles at me as one of the others jumps off the platform and waves his
hands. I walk straight and let them bark. I feel my legs and arms swing
mechanically down the concrete. Their
eyes spear me, like sharp teeth tearing into me. They are dripping from the
mouth and sizing up their prey.
I walk quickly and duck into the nearest convenience store around the corner.
The clerk smiles at me and I don’t even lift my head. I grab The New York Times
and throw down two dollars without change.
Monday
Evening News Report:
NEW YORK -- A subway train strikes an unidentified man at the Christopher
Street and 7 Ave South station in Manhattan 3am in the morning on July 28th.
The accident affected subway service on the 2 and 3 subway lines, but service
is now back to normal. The man was taken by ambulance to nearby St. Vincent's
hospital and died early that following morning. Police said he was heavily
intoxicated but it's unclear if the man committed suicide or if he just fell on
the tracks.
I rip out the article and fold it up into my hoodie pocket.
I count another one and a half puffs of another cigarette on the corner until
the construction workers leave for lunch and I finally can walk upstairs into
work, 2 hours late.
I slip
into the main lobby, and pass three execs standing in the hallway, sucking on
each other’s words, wishing their lives weren’t so uncomfortable. They discuss
Hilary Clinton and distract themselves with collared shirts and business plans.
Their desks are a row of urinals. Eggshell walls separate nine to five
workhorses shitting and pissing their lives away. Vagrant Records office is the
last door on the right. Musty, gold colored linoleum wrap either side of the
walls and seven separate mirrors spot the hallway. The mirrors bounce their
reflection off of each other. I stare at myself as I pass each one of them and
there’s seven million of me staring back.
***
The
guilt.
It’s burning a hole. Spinning around me and swimming in my stomach. I try to
swallow it down. I walk over to the vending machines for a bottle of soda or
some animal crackers to soak up my disgust. Eddie, my internship boss, finds me
and tells me he’s disappointed I’m late. I
know you’re going through a hard time right now Erica but I need you. This job
is why you’re here isn’t it? Snap out of it. He asks me to type up the
Saves the Day press release. It all comes up now. I push him out of the way and
bolt toward the bathroom. I grab the toilet and shove my face into the bowl. I
wish all of this emotional shit would come out with my puke. I sit next to the
toilet bowl, and close my eyes.
I slam my fist against the stall and get up to look in the mirror. I look
really ugly. My eyes are blood shot and soaked with tears. I smug the mascara
some more and give up trying to clean up. I throw water on my face and watch
the black tears roll down my cheeks.
I don’t want to talk about it, but Eddie is making me take an hour long lunch
break for some time to think. It’s been too long for it to still be smoldering
like this. How does this disgust linger so long? Why can’t I just let it go?! I wander down 42th street amidst the busy
worker bees. Everyone is the center of their own worlds; indulgent but content
and completely unaware of their surroundings. Like me, for example, who is
deathly afraid of every one of them.
My parents
say that they’re happy the fucker is dead. The police called me last night and
confirmed it. And when they did, I cried a lot. But I don’t even know why I was
crying. I woke up today, numb and empty and scared and then it occurred to me
why. It’s because I want something. I want answers, or closure, or anything
better than that! I want my life back.” My breath shortens. “No trial. No
investigation. No closure!” I lean in and write down the last thoughts I hope
to ever write again. That bar was his
life and once he knew that was over, he jumped in front of a train. ...And that
was after he tried to kill me first. I drew a heart, bleeding, and then
closed the page.
THIS WAS NEVER THE PERSON I AM TO BECOME.
Too early to call it quits.
***
August 4th, 2006
I walk down to Tompkins Park with my suitcase and sit with my journal. It’s been two weeks since I’ve written, but
this is the last day before this chapter of my life is closed. The pages are
anxious and bare. I stare up into the sunlight for clarity to collect my words,
dusting off the cover and opening to the end of the story, to restart it with a
new perspective.. I look down across the park bench that I'm on to see a man
with red eyes glaring in the sun. His body is hunched over the bench. I’m
sitting on the end. Legs crossed with my sandals on the ground in front of me.
I pull my sunglasses off my face. He spins around to snatch my stare. Hello, he says. I set the journal on my
lap. The sunlight catches his blonde hair and his face is illuminated. I figure
he’s 24 years old. Lost and stoned. Hi, I say back with a deep exhale. I light
a cigarette and offer him one. I feel him watch my breathing. He slides down
the bench so his leg touches mine. He smells of hempseed and sweat. He is
restless. He is natural. I know this stranger very well. I recognize his big
naïve grin as it was my own. And, I smile.
2nd Journal Entry, August 4th
2007
Today, I didn’t force myself to smile. I’m confident to recover.
Fill
me up
Rapture of certainty
My fear drowning confidence
When stitches tear at the seams
Be my refuge for loneliness
Tell me how these wounds will heal
This wound will heal..
