All the Rage(27)

It goes quiet while we wait for him to walk the length of the hall, for the slam of the screen door to signal his exit. I pull at my skirt, under the table.

I need to see.

“Romy,” Mom says and I stop.





remember.

I keep my head down, let my gaze wander, let it skim over the floor tiles and walls, to my hands, to my white knuckles gripping the edge of the sink counter, to the sink itself, to the water slowly dripping from the leaky tap. I press my finger against its opening, stem the flow. I hear every breath pass through my lips and vaguely, beyond that, Mom in my room.

My body speaks to my missing hours, but I don’t understand what it’s saying. I just need the night to come back, that’s all. Just one single night. Remember. Just let me remember. It’s there, inside me, and I only have to remember it. I tap my teeth together and close my eyes.

I raise my head and I open them.

My bottom lip is swollen, puffy and cut, a sour pain. My right cheek, there’s a bruise. No, the road. It has to be the road. The road is on my face. I turn the faucet on, hold my hands underneath the cold stream of water, soothe the sore skin. I wet my cheek and rub. It aches, but it doesn’t come off.

A bruise.

My hand drifts slowly from my face to the collar of my shirt. I pull at it and it’s so heavy, this is all too heavy, that I close my eyes again. Feel the awkward hold of my bra around me, but loose. Drunk. Said I was drunk. I want that memory, I want the memory of that stupid—stupid—girl. Me, drinking. How little did it take this time?

Stupid.

I’m missing two buttons.

The last two.

No. No, no …

My fingers fiddle with their absence until I have to believe they’re gone. Two of the buttons on my shirt are gone and my bra is undone.

I lower my hands and then I unbutton the rest of my shirt slowly. When it’s halfway open, I see a deep red stain on my stomach—blood? Is it—my fingers turn frantic, make quick work of the buttons left and I pull off my shirt and my bra curtains apart.

My trembling hand moves toward my abdomen, hovering above the red on me, the red words on me. Not in blood, not dried blood. Not that kind of red. I press my finger to one of the letters and my hand jerks back, like I’ve been stung. I fumble in my pockets until I find the black tube. I rip the cap off and twist the bottom until the lipstick appears, its tip flattened and ruined. I let it clatter into the sink and stumble, the back of my legs hitting the edge of the tub. My reflection still in the mirror. The red on my body—letters. Letters on my skin, reversed in the glass, turning themselves into this—





RAPE ME


I bring my fingers to my stomach, digging into the skin until I feel red under my red nails, red, my red, me, until what I feel is something outside of me, until it’s something I’ve done to myself. I move away from the sink, my hands in my hair, room tilting, trying to get a sense of myself. I lift my skirt, clutching at the thin material and I bite my lip until I taste blood but my throat is too tight to swallow, so it sits on my tongue, heavy and coppery. My cheeks are damp. I drop my skirt and wipe at my face. I don’t want to do this. I don’t want to do it.

Knock on the door. “Romy?”

I take a shuddering breath and pull my skirt up until I see my pink underwear. I don’t want do this. I pull it down. Slowly. Clean.

I swallow the blood in my mouth.

“Romy?”

I slip my hands between my legs and my fingers find my tampon string easily and my legs are weak with it still being there—it’s still there. I stare at the light overhead until it’s all I see and then I look away until the world burns itself back.

“I’m going to take a shower,” I say.

“If you need anything, let me know?”

“Okay.”

I take the old tampon out and get rid of it. I slip out of my bra numbly, let it fall to the ground next to my underwear.

All that’s left are the words on my stomach.

I turn to the tub, my hands struggling with the faucet, trying to get the water hot enough, then pull the diverter out. I step in and lower myself slowly until I’m sitting. I reach for the soap and I scrub it across my stomach hard until the lather turns pink, until the pink turns white, until it disappears.





i sit in my bed, rest my head against my window. The light outside is weak and getting weaker, the sun a sliver of pink on the horizon. Still the same day. It’s not done with me yet.

On my nightstand, a half-empty bottle of water. Mom wanted to take me to our family doctor, at the very least, and I got vicious about it, told her we’ve seen worse hangovers or had she forgotten. After that, she pulled the blanket over my legs, told me to sleep. I slept and I woke up and when I did, all I could think was wake up. But this is it now.

My bedroom door opens.

Mom slips in, hesitates when she sees I’m awake.

“Did Penny come home yet?” I ask.

“Haven’t heard,” she says and it’s in my gut, this strange mix of shock and longing. My head tells me I still hate Penny but my body must’ve wanted a different answer.

Mom sits on my bed, moves back until she can put her arm around me and pull me close. She rests her head against the top of mine. I listen to her heartbeat and I think of Penny, if she’s still out there or if she ended up like me, if she’s on a road somewhere, waiting for her turn to be found. It doesn’t make sense. Penny is not a lost girl.