Like a Fish: Chapter Four

Hopefully I didn't go metaphor-crazy with this chapter.

I tried to forget everything—the terror, the unholy splay of limbs, the way I surrendered like a dying sun to the night. Tried to forget, and almost succeeded. Avery’s psychologist neighbor would call it repressed memories. He would plunk me on his faux-Freud couch and ask if my rapist reminded me of my father. I would say psychology is crap and try to claw my way out.

Biting and clawing. Scratching and biting. Nothing could deter this guy’s iron muscles from pressing me into the ground.

Sensations and emotions, yes, but I repressed the physical details, thank God. I swear, the human body is so gross. Isn’t there a more pleasant way to reproduce? One that doesn’t involve—

Fire, ice. My skin temperature flashed all along the heat spectrum as I was stabbed and cut open.

What really shocked me was the silence. I had imagined a lot of panting, grunting, and moaning, but there was nothing. The whole time, he just acted bored, like this was his job and he was sick of it. He had lost all magnetism, but I couldn’t let go. We were stuck together.

Once, in eight grade, Carlos Herrera had cornered me in the hallway. I had just emerged from the ladies room and was returning to fifth period biology, when suddenly I was thrown against the wall. He reeked of cafeteria mystery meat. My breath had sputtered up my throat until it exploded. “Carlos? What the heck?”

And Carlos—reeking of mystery meat—had obviously practiced his Hallmark slogans. “Did I ever tell you how green your eyes are?” and “I’ve been meaning to tell you this for a long time.”

I had tried to duck under his arms, but they lowered like the crossbeams of a tollbooth. Frustrated, I head-butted him in the chest. As boys are apt to do, he misinterpreted. His thick-skinned hands clasped my jaw and pulled me into his soft, rubbery lips. Dork! I tried to screech my outrage, but my mouth was under siege.

Since I was no buff weightlifter, I had surrendered to his display of affection. To survive the experience, I mentally recited my favorite broccoli soup recipe, the alphabet, and a U2 song. When he finally detached himself, my lips were white and clammy from lack of sunshine.

Now, as much as I tried to dissociate, I couldn’t even remember what broccoli looked like. I couldn’t get past C in the alphabet. The lyrics of the song eluded me. I could only gasp and choke.

In my peripheral vision, the moon blinked open in a bloody socket of cloud. Every gray pebble bit into my skin. The sand was colder than a corpse, in violent contrast to the peppery heat above. The ambience was oddly cinematic—almost choreographed. Then I realized why.

“You asshole!” I shrieked. “Turn that off!”

His laptop was blaring a Mozart symphony.

He gave a low, evil chuckle. “But this is my favorite song, darling.”

Somewhere amid the flaming cold, the stabbing pain, he came alive. “Screw you, Pelican!” he snarled.

I was drenched in his sweat.

My lips quivered but kept silent. Every fiber of my body was numb. His words stumbled around my brain, stacking confusion on confusion. Pelican was Avery’s last name. Who did he think I was? The only Pelican woman is Avery’s mom, who I could never be mistaken for. Was there another Pelican girl out there, a black-hearted girlfriend that had done him wrong? What was I? The vessel holding his revenge?

“I’m not Pelican!” I cried. “You’ve got the wrong person! Stop, please stop!”

I hadn’t begged for something since I was five.

Centuries later, the fire trickled out of my system. My muscles refused to support me. I fell into the sand, feeling dead. And so empty.

He patted my head, packed up his laptop, and walked away. My eyes were unfocused, so I couldn’t tell when he disappeared. The stars blurred. All I could see was a Tower burning to the ground.

****************

When I regained consciousness, the sun was making its feeble appearance over the foggy hills. Yet another bored and exhausted actor in a cruel play.

I was cold and naked, and if I didn’t get dressed soon, and early morning dog walker would see me. I pulled on my clothes, even though they were inside out, and stumbled up some wooden stairs that led to Marine Drive. Cars sloshed by, kicking up sprays of mud.

To my right, the fish house janitor was mopping the porch. He tossed a slab of fish to a gray cat. “Good morning,” he said, nodding at me.

“Morning,” I replied, forgetting to say “good”.

I ghosted down the street, repeating the word mermaid to myself. At least it kept me occupied.

When I got home, Dad was sitting at the table with cereal, orange juice, and coffee. Seeing his entirely liquid breakfast, I almost offered him a diaper. Then I realized I didn’t feel like talking. He observed my wet, tangled hair. “Better take a shower before school, honey.”

I nodded and walked upstairs to the bathroom. I couldn’t remember which way to turn the faucet, but that was okay. My eyes wouldn’t stop running.