Ill fly away, p.10
I'll Fly Away, page 10
“Let’s do it.” He starts unzipping my black velvet pants. This is nothing new. Kevin always wants sex and I always give in. If I resist, he’ll threaten to get it elsewhere. Today, though, I’m nauseous and exhausted.
“Kevin, please. I don’t feel good. Let me sleep.” I grab the open flaps of my pants and try to roll onto my side, but he stops me.
“Come on. You can go back to sleep when I’m done.” He yanks at my pants, but I hold on. “Charissa, don’t think I won’t cut them off of you if I have to.”
“Please, Kevin. I just don’t—” Before I can finish, he grabs the material of my pants and pulls, ripping them from zipper to ankle. He yanks the pants off. When I try to sit up, he grabs my arms and raises them above my head. He crosses my wrists, holding them in his grip with one hand as he pulls off his boxers with the other. I feel like prey.
“Stop!” I demand.
Instead, he straddles me and pushes aside my panties. When I buck, trying to prevent his entering, he squeezes my wrists harder.
“Get off of me!”
His hand clamps down on my mouth. I whip my head from side to side in a useless attempt to get loose. My struggling seems to excite him more. My eyes light on the gap between his front teeth that, four years earlier, I had found so cute. Looking away, I stop fighting and go limp. During the rape, I stare at the ceiling, counting his thrusts, screaming the numbers in silence to distract myself until he finally collapses.
“See? That wasn’t so bad,” he says, rolling off of me.
I scramble off the bed and run down the hallway. I’m not surprised that he forced me to have sex, but he’s never ruined my clothes before. Replaying the scene in my head, I become furious. I go to the kitchen and grab the scissors from the drawer.
Charging back into the bedroom, I glare at him. “Those were my favorite pants!”
He shrugs. “So we’ll get you another pair.”
I show him the scissors. “I don’t want another pair. You ruined mine so now I’m going to ruin yours.” Grabbing his favorite jeans, I begin cutting.
He lies naked on the bed, looking amused. “That make you feel better?” he goads. “Why do you need scissors? You too weak to rip ‘em with your hands?”
I drop the scissors and put all my strength into the jeans, imagining that it’s Kevin I’m ripping apart. My palms throb as I fight the stubborn material. When I can’t rip anymore, I throw the jeans to the floor and stand there, sweaty and out of breath.
“Look at you with just a shirt and panties on,” he says. “Why don’t you come over here.” He’s leering, stroking his renewed hard-on.
“Go to hell!” I say. Grabbing a pair of sweatpants, I leave the room, snatch up my cigarettes, and go outside.
In tears, I stare up at the night sky. “Hi. It’s me.” I am speaking aloud. “If anyone’s up there, I need your help. I love him, but I’m not strong enough. It’s been bad for months and it keeps getting worse. So I’m asking for a favor. Please let me die. I don’t want it to be painful. Just let me go to sleep and not wake up.”
I hear footsteps. The door opens. I wipe the tears from my face.
“Hey, Dollface, you still pissed?” He lights a cigarette. I stub mine out and get up off the porch floor. He takes a drag, watching me. “They’re just a stupid pair of pants,” he says.
“That’s not the point. You ripped them off.” My anger surges again.
“What? Don’t you like it rough?” This is his attempt to charm me.
I mean to say it calmly, but blurt it out instead. “I can’t do this anymore, Kevin. I have to leave.”
“That’s fine. You try it. But the thing is, I’ll never let you go. I’m always going to know where you are and what you’re doing.” He inches closer. “And I’ll kill anyone else you ever love. Process of elimination. There’ll be no one left but me.” He puts his arms around me and kisses my cheek. “You look tired, Dollface. Go get some sleep.”
Before I walk inside, I glance once more at the starry, indifferent sky. It’s hopeless. There’s nothing I can do but stay.
III. My Hair Story
—1999
I hold my hair up to my nose and breathe in deeply, smelling all the memories that have just been severed. I want them back. I wish I could reverse what I’ve done. Gently, I place my hair back in its new home—a brown paper bag. I long for what it symbolizes: my happiness, my self-discovery, and most of all, my freedom.
My hair has been cut at the insistence of my lawyer, who thinks it’s too long and makes me look too “goth.” “Charissa,” she said, “when we go to trial, you’re going to have to make some changes to your look. The piercings have to go, and the black nail polish. The tattoo on your wrist has to be covered up with a scrunchie. No black clothes—we’ll have to go shopping for appropriate outfits. And one more thing: we have to cut your hair. We want you to look as sweet as possible. It was self-defense; you and I know that. But it’s going to be hard for a jury to believe you’re innocent with that long black hair. It makes you look too hard. Too sexy.”
And so, a month before my trial, I go to the salon. They want to give me a pixie cut, but I refuse. I have to keep something. So we settle on a bob. It’s just long enough to put in a ponytail, but no match for the foot and a half that has been cut off. I gather up the loose hair, secure it with a rubber band, and place it in a paper bag. Then they start tackling the four years’ worth of black dye. They bleach the color out twice, then highlight it to get it as close as possible to my natural dirty blond. After the several hours it takes, I’m lucky I have any hair left. When I finally look in the mirror, I think, okay, I don’t look slutty anymore. Now I look like a calico cat.
My lawyer is pleased with the outcome. Unfortunately, it doesn’t make a difference. I end up taking a plea bargain.
In the four months between my guilty plea and my sentencing, I think a lot about my hair. How it went to every party, did every drug, was there with me each time I had sex. It went with me to my prom, my graduation. It was there when, at fourteen, I lost my virginity to Kevin, and at eighteen when I stabbed and accidentally killed him while he was beating me. When the police arrived that night, I used my hair to hide my face.
Six months after my sentence begins, my mom decides to move. “Did you pack the bag with my hair in it?” I ask her when she comes to visit me.
“Of course I did,” she says. “You know me. I’ll keep it forever.”
I’m relieved to know that, even when I come home fifteen years later, my hair and my memories will be waiting for me. The day I let the stylist separate my hair and me, I didn’t realize how life-altering a moment it was. By cutting my hair, I was cutting myself off from my life before prison.
All my happiness and all my history wait for me inside a brown bag in a home I’ve never seen.
The Marionette
BY LYNNE M. FRIEND
To love, honor, and cherish
Till death do us part
The week had started out so hopefully. My sister Andrea was flying in from Connecticut to visit my first husband, Paul, and me in Colorado. I hadn’t seen her for over a year, so I was excited that she was coming. Andrea was a couple of years younger than I, twenty-three, and we’d always had a close and special relationship. I’d lived out in Colorado for seven years by then. Most of my family lived in Connecticut.
I picked up Andrea at the airport on Monday afternoon. I had taken time off from work so we could spend the whole week together. I was eager to show my sister the new house we’d bought the year before and to spend time just catching up. Paul was looking forward to Andrea’s visit, too, as they’d always gotten along well. That weekend, we would celebrate Paul’s birthday and mine, two days apart.
Andrea and I spent the week together, sleeping late, going shopping and to the movies, eating at restaurants and visiting the Denver zoo. We took a couple of day trips up to Pikes Peak in Colorado Springs, and to Grand Lake, one of the most beautiful areas I’ve ever seen. We talked and laughed more that week than ever before.
Paul, who owned his own painting and wall-covering business, worked all week while my sister and I played. He came home in a good mood most of the time, but at night, after Andrea had gone to her room, he’d complain that I hadn’t cooked dinner or that I was behind in the laundry. I was in my fifth year of marriage and had become used to Paul’s complaints and tirades. Our home life pretty much ran parallel to whatever mood he was in at any given moment. I tried hard to manage everything, but between working full-time and taking care of a four-bedroom house, I often fell short of my husband’s expectations. Paul didn’t believe a man should have to help with housework. Once in a while, he wouldn’t notice when things weren’t done, or weren’t done to his specifications, but most of the time he did. I often felt like Paul’s puppet: he pulled the strings and I danced to whatever tune he dictated. I made his happiness my number one concern.
Our courtship had been wonderful. Paul was a good listener, considerate of my feelings, and fun to be with. Everyone thought so; my girlfriends were always reminding me how lucky I was. Once when we were dating, Paul had lost control and hit me, but later, he was so apologetic and hard on himself that I forgave him and we moved on. I believed that once I became his wife, he would show me nothing but love and respect.
The first year of our marriage was okay, except for Paul’s domineering personality. He began to tell me what to do and when to do it, and because I wanted to please him, I did as I was told. During the second year, his bossiness graduated to physical violence. The first time he slapped me across the face, I was in disbelief. I locked myself in the bedroom and cried for hours. I didn’t know what I’d done to deserve this treatment. Paul apologized through the door and I believed his promises that it would not happen again. Now, five years into our married life, Paul was often violent. I kept telling myself that if I tried harder, he wouldn’t get so angry. His rage was my fault and my responsibility; if I wanted a more peaceful marriage, then I had to improve myself.
When Paul complained to me during the week of Andrea’s visit, I assured him things would get back on track after she left. This did little to console him, but I knew he wouldn’t force any big confrontations or get physical with me while my sister was there. He cared too much about what other people thought of him. To the rest of the world, Paul was Mr. Personality, drawing people to him with his charm and his sense of humor. But now whenever my friends told me how lucky I was to have Paul, I’d get a pain in my stomach that would last for hours. If only they knew, I’d think.
He was careful to avoid hitting me in the face; instead he’d punch me and kick me in the stomach, pull my hair, spit on me. I’d broken fingers and toes trying to block his assaults. I worked at a small real estate company and would make up stories to explain these injuries to my coworkers. Sometimes I’d see them give each other concerned or disbelieving looks as I made my excuses. I wasn’t sure how many of them I’d truly fooled. I only knew I couldn’t tell anyone the truth. I was afraid of the repercussions. So instead, I convinced myself that if I could only unlock the riddle of how to be a better wife, things would work out.
Andrea and I had a wonderful four days together. We made plans to take Paul out to dinner for his birthday on Friday. From there we’d go to a dance club with some of our friends. Paul had okayed this itinerary, so I made reservations at his favorite restaurant. Andrea and I bought new sundresses for our big night out.
On Friday, I made a german chocolate cake, Paul’s favorite. Andrea and I got ready, drank some wine, and listened to music while we waited. Paul had agreed to be home by five o’clock to get ready for our night out. When Paul’s father called from Connecticut to wish his son a happy birthday, I told him Paul was running late and that he should call back at six o’clock. But Paul still wasn’t home when his father called again. “I’ll have him call you,” I told his dad.
At seven thirty, I heard a crash out in the driveway. Paul’s van had collided with the empty trash cans I’d forgotten to bring around back. If he wasn’t already in a bad mood, this would trigger it, but if we could get his birthday celebration underway, maybe it would pass. He stormed into the kitchen looking disheveled, blue paint in his hair and on his work clothes. “How the hell many times do I have to remind you about those garbage cans, you stupid ass?” he screamed. He was carrying a half-empty six-pack by its plastic ring.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I was busy and I forgot. I’ll get them right now.” Ignoring the incredulous look on my sister’s face, I rushed out the door. We lived on a cul-de-sac, and a couple of the cans had rolled across the street. Waving to the neighbors, I gathered them up quickly and ran as fast as I could to the back of the house.
When I came back in, Andrea was sitting at the kitchen table, sipping her wine and looking confused. Paul was in the upstairs bathroom, muttering to himself. “What the hell is his problem?” Andrea asked.
I shrugged. “Probably stressed from work.” Oh, God, I thought, please don’t pull any crazy stunts in front of my sister.
When he came downstairs, he was wearing clean clothes and looking for trouble. He grabbed a beer from the fridge, took a long sip, then stared at Andrea and me. “What the hell are you two dressed up for?” He was slurring his words.
With as much calm as I could muster, I said, “We’re taking you out for dinner on your birthday, remember? You’re late. Where have you been?”
“Guys at work took me out for some beers. You got a problem with that, dumb-ass?” Glaring at me, he took a step closer.
“Excuse me,” my sister said. Clearly uncomfortable with what was happening between Paul and me, she went downstairs to the guest room and closed the door.
“Your father called,” I said. “I changed our reservation to eight thirty, so you have time to call him back if you want.”
“Yeah? Well, fuck your reservation. I made plans and they sure as hell don’t include you two.”
“Paul, please,” I said. “My sister and I have been waiting for you for over two hours. What do you think you’re doing?”
“Listen, bitch. I’ll spend my birthday however the fuck I want to!”
I could hear Andrea downstairs, on the phone with her husband. “Corey, they’re fighting. I don’t know what to do…. Okay, I’ll stay down here.”
Heading for the front door, Paul yelled, “Fuck you guys! And don’t wait up for me either!” In a sudden fit of uncharacteristic bravery, I walked over to him and put my hand over his on the doorknob. “You are not going to do this to me,” I said. “Not with my sister here. What’s wrong with you? Why are you being like this?”
“This is what’s wrong with me,” he said, and he struck me hard across the face. He must really be angry, I thought. Well, I was pissed now, too.
“Fine! Go!” I screamed, heading for the kitchen phone. “I’ll just call your father back for you and tell him what you did.” His fist landed in the small of my back and sent me staggering. “He’s hitting her!” I heard Andrea saying. “What should I do?…Yeah, okay. It’s locked.” When Paul realized Andrea was on the phone, he left without another word. I heard his engine turn over, his van back down the driveway and drive away.
When Andrea came out of the bedroom, she looked terrified. “Oh my God, Lynne. What the hell’s going on here? Is this how you live?” I’m not sure if I was crying more from the pain or from the fact that the secret was out.
“I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” I sobbed. “I try everything I can think of to be a good wife, but he’s always so mad at me!”
Over the next few hours, I poured my heart out to my sister, describing my marriage: the harsh words, the constant “orders,” the spitting and bruises and broken bones. I let out every secret I’d been holding in for seven years. Andrea was less shocked than I imagined she’d be. “I’ve heard the way he talks to you sometimes, but I had no idea things were this bad,” she said.
We were both exhausted. Andrea went back to the guest room and I tried to sleep on the couch in the family room, which was adjacent to Andrea’s. I was hoping nothing would happen if and when Paul came home, but I wanted to be close to my sister, just in case. The last time I looked at the clock, it was 1:00 A.M. and still no Paul. I must have dozed off, though, because it was after 2:00 A.M. when I sat up, startled by the crashing noises in the kitchen.
“Nothing to eat in this goddamn fucking house!” he screamed. “Didn’t you go to the fucking store? What the hell is this shit?” From my position on the couch, I watched him pull food from the refrigerator and throw it onto the kitchen floor, including the steaks I’d bought for the following day.
Afraid to move a muscle, I said a silent prayer that Paul would go upstairs and pass out without noticing me. Instead, he opened himself a beer, grabbed a large kitchen knife, and sliced into his german chocolate cake. I watched as he gorged himself on cake, hoping he’d find some momentary satisfaction and leave me alone. When he finished his beer, he went to the refrigerator and got another. I’d taken most of the beer out to the garage earlier so that he wouldn’t drink another six-pack, but I’d left a couple in the fridge so that he wouldn’t fly into a rage; it was the kind of planning and second-guessing I had come to learn. He sliced himself more cake, then began playing with the knife, pushing it with his finger and watching it spin around and around on the table. I prayed to the Lord that he wouldn’t notice me.
After a few minutes, Paul climbed the stairs to our bedroom. When he discovered I wasn’t there, he screamed, “Where the fuck are you, you little bitch?” My throat was dry and constricted. I had to pee, but I didn’t dare move. When his footsteps pounded back down the stairs, I shut my eyes and pretended to sleep, hoping my thundering heart wouldn’t give me away.
Paul entered the kitchen again, kicking the food he’d littered the floor with earlier. He went into the living room—to lie down on our couch and go to sleep, I hoped. Then I heard his grunting and heaving; he was vomiting up his beer and cake.
