i. recently i have been thinking too much about who gets to decide what constitutes "violence". as a term, it seems innately self-describing. almost like a natural fear, violence feels like the shiver of a rattlesnake: we would know violence, surely, if it was shown to us. and if there is violence, there would be someone committing that violence.
ii. my body is the present-tense subject of past-tense violence. it can be odd to sit in a class and be discussed as a statistic, a number rather than a participant. why is it that the discourse around assault always feels so academic? removed from the experience and safely clinical, the topic seems almost erudite, hypothetical. in this way, i almost feel separated from the actual memory: on the page, the word assault is too clean for what actually happened to me. the censorship on social media agrees with me: we can't even language what's happening, it would be too affronting for advertising.
iii. the ruling class determines how violence is assessed and how it is narrated. this is obvious and also too-incredible to summarize: capitalism is at the heart of so much passive violence. burning a warehouse is called "violent" by the ruling class, but poverty wages are not violent. protesting ice is "violent", but the actual actions taken by the federal government (and by police forces) are never violent, they are "necessary". getting an abortion is "violent", but extremely high maternal mortality rates is not violent, even though some estimates say that 80% of those deaths were entirely preventable. we are all at the mercy of capitalism, which is not violent. our anger about this is violent.
iv. my friend gently asks me: "do you want to talk about the website?" but i don't want to talk about the website. i look up and out the window. i am neither surprised nor shocked by it. i feel an uncharacteristic numbness. it is simply too large for me to grasp at this time, a pain that feels communal and also individual, an impenetrable and unpronounceable scream. i still struggle to write it, even now. those four letters are so large to me, and rupture inside of my spine. like ants.
v. i have found, in my life, that it is determined not violent if the victim is in a feminine body. it is not violent if the victim wasn't perfect. if the victim wasn't white, or able-bodied, or neurotypical, or straight, or cis. in general, "sex crime" - rape - just isn't seen as a "real" crime. it isn't violent like how murder is violent. we watch fully grown adults on tv equivocate about how it would be violent if we were under ten, but that 15 isn't really that young. if we weren't a virgin, or if we dressed wrong, or had a drink, or said the wrong thing, or existed: it isn't violent. so the violence is flexible. so some of the fault can be shared back into our flesh, as if the original rending wasn't a deep enough cut.
vi. to survive in this world, one is taught to accept a certain level of violence as rote; as acceptable. one can watch the birds for the cultural impact it represents, although certainly what happened to tippi hedren was violent. this pattern will extend perfectly, forever. we can shop at target if we just feel guilty about breaking the boycott, that isn't violent. there is no ethical consumption under capitalism. and sometimes this teaches a detachment, a casual acceptance that some people are just going to be used as parts of the machine, which is not violent. if a person dies due to an insurance coverage denial - that is not violence. that's just a tragedy.
vii. these tragedies are everywhere, it seems. it is probably true that someone in your classroom has been a victim of sexual assault, isn't it? we rarely consider how often we've met a perpetrator of these events. instead, the survivors seem to spawn in, our mouths bleeding, shaking. we are just a tragedy of the system, a null data point. every person that we stand next to is similarly eradicated from their own experience: it is a tragedy that you couldn't afford life-saving surgery. it is a tragedy that police gunned down another person. it is a tragedy that ice took your neighbor. it is all just an unpreventable, inconceivable tragedy.
viii. talking about it makes my skin crawl, but i think it is probably true that many men just never saw women as human people. i think it's probably true that capitalism and conservativism encouraged this dehumanization. of course it's intersectional; that the more removed from power your identity may be - the less they are encouraged to see you as a person. because if you are dehumanized, violence does not count against you. (i don't know why i'm telling you this. you knew, didn't you? we all knew).
ix. i am in therapy due to my previous partner's domestic violence. recently, when trying to word how that violence has changed me: i find myself speechless. i keep saying: "but what does that word even, like, mean?"
anyways remember when toni morrison said "sometimes you don't survive whole, you just survive in part. but the grandeur of life is that attempt. it's not about that solution. it is about being as fearless as one can, and behaving as beautifully as one can, under completely impossible circumstances."
« I keep a journal of quotes, lines from songs, poetry. Nothing is my original thought — but all of it struck me as meaningful when I wrote it down.
[…] From my early 20s, there are pages trying to convince myself that friendship, which I had, could be as valuable as romantic love, which I didn’t. (Andrew Sullivan: “If love is about the bliss of primal unfreedom, friendship is about the complicated enjoyment of human autonomy.”) […] Ultimately, when I was no longer so preoccupied with finding romantic love, my shift toward looking more closely at my other relationships is mirrored in my transcriptions: Vivian Gornick on her relationship with her mother; Durga Chew-Bose on the rapturous, fresh intimacy that I miss now.
[…] Thrumming beneath the pages is a shifting self-image. When I read them, I recognize the past me who saw herself in these quotes, but I don’t roll my eyes at her. With others’ words as intermediaries, the harsh light of hindsight softens. If keeping a journal would be a way to look in the mirror and make an honest appraisal of myself, keeping a commonplace book is more like looking at myself out of the corner of my eye.
It’s an admittedly different approach from my generation’s inclination toward full-frontal accountability. Daily diary apps and self-improvement podcasts and confessional Instagram stories evince a belief that to grow as a person you have to be entirely, unflinchingly forthcoming. But I couldn’t catalog my flaws without flinching. And I don’t think I need to. That’s part of the point of reading, I think: When I find myself too earnest, too impatient, too much, I can be in conversation with other minds instead. Keeping a commonplace book feels like a kinder way to grow, by wrestling with the articulations of others in the open as I hopefully adjust myself within. »
— Charley Locke, “Commonplace Books Are Like a Diary Without the Risk of Annoying Yourself”
. . . we had tried to bring our bodies back to life by means of our own invention. By starving them, by cutting them, by digging into them and carving them out.
Author’s note: This blog is quickly turning into me working out my mental health issues with fictional characters. Oof.
I have been really impressed by Shawn Hatosy’s performance in Animal Kingdom so far (only on season 5). I’ve read a lot of folks on here that believe his character, Pope, suffers from some combination of autism and OCD, and it makes sense to me as well.
This was originally meant to be a short drabble about Pope recognizing and caring for OCD/dermatillomania in another person (thinly veiled self-insert) but snowballed into a larger piece. OCD and dermatillomania are really difficult illnesses to deal with and can be impossible for other people to understand. There are so many kinds of OCD and while Pope and Mia don’t have the same subtype, I think they would understand each other better than most.
Things had gotten bad - as dark and dangerous as they’d been in recent memory. Since at least before the right medication was found to alleviate some of the symptoms. Mia stared down at her trembling hands, ice cold water tinged pink and orange slowly ebbing down the drain of the white porcelain sink. Soaking had neither numbed her fingers enough, nor quieted the voices chattering in the back of her head. Another set of numbers. The living room coffee table that never sat quite right. The crumbs on the kitchen counter that seemed to reappear when she was finished cleaning. The constant refrain of you’re a disappointment. You’ll never be good enough. Counting didn’t help. Rearranging didn’t help. Cleaning didn’t help.
Truthfully, she didn’t trust herself to be alone when it was this bad but there was no one she could call. She glanced at her reflection only as long as it took for her to throw on some mascara, run a brush through her dark waves, and swish some mouthwash. The last step, thankfully, didn’t require eye contact with herself. The hollows under her eyes were too dark and made her look more pathetic than she already felt. She grabbed her purse and locked the condo behind her.
—
The old wooden door of the bar had a diamond-shaped window in the middle that neon lights and shadows danced playfully behind. It would have felt inviting if it wasn’t merely a life raft, the sun sinking slowly behind her like a bad omen. Mia had looked it up online and it seemed casual and anonymous enough. She laid her hand on the rough door and pushed. Her fingertips throbbed under the pressure but she didn’t wince. Lively chatter poured out. It wasn’t the overwhelming noise of a club or new trendy spot, thank god. If it weren’t for the wraparound counter in the middle and tables, it could have been a 1970s living room. The space felt lived in and dingy in all the right ways. The broken boards decorating the walls said “local”. Golden hued lamps dangling from macrame rope and wood paneling made it comfortable. The smell of liquor and beer ran like an undercurrent through the space.
A young woman’s voice called from the bar when Mia hesitated in the doorway, her shoe lifting slightly from the tacky floor.
“Sit anywhere you’d like - we can take your order at the bar.”
Mia nodded in her direction, returning the smile half heartedly.
She sat at an empty stool at the far end of the bar, where the music playing over the speakers was audible, but not too loud. Finding the perfect amount of noise to drown out her internal monologue was an art: too little would do nothing, too much and it would act like white noise, locking her in with only the voices in her head.
“Hi - I’m Kiara. What can I getcha?” the short brunette said, sliding a cocktail napkin over to her.
Mia ordered the rotating wheat beer on tap and handed over her card to start a tab. It was a weeknight and, thankfully, the bar wasn’t too crowded. She continued to quietly take in her surroundings and examined the various brands of bottle caps set in the resin bartop. She tried watching the surfing competition the television but lost interest when she didn’t understand the scoring after three “rounds”. She was left with mapping the multicolored string lights that ran across the ceiling as a distraction.
Five blue. Three green. Four red. One broken. Not good enough. You’re…
Mia picked a new crisscrossing strand.
Six red. Four blue. Four green. Two missing. You’re a disappointment. You…
The bartender retuned, asking if she’d like another, and glanced down at Mia’s hands.
Mia’s elbows rested on the edge of the counter in front of her. She had a long pull of dry skin on her left forefinger pinched between the nail of her thumb and pointer finger of her right. Her skin was pale white at the base where it hadn’t ripped off yet, meaning one more tug with her right hand would dig into a deeper layer and she would start to bleed. She wasn’t sure how long she’d kept tension there, drawing out the discomfort. Mia tucked her hands in her lap with a practiced motion and smiled.
“Another would be great, thank you.”
Mia did her best to sound unbothered but it was clear that Kiara had noticed. It was obvious from the forced smile she gave in return. There were only ever two reactions when people saw her hands: pity or disgust. Sometimes it was a mix of both. This time it was pity.
Kiara slid over the fresh glass to her. Mia avoided eye contact.
The problem was, either reaction made her repeat the compulsion tenfold. It made the judgement in her head louder and the only way to truly quiet it was by ripping the skin off her fingers bit by bit. Sometimes even that didn’t work. Lately, nothing did.
“Do you mind if I close you out and reopen your tab with Deran?” Kiara asked, tilting her head towards the tall, dirty blonde man who’d just stepped behind the counter, “my shift ends soon.”
“Not at all - thanks,” Mia replied.
The man, Deran, caught Mia’s eye and smiled before turning to Kiara. She returned shortly with a receipt slip and a pen. Mia said thanks and let her set the paper and pen on the counter, only reaching for it once Kiara had walked away.
Gripping the pen was painful. Despite the earlier ice bath Mia’s fingers were still swollen and refused to bend properly. She’d done considerable damage down to the first knuckle on almost every finger and her nails were down to the quick. She left a hearty tip and checked the pen for smudges of blood. Seeing none, she slid them back toward the bar.
Mia tapped her phone screen. It was barely 6 pm. More people began to trickle in once the sun had set. Groups of two to four wandered in with wet, wavy hair, fresh off the Strand, wafting the scent of sea and sunscreen across the bar. The old timers at high top tables would clink glasses one last time, slap a large bill on the bartop, and promise to be back tomorrow, leaving the young people to their fun.
Mia started focusing on what people ordered.
Beer in brown bottle. Two beers in green bottles. Whiskey. Four tequila shots. A water. You are such a loser….
She stared as fresh glasses were pulled from the commercial washer under the bar. The smell of chemical disinfectant rose up with the steam from the machine, burning her nose.
Four pint glasses. Rocks glass. Two wine glasses. Four mugs. Three more pints. Why would anyone ever give a shit about you?
Mia untangled her hands and took a long gulp of her beer. She felt defeated. None of the noise or the distraction was helping. She was falling apart in plain sight.
“Can I get you another one?”
Mia was so caught up in her own thoughts she didn’t notice Deran walk up. Hands still in plain sight she straightened up, startled, and accidentally ripped off the piece of skin she’d been tugging on for the better part of 20 minutes. She winced, hissing audibly. The resulting gash stretched from the upper left edge of her nail to about 3 millimeters past her first knuckle. Thankfully, Deran had been trying to make eye contact and hadn’t seen that the damage was self-inflicted.
“Oh shit,” Deran said, looking down as Mia grabbed her soggy cocktail napkin to wrap around her bleeding finger. His blue eyes widened and he reacted quickly, grabbing a couple larger napkins from under the counter to replace the soaked one around her hand.
“Shit,” Deran repeated, watching her change the napkin to a fresh one, “that looks bad. We’ve got a first aid kit in the office.”
He beckoned her back behind the bar with a tilt of his head. Mia opened her mouth to protest, that the napkins were fine, but Deran was already moving. Her heart was pounding in her ears when she grabbed her purse and followed.
Deran had gotten down a small white plastic box from the top shelf and set it out on the desk.
“Here -“ he narrated, pulling items out of the kit, “- we’ve got alcohol wipes and neosporin and bandaids.”
He looked over at Mia, blue eyes searching and waiting for her to say if she needed anything else.
“Thank you. Really. I appreciate it,” she said, sitting gingerly down on the office chair. She could feel Deran analyzing her hesitation to reach for the supplies in front of her.
“Of course. Hey - listen - I’m the only bartender tonight so, are you good to clean up on your own?” Deran asked.
Mia nodded quickly and murmured another thank you.
“I’ll save your spot and get you a fresh beer when you’re back, okay? Don’t steal anything,” he said, pointing at her in mock accusation, leaving the office pleased that he’d made her smile at least once.
Mia stared at the dingy carpet and then at the stained, off-color drop ceiling panels. She looked at the mounted ships wheel on the wall, trying to remind herself that she didn’t have control over her compulsions - that’s why they were called “compulsions”. But, fuck, she could usually keep it below a certain degree around other people. In public.
You really are losing it.
The black plastic office chair squeaked beneath Mia as she shifted to pull back the napkin, flecks of white lint sticking to the oozing, broken skin. The cut was still bleeding too much for a bandage. With her good hand, she fished around the open kit to find some gauze. She grit her teeth, swiped an alcohol pad over the exposed cut to get rid of any germs from the napkins, and pressed the sterile gauze tightly around her finger. It was sick how the surge of pain made her mind momentarily go silent, making her sigh with comfort.
She had closed her eyes for just a moment when the rear office door opened, making her turn and look up in surprise.
“What are you doing in here?” a broad-shouldered man asked coldly, eyeing her suspiciously. He didn’t know who she was or what she was doing in Deran’s office. Her body was facing the desk and blocking his view. He instinctively reached one hand back to his gun but didn’t pull it. A woman’s wide brown eyes met his.
“Oh -“ Mia said, turning the rest of the way, the swivel chair squeaking loudly, “I needed a bandaid and Deran said I could…”
She stopped talking. The man was intently staring at the medical supplies on the desk and the way she was grasping her finger. She felt like she was being studied. He looked at her the way Deran had, but there was a more profound intensity to it. His eyes were a hazel-green and narrowed at her.
The man put his hand back at his side and shut the office door the rest of the way, nodding at her. The sense that she was in danger faded so quickly she almost forgot she had been at all.
“I’m Andrew,” he said, his gaze softening slightly. He looked almost apologetic.
“Mia.”
Andrew nodded. Her name was as pretty as she was. He tried not to think about it.
“Do you work here?” Mia asked, clutching her hand firmly.
What a stupid question.
“Sometimes,” he explained, “when my brother needs help.”
“Deran?” The two men looked nothing alike but the shared expression finally made sense.
Andrew nodded again and busied himself with something across the room. Mia pulled away the corner of the gauze on her finger to check the bleeding and more oozed out from the edges. Andrew flicked his eyes over when he heard a small, painful noise. She pressed the pad back into the wound and her vision swam with black and white neon stars.
“You cut yourself on somethin’?” he asked without turning.
“Uh, sorta,” Mia replied after a beat.
Andrew frowned to himself. He didn’t like the way she phrased it.
You’re a freak.
Five more minutes passed and Mia checked under the gauze again. It looked better this time but was still oozing syrupy dark blood . She was about to reapply pressure when Andrew said, “is it still bleeding?”
“Yeah but, um, it’s fine,” she deflected.
“Clotting takes longer if you’ve had alcohol,” he stated.
Mia didn’t know how to respond.
“Raise your arm above your head while you keep pressure.”
He turned to look at her. She was frowning, confused.
“If you keep it above your heart, the vessels have a harder time pumping blood to it. It’ll give it a better chance to clot,” he explained flatly before turning back to what he was working on.
“Oh. Uh, thanks, Andrew,” Mia said. She didn’t question how he knew, just grateful for the advice.
He wants you out of here. He’s making fun of you for being so stupid.
He tried to ignore the feeling that rose in his stomach when she said his name. Not Pope. Andrew. The syllables of his name coming from her mouth felt like thank you enough.
Andrew knew what he’d told her worked when he heard the click of a plastic cap clatter on the desk surface. In his peripheral he watched Mia put antibiotic ointment on a cotton swab. She didn’t flinch from the dried blood or pain that came from touching the open injury. The idea that she was accustomed to pain bothered him for some reason.
Mia clumsily twisted the lid back on the tube and used another alcohol pad to clean up the dried blood around the ointment-covered wound. Despite the frequency with which she had to complete a post-pick ritual of bandaging herself, applying a bandaid with one hand had never gotten easier. Mia managed to get the first bandage open, and the stickers removed from the adhesive, when it flopped onto itself and stuck together.
Fuck. You’re so stupid. Wasteful.
Mia slowly opened a second bandaid and got further than she had with the first only for it to slide on her finger, covering the adhesive with slick ointment and rendering it useless.
“Fuck,” she hissed under her breath this time.
Stupid. You can’t do anything right.
Mia had nearly forgotten Andrew was even in the room, he was so quiet.
“Sorry,” she said when she realized. She heard him turn as she grabbed a third (and hopefully final) bandage from the kit. She was going to be leaving Deran a very large tip to pay him back for all the supplies she was wasting.
“Here - let me help.”
Andrew was standing closer now, barely a foot away, and Mia could see the constellations of freckles that dusted his arms and chest. His face was a night sky of little marks which would have made him look boyish if they weren’t offset by his stony exterior.
“I couldn’t ask you to…” Mia started to stutter out.
“You didn’t. I offered,” he replied. It had been clear from the start he wasn’t asking.
Andrew reached over her, grabbing a small cardboard box from the shelf and slipped on black neoprene gloves. Before he looked at her hand, he carefully grabbed the used supplies off the desk and put them in the wastebasket.
Mia’s elbow rested on the counter, her hand elevated and Andrew made pointed eye contact with her before taking it gently in his. She swallowed thickly, nervous to let him see. There was an intimacy in how he grasped half her hand in his and turned it to the side to assess the damage.
Andrew set to work methodically, in silence. First, an alcohol pad to wipe away the smeared ointment around the cut where the adhesive would go. Second, a different bandage. The used ones had been too small. He snipped the ends of the adhesive with scissors to create wings for better grip and carefully peeled off one backing at a time, sticking one end to the uninjured portion of Mia’s finger before placing the other.
He looked over his work and asked, “can you bend it?”
Mia flexed her knuckle slightly, as much as she comfortably could, and replied, “as much as I need to. Thank you.”
She was looking at Andrew’s expression, which had shifted just slightly. Two vertical wrinkles appeared between his brows and the corners of his mouth weren’t neutral, but downturned by just a degree more. It took her a moment to realize her hand was still held in his.
“You need the bandage these other ones,” he said. He was assessing every rip, tear, and divet she’d made. He’d been so focused on the finger she was trying to bandage, he hadn’t noticed at first.
Mia’s heart sank and she yanked her hand away from him.
“Thank you, I’m really okay,” she replied, the untended wounds aching.
He sat there as she stood and went to grab her purse.
“Wait,” he said quietly. The words were so soft she couldn’t help but obey. She turned to look at him again.
“Please,” he pleaded.
Silence passed between them. The voices in her head were so loud they all overlapped and she felt as if she might drown in the noise. Mia took a breath, meeting Andrew’s gaze. There was something else in the way he looked up at her. It wasn’t pity or disgust but she didn’t know what it was. His mouth twisted slightly to one side while he waited for her answer.
Andrew could remember the doctor’s office where Smurf had taken him to be evaluated when he was little. The oddly patterned purple and grey armchairs that were too stiff and low to the ground. The leaflets in the waiting room. The ugly green tie the psychologist wore and how he explained a diagnosis that they technically couldn’t give because Andrew was still too young. Three little letters. How it was possible that the problems could evolve as he aged, describing the different kinds and how they showed up. Later, Smurf did her own brutal exposure therapy with him because young boys shouldn’t be so afraid of germs or the thoughts in their own head. Had someone done that to Mia, too?
Mia slowly sat back in the creaky plastic chair. She stared at her folded hands in her lap for a moment before ceding the partially bandaged one back to him. Neither of them spoke. She stared blankly ahead, listening to the cruel refrain in her mind, not even trying to stop it anymore.
When Andrew was done, seven out of ten of Mia’s fingers were bandaged. He moved methodically, dressing every wound with absolute care and precision. Her left pinky had needed two bandages. Her hands ached from the added pressure of the dressings, despite his tenderness. The nails on the uncovered digits had exposed beds at the edge and dark lines under what nail was left where blood had pooled in streaks.
Andrew carefully threw away the bandage wrappers and used cotton swabs before removing the black gloves. Mia sat stock still, gazing down at her hands.
“You do this to yourself,” he said, equal part question and statement. Somehow, beyond what she could imagine, the statement lacked judgement. It was enough to pull her out of the downward thought spiral she was in.
Mia could feel him staring at her. She wondered if his expression had shifted from the unknowable look he wore earlier to the pity or disgust she came to expect.
“Thank you for your help,” she said in a small voice.
“Why?”
Mia wished he hadn’t asked. The voices were too loud, twisting his words into judgment and hate, despite her earlier feeling.
Mia shrugged, tears barely held back and pricking the edge of eyes. She shook her head.
“Does it make it stop?”
Mia looked up at him, eyes wide with horror.
The office door leading to the bar opened.
“Heyyy! Oh - uh -“ Deran faltered. His bright blue eyes darted from Mia to Andrew then back again.
Mia neutralized her expression in an instant, sitting up straighter like nothing was amiss.
“I came to check on you ‘cuz it had been a while…I, uh, see you met Pope,” Deran said, clearly confused.
Mia frowned and looked at Andrew.
“Family nickname,” he said, dismissing it.
“Uh, yeah, anyways, I’m still happy to pour that beer for you if you’d like. You doing okay?” Deran continued.
He glanced awkwardly between the two of them, waiting for someone to speak.
“Uh, yeah,” Mia said, forcing a smile that didn’t reach her eyes, “Andrew helped with a bandaid.”
Mia lifted her left pointer finger as a distraction, tucking in the rest of her fingers so the other bandaids were disguised.
“I was struggling to get it on by myself. A beer sounds great!”
“Okay,” Deran said with a smile and a half-laugh, shaking his head at how strange the situation was.
Mia rose, slinging her purse over her shoulder. Andrew stood at the same time, clicking the lid of the first aid kid shut and stowing it back on the shelf.
“Really - thank you, Andrew,” Mia said as she walked out of the office.
—
The last half of Mia’s abandoned beer was warm from sitting out but she drank it back in a few sift gulps and traded Deran for a fresh one.
“Thank you - for the bandaid and the drink,” she said as he slid the pint across the counter.
“No problem. Uh, sorry if Pope weirded you out,” he started to explain, “he’s, uh…”
Mia cut him off.
“No. Not at all. He was kind, actually.”
Deran blinked with surprise.
“Oh, okay. Great,” he half smiled, more confused than ever.
“Do you mind if I take this out to the patio?” Mia asked, “I think I need some fresh air.”
“Yeah, no problem. Come back in if you want another,” he said.
“Thanks, Deran.”
There was no one else outside and a small fire crackled beneath the grate. Mia sat back in an Adirondack and sighed. The chaos in her mind had ebbed slightly, only to be replaced with roundabout questioning.
Why did he care? How did he know? What was that look on his face?
No matter how she turned over the interaction in her mind, assessing every angle, it didn’t make any more sense. She wasn’t sure how much time had passed but the beer in her glass sank steadily with time. A cool breeze passed over the patio and Mia pulled her knit sweater tighter over herself.
An iron gate creaked. Her head lifted from the back of the chair. Andrew stepped out of the door he’d entered the office through nearly an hour earlier.
Mia looked over - he seemed surprised to see her again. She let her eyes linger on the rise and fall of his broad chest against the taut fabric of his shirt. She didn’t smile, but didn’t turn away, either.
Andrew walked over, suddenly unsure of what to say. He didn’t know how to pick up where they’d left off and even less sure she wanted to continue but the questions kept nagging at his brain. He couldn’t stop wondering how someone like her, so soft and sweet and beautiful, could inflict such violence upon herself.
Mia realized the expression on his face was sad.
How! Why would he be sad? Or give a shit about you?
“You can sit, if you want,” Mia offered, gesturing to the adjacent chair.
Neither of them spoke for a while. Andrew flexed his hands in and out of fists a few times before saying, “you didn’t answer my question.”
Mia let out a huff of a laugh but there was no humor in it, staring yo into the night. She didn’t talk about this. People didn’t ask about this or care. She’d know this guy for maybe 30 minutes and, for some reason, she felt compelled to tell him about the darkest, worst part of herself? She finally shook her head and replied against her better judgement.
“Go get us both another drink and I’ll tell you,” handing him her empty glass. Andrew noticed that blood and tinged the outside of a few bandages already as she did.
—
Deran was surprised to see his brother come in from the patio. He looked back at the office, making sure he wasn’t losing his mind.
“Weren’t you just in the office?”
“Yeah,” Andrew responded, not elaborating, “Mia wants another and I’ll have the same.”
“Mia?” Deran asked, eyebrows raised, “you’re out there talking to Mia?”
Pope nodded.
“Talking?”
Pope nodded again, shrugging his shoulders.
“So can I have the beer or what?” he asked impatiently.
Deran laughed wryly.
“So you’re not working tonight?”
“I can fix the compressor in the morning,” Pope said. Repairs would have to wait until customers were through ordering anyways.
Deran opened and closed his mouth, lost for words.
“Okay, man,” he said, pouring the beers.
Pope didn’t talk. Pope didn’t socialize with people. Pope was Pope. Deran leaned over the bar to watch his older brother go outside and sure enough, Mia was leant back on a chair by the fire, and he was left bewildered and muttering what the fuck under his breath. Craig was definitely going to hear about this later.
—
Andrew sat his glass on the arm of his chair and carefully handed Mia hers. Her hand brushed the back of his as she grasped it. Mia thought she might drop her drink. She recognized the feel of scar tissue with horrifying familiarity. The backs of Andrew’s hands were riddled with faded scars and marks, his skin calloused and rough. She grasped her glass with both hands and stared up at him. A knowing finally passed between them.
Mia’s eyes followed Andrew as he sat next to her, taking a long drink of his beer. She followed suit, almost unsure how to proceed with what she’d just learned.
“Your question,” she said.
Andrew looked at her in acknowledgement.
“Which one?” she asked, shocked at her own willingness to be vulnerable.
He thought for a moment.
“The first one - why?”
Andrew realized he’d made an assumption before, and though he was still fairly confident it was correct, the why had to precede the other question. Mia choked back another large gulp of her beer.
“I don’t know.”
It was the first time she’d talked about it to anyone besides a medical professional and they always pushed back, asking her to dig deeper and find the reason as if she hadn’t been digging for it in her own skin since she was little.
“There are too many reasons,” she elaborated.
“And the second question,” Andrew gently nudged.
“Sometimes. For a while. But then I have to do it more. Or again. It doesn’t stop. So no, I guess,” she admitted. She hated herself for it and especially because she couldn’t stop.
“And you?” she asked, part curiosity and part deflection.
“The same, to both,” he said. Mia could tell how difficult those four words were for him to say. In the brief time since she’d met him he only said what needed saying, and the rest was left to be deciphered through the minute intricacies of his expressions.
They sat together, letting their mutual confession rise up and out with the smoke from the dying fire until the space felt lighter.
“I clean and do other stuff,” he said, “but the scars are…”
He trailed off, unsure how to continue.
“I would fight,” Andrew said, “I had to fight.”
There was subtle emphasis placed on had and Mia let her mind wander down all the linguistic avenues that the phrasing implied. Andrew looked profoundly, deeply sad again, verging on pained.
She met his disclosure with her own.
“I didn’t fight back. Couldn’t.”
Andrew saw her shrink inward on herself at just the words like saying them out loud might anger someone. He didn’t need to speak, just looked softly over at her until she could meet his eyes. He said I see you without a word. Being seen had never felt like this. Mia couldn’t, wouldn’t, let herself think into it. It was too much to hope for.
The way Mia looked back at him made him feel calm. Made him feel like he could be Andrew. Just Andrew. Not Pope. Not a guard dog or a loose canon. Just Andrew. But it was too much to hope for.
Noise tumbled out from the bar. A brief respite from the cacophony of thoughts in each of their minds. But the white noise was enough for Andrew to reach his arm across to the other chair and gently grasp Mia’s hand, just below the bandages. An affirmation that she was seen.
It took everything in Mia not to cry. She couldn’t even look at the man beside her but grasped his hand as tightly as she was able.
Andrew squeezed back gently then rose. Left.
Mia panicked at first but he left the metal screen door to the office open.
Loser. He doesn’t like you…
She counted to herself. Less than 180 seconds.
Towel wrapped ice packs, gently placed across Mia’s hands.
“Thank you,” she muttered, barely above a whisper.
Andrew’s touch lingered on top of one of the cold packs and he wondered if his hands could be used for healing instead of inflicting pain. Mia’s eyes fluttered closed as her fingers numbed.
She knew next to nothing about the man next to her. From what she did know, it would have made more sense for her to be scared. His hands were battle worn, he gazed too intensely, too long, and he’d admitted to being capable of violence. But the way he had carefully wrapped each of her fingers and brought her relief without being asked spoke to a resounding tenderness that couldn’t be faked. He made vulnerability feel less mortifying. He understood. He sought the same control she did, just in different ways.
The sound of bar goers leaving and wandering toward their cars echoed down the street in the cool night air. Mia could feel herself drifting away after a while and forced her eyes back open.
“I’m going to fall asleep in this chair if I stay much longer,” she laughed lightly. Andrew was gazing over at her and one corner of his mouth turned upwards.
“Can I drive you home?” he asked.
Mia smiled, trying not to blush.
“I’d like that.”
Andrew disappeared back into the office, ice packs in hand, but reappeared after several minutes from the door into the bar. Mia must have looked surprised.
“Ready?” he asked.
“I still need to settle up,” she said, adjusting her purse strap over her shoulder.
“It’s taken care of,” Andrew replied.
“Andrew I can’t let you…”
“You can,” he gently cut her off.
Her mind raced for a moment. The tab was at least 3 beers, which would be…she couldn’t do the mental math and wasn’t sure what the tax percentage in Oceanside was. Plus she meant to leave extra tip for the first aid supplies. Andrew could see her struggling with the gesture and stepped towards her.
A strand of hair had blown across Mia’s face and she was too caught up in her own mind to notice. Andrew slowly lifted his hand and brushed it off her nose, tucking it behind her ear. Her mind went blank.
“It’s okay,” he said.
“Okay,” she responded, nodding, “yeah, okay.” He was mere inches from her face and his hand moved slowly through the ends of her hair where he’d tucked it behind her ear and towards her back. She let him place an open palm on the small of her back and guide her towards his truck.
The sky was clear and bright with stars. She stood and stared up at them for a brief moment after Andrew opened the car door.
“Oh, sorry,” she said, getting in.
He probably thinks you’re a freak.
Andrew gazed up where she had been looking and his eyes crinkled at the edges with amusement. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d looked at the stars despite all the years he’d spent awake in the dead of night.
Mia gave him the address once they were both seated. The drive was quick - Mia had walked to the bar so her condo wasn’t far away. Music played on low, filling the silence.
When they arrived, Mia went to open her door after collecting her purse from the floorboard but Andrew had gotten there first. He offered her a hand out of the truck. She gazed up at him from the sidewalk with the same look she’d worn when admiring the stars.
“Thank you, Andrew.”
He nodded, unsure of what to do next.
“Do you have bandages inside for tomorrow?” he asked.
Mia’s face fell slightly. She wondered if it would ever stop feeling embarrassing.
“Yeah, plenty,” she confirmed.
“Good,” Andrew replied.
“And antibiotic ointment? You don’t want to get an infection,” he said.
“Yeah, that too.”
“Good. Good,” he repeated.
Mia gathered all the courage and confidence she had in her, which wasn’t much, and said, “I’d like to see you again.”
Andrew looked surprised. His hazel eyes were wide, his mouth pressed into a line.
“If, if you want…” Mia qualified it.
Andrew rushed out the word, “yes.” Her face brightened just slightly.
“Uh, here,” she said, handing him her phone. No passcode. He’d encourage her to change that later. A few hours and bandages was all it took for him to anoint himself her personal protector.
Andrew typed in his number and handed the phone back. Mia shot off a text immediately with her full name. As much as he wanted to be near her, part of Andrew felt like what she needed safekeeping from was him. The voices from his past whispered it insidiously in his mind. He had to remind himself that was all in the past. He didn’t have to be that anymore. He didn’t have to be Pope. He could just be Andrew.
“Are you busy Friday?” Mia asked.
Even if he were, Andrew would rearrange any plans he did have for her.
“No.”
“Any place in particular you like to eat?”
He thought about the state of the kitchen in Deran’s bar before he fixed it. Eating out made him nervous.
“I’ll make you dinner,” he said, “at my place.”
Mia looked surprised.
“That okay?” he asked.
“Of course, yes.”
He texted her the address.
“6 pm?”
“That’s perfect,” she said, smiling.
She didn’t know if any of this was a good idea. It was the first time she’d actually felt happy in months. If they were the same, or similar, would she just drag him down with her? If he’d gotten control, would she cause him to lose that? If she couldn’t be content alone, was it irresponsible to form an attachment with another person?
“It’s a date,” Andrew said, a flicker of happiness crossing his own face.
A date. Not just an attachment, the possibility of romance? Mia couldn’t deny that she felt drawn to him for more than their commonalities but felt unsure of whether she was deserving. She shivered when a cool breeze swept by, an early sigh of autumn to come.
“You should get inside,” Andrew said, noticing the goosebumps that appeared on her arms.
“Thank you for tonight,” she said, half turning to go.
“You too,” he replied, watching her walk up the front steps.
He didn’t move from the sidewalk until the door was shut and he heard the lock click behind her. A lamp turned on inside, the light spilling onto the small porch. Want was something that had always been twisted and used against him. Pope stayed safe by pretending he didn’t feel anything. But he didn’t have to be Pope anymore. He knew, deep down, that Pope would always be there. Those patterns don’t just go away after so many years in practice. But if Mia could look at him and not flinch or pull away, maybe it was possible. Or it was too much to hope for. He could still feel the weight of her hands in his, trusting him to heal, not hurt. The most primal part of him wanted to keep her safe, even if it was from herself.
—
He made a mental list as he walked back to the truck of the things he’d need from the store. He would want the medicine cabinet well-stocked in case she needed anything Friday. He’d make a meal that required cutlery, so she could avoid the pain of trying to eat with her hands. He drove silently, trying not to fill in the blanks Mia left but, his mind wandered anyways. Who had hurt her? Why had no one protected her? He thought about Julia and all the times he’d stepped in on her behalf. He couldn’t change Mia’s past, just like she couldn’t his, but maybe they could find something new. A way forward that didn’t include so much bloodshed and pain.
Andrew leant against the kitchen island, staring out at how the pool illuminated the yard in ghostly blue light. A glass on an open shelf in the kitchen caught his eye. It was shifted forward at least half an inch more than the others. He stopped mid-reach, then lowered his arm, staring at it a little longer before turning down the hall to go to bed.
“Emotional abuse works like this: You are screamed at, and then, not knowing any better, you stand up for yourself. You think this is a way of being strong. You think this is a defense tactic.But this only provokes more screaming. Going silent provokes more screaming too, but usually it keeps the threats to the minimum. It keeps it just at screaming and not: a shove down the stairs, or order to pack your stuff and get out. So you learn how to go silent. How to play dead. How to cry without making a noise. How to swallow noise. How to wipe your cheeks, get out of the car, and go about your day. You learn. And when the screaming has stopped, when the two of you are in the car or out to dinner and they’re all smiles, all asking for favors, all questions, you are still hurt and annoyed and want to ask them, how? How can you speak to me like that? How can you pretend you did not say those things? How can you have forgotten? But you’ve learned. So you listen to, “Can I borrow your key”s and “how was your day”s and you play dead. You swallow the noise. And sometimes it doesn’t matter who is speaking to you, it doesn’t matter if they’re a friend, it doesn’t matter if their criticism is constructive, it doesn’t matter. You’ve learned. Any sort of speaking, any raising of the voice, any insult and you play dead.”
My parents gifted me a solid silver bracelet for my 8th grade graduation with my initials on the front. On the inside was inscribed “Always in our hearts”.
“A library, no matter how humble or grand, is a series of sacred gateways. You pass through them and leave your own city behind; you journey through time and space; and for a little while, you escape the confines of your own circumstances.”
— Anthony Doerr, Cloud Cuckoo Land
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