It’s beautiful outside. I woke up sleepy, but there was work to do, and I was happy to do it.
He came in, spoke gently, smiled and asked- wondered politely if I was okay. I felt warm and comfortable, it seemed like I was wrong. I must have been making the same mistake I always do- maybe it is me, plagued by my first-world problems. Maybe I really don’t see that he’s just human like me, that he’s made mistakes. Maybe I’m not willing to see that he’s changed.
The other day, it seemed like he hadn’t.
I’d barely picked up the phone, and I knew it was a bad time. She was flustered, irritated and on edge. She was clearly afraid, and as years of experience have told me, that meant he was angry, like he so often is. As always, I begged her not to hand him the phone, but, as always, she did.
It took him less than twenty seconds to blow his top. “Ya moron, I asked a simple question. All I want is a simple yes or no, ya prostitute. Shut the fuck up.” It took me less than five to open the floodgates of pain from a lifetime of these outbursts.
It never goes away. I want itto go, I want to let all of it out, but instead of leaving me, the pain sneaks away into some kind of secret reserve that I don’t even know about…. until he does this, and all the silent frustration explodes on me like a dynamite happy Pandora’s box. I don’t know how to override the system- I always think I’ve found a way, but I never have. He says it’s against his nature to let go of anything- and I’m often afraid he’s given me that gift in inheritance in this particular regard, although I really would rather do without it.
That night, with everyone gathered at the dining table, I interrupted a conversation I knew I shouldn’t have interrupted. I exposed him, hoping that I’d find support, hoping that someone would save him, and through him, save me. That someone would call his foul, that someone would help him comprehend what he does, help him feel the recieving end of it. But I was the only one infinitely hopeful there, and he’s always had the best poker face.
She knew all along of course, but she’d never objected. Sometimes I thought she lived vicariously through him, knowing she could never push her weight like he did, she took pleasure in the seeing punishments she couldn’t subject anyone to be handed out by him. She has to pretend to be a victim, but she knows the choices she made and she knows she can’t ever really be one.
It all happened slowly, and by the time I was completely silenced and neglected, it was five am. I crawled into bed, having been duly chastised for being a spoiled brat who took offence to the pressures of violence that my foremothers had embraced and rejoiced in. It was a first world problem and he’d given me a good life.
He came in, and he was gentle and sweet for now. “I hope you understand that I’m human, I don’t know why you brought it up again… You should put it behind you.” I nodded, I needed to sleep.
That day was wonderful. After repeating his calm and concerned enquiries from the previous night, he took us shopping. He bought me shoes, I needed shoes. Beautiful shoes that covered my toes and kept me warm and happy. He took my friends to dinner, he laughed and chatted, and then retired to a wonderful friend’s loaned room. We joked as we walked them to her room, she joked fondly about her father’s incessant correspondences with her, and he laughed.
So of course I was convinced that I was the problem. He’s changing, I’m not seeing it- this empty feeling in my stomach is just a response from the past. I can get rid of it, I should get rid of it, somehow or the other.
Another late night working, but I woke up early to go with them to the city. Their flight was soon, I wanted to say bye. It would finally be a good note.
He smiled and thanked my friend. They drank the orange juice my friend had squeezed for them. We walked over to the station, and it was calm and happy. He took the banana I gave him without a smile. He wasn’t saying that much, but I thought it was because he was tired. We got off the train, and went to get breakfast.
He smiled at the cashier, and laughed when she told him the cameras were guarding her from the evil of tips. He seemed relaxed. We sat down, and I bit into a piece of fruit, and then it happened.
He transformed suddenly, just like that. I had barely touched the chilly flesh of my melon to my lips when his face contorted, the hints of red appeared and his nostrils expanded ever so slightly. I’d had so many chances to learn the tell-tale signs.
I shut down automatically; years of mental programming knew what to do. I tried not to let my brain hear the insults, and I tried not to look into the eyes of anyone around us. Every time I did, their passive pity pinched me. He was shouting loud enough for anyone to hear, but not loud enough to bother them. She just stared, fighting back tears, the perfect victim.
We finished our meal, and he was still shouting as we walked out of Grand Central. We walked ten blocks, and he continued to shout. Midtowners, working men glanced at him with judgement, women opened their eyes a little wider and stared into mine as if they needed to watch my blinking for a sign. Children knew to avoid us entirely.
The topics of his yelling were diverse. He’d paid so much money for me, he’d bought me shoes. I haven’t worked an honest day in my whole life, I’m nothing but a whore without any achievements. He kept me like a princess but I don’t even want to give him the benefit of being a human being. How could I have brought the violence up at that table we shared with friends? It’s been a whole month since he’s hit me, it’s in the past. Why didn’t I just keep it there?
The topics of his yelling were diverse. He’d paid so much money for me, he’d bought me shoes. I haven’t worked an honest day in my whole life, I’m nothing but a whore without any achievements. He kept me like a princess but I don’t even want to give him the benefit of being a human being. How could I have brought the violence up at that table we shared with friends? It’s been a whole month since he’s hit me, it’s in the past. Why didn’t I just keep it there?
We walked into the bank, and he screamed at the teller. She apologized and handed him over to a man, who also apologized, and did his best to send us away from there as soon as he could. I was glad for the moment of deflection, but I knew better than to think it was over. We walked out, and he shouted the same things again.
He made us stop walking and stand with him on the pavement by a very pretty building. Right next to a security van, ironically. And he shouted even louder. The van driver lay back in his seat, but his furtive glances gave his curiosity away. When my father started screaming about the colors black and brown being different from each other, the van driver turned sharply to stare. I was amused that the word “BLACK” turned him, but not the dozens of times he’d shouted “WHORE” or “FUCKING PROSTITUTE” right before it. My self-doubt crept back at this moment. Maybe it only bothers me because that’s really who I am on the inside. Maybe we only turn to what really is about us? But no; none of us are black on the inside— we’re all red and pink, or some other colours.
At some point during the tirade, I began to cry, and he yelled at me about that as well. That was to be expected of course. Some part of me wondered if the tears were even real, or just me subconciously triggering the next part of this play I had seen thousands of time. She was crying too, but you couldn’t really see it behind her sunglasses. She noticed the van driver glaring, and she begged my father to let us move, so we walked down the road, in the general direction of the station, and his hollering came with us.
It seemed like his anger had a life of its own. It propelled itself without taking any of his energy away, and acted with him as its medium, not its creator. He was always unfazed, even the few times it got so bad that I had to go the hospital, or that I fainted. He was still energetic and not slightly disturbed, in fact, when the anger leaves him, it’s like he’s a different person altogether. But I can never tell if it really leaves him; he does insist on carrying everything around.
We finally got to the station, and I could insist on escaping to class. Or another country… and then it happened. He was Jekyll again. He said he loved me, and hugged me as if nothing had happened. My insides couldn’t hug him back so I stood there awkwardly and tried to smile as I muttered an obligatory “sorry”. She was whispering to me that he loves me and that I should understand enough to not aggravate him. I just pushed every last word I had to say to both of them down until they weighed my feet down like clogs. I knew that saying anything was pointless, I just needed to leave.
She was still crying behind her dark glasses when they left, and he was the idyllic Jekyll who laughed with cashiers and had a smile and greeting for anyone who passed by; a “bravo!” and silly face for all the children he saw. I was on the train, letting my heart loose on a telephone call, taking solace in the fact that I could be alone again- glad that this wasn’t one of those times where I was trapped in his house when Hyde didn’t have a deadline.
