I remember not sleeping and then laying in the lawn-chair in the backyard at 8am to smoke a long cigarette butt from the ashtray. They staggered out of the Champion in proper fashion and lit cigarettes, too. She found her dog in the car in the middle of the night with a tin can stuck on its head. There was shit strewn about the lawn. Chair fragments mostly.
"You tried to John Cena him?!?! Oh Shit," followed by laughter from us all. My feet were still bleeding and my eye wasn't quite black yet but it was in the mail: postmarked but the carrier was talking on her phone taking her fucking time again. The seat of my jeans was ripped as we sat out back of that yellow house and the grass was wet with dew. They weren't ripped a little.
"Oh, Jesus Fuck! I wish someone was videotaping that! I bet it was a fuckin hoot.” The furniture was sideways and missing screws.
I can walk through doors.
I remember going into Wigg’s Country Store later for cigarettes. I pulled up my Wayfarers and the ladies saw it all but I had a big smile and they never said anything because the ladies in there know what it's like. But I bet they never wanted it or started it. I couldn’t have hurt him but it was hard to restrain me.
"If you can't feel what you did to me emotionally then you're gonna feel it physically," and you couldn't have poked out my eyes with a blade. They were hard and so fucking open when I said it.
"Where's __?!" I slapped him across the face. "Where the fuck are you, __?" slapping his face hard. "This isn't the real __! Where the fuck did you go?!" And then he slapped me back half-heartedly and I full-heartedly didn't flinch.
"You can break every bone in my body and I don't care,” tear streaked. “I won't leave you alone. You have to feel this. You don't getta choose."
He was a wrestling champ in school and he had some moves on me. He got me in the headlock and then I had no good moves left. I tried some self-defense shit I learned in high school and, fuck, if I didn't have sciatica it might have worked.
"I could kill you right now," he said. I felt my face getting red. My eyeballs felt bulgy but I didn’t blink.
I resigned to loosing that finger when it was between his teeth. I couldn't see it from the head-lock I was in. "I feel like blood is pouring down my finger...it feels like it's hanging...is there blood?" I choked to him from the headlock. I didn’t want to look at it yet.
"There's a little blood." he said almost sweetly, still restraining me. Now it's hard to hold the strings down on my guitar.
"The feeling will probably come back after awhile he said. That's what happened with mine.” He hit his with a hammer at work building barns.
After he left I packed up the house...without sleeping.
I could hide a lot of it but I couldn't hide the hand-prints around my neck. Not in the summer; too hot.
I instigated the violence.
Intermittently that day my smile was big when I thought about my endurance and my perseverance and my PCP-like fervor and I had the bruises and the scabs to prove it.
And then we drove out to the river in the morning sun with music and the windows down to get my sandals that we left in a wine-drunk stupor the night before. I was eating raspberries in the backseat and then I ashed into the empty raspberry box.
Last night they jumped off the pillar while I jumped from the highest point of the bridge into the creek where it met the river. Again and again we walked back up to the bridge and whooped and jumped off after we passed the jug around.
We stood on the bank. We watched her jumped off the pillar for a morning swim. We watched the gars swim around her. Then we drove back into town and went to work ‘cause we had jobs to do.
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