She drags herself into class, lower lip doubled and bleeding.
Her shoulders are bowed inwards, and her boyfriend’s oversized hoodie only just hides the rose petal shaped fingerprints staining her skin.
You and the rest of the class fall voiceless and watch as she takes her seat.
You make like owls; with wide eyes and swiveling heads, exchanging silent queries.
Do we say anything?
No.
Of course not.
It’s none of your business.
You’re sure it was an accident.
A one-time thing that got out of hand.
You’re sure of it.
The teacher will say something when he sees.
It’s none of your business.
You tell yourself this when class is dismissed.
When the teacher looks away as she walks past him.
When she shrinks impossibly smaller.
You tell yourself it is not your problem.
Her feet protest movement as the subway train jostles her lightly around.
She feels herself crumple slightly, the stress of her day like chainmail on her overly tired body.
Settled for a few moments of peace, she does not notice when a swaying man places himself behind her.
It is the stench of stale beer and sweat that catches her attention.
But by then it is too late.
You watch as he presses himself against her, trapping her by the train doors.
He mumbles something drunkenly and grabs her wrist.
You faintly hear her say no, and duck away when her droplet-scattered lashes finally rise to you.
She’s the canary and he’s the snake, and everyone is just observing nature, right?
There are other people on this train.
Surely someone will help her.
It doesn’t have to be you.
It’s none of your business, after all.
When he follows her off at her stop, you remind yourself this.
When her stare welds fault to you like a brand, you remind yourself.
What can you do? You’re just a normal person.
It’s not your problem.
Her head snaps to the side as her father’s knuckles catch her cheek.
She blinks away the pinprick tears building under the new abrasion and lowers her gaze.
He raises his hand again, only to worm his corpulent fingers into her hair and pull her closer so he can whisper into her ear.
She releases a barely-there whimper, which only seems to echo in the shadow of her father’s brutality.
A snarl curl’s his lip and you watch as he assaults her with threats and obscenities, teeth gnashing like a wild animal.
You see new tears in her eyes, these ones more stubborn than the last.
You meet the stares of those surrounding you, and they mirror your own, equal parts horror and understanding of an unfair truth.
Yet nobody moves.
And so, neither do you.
Because it’s not your business.
You aren’t her parent.
Who are you to get in the way of an obviously personal matter?
She could always tell the police.
Or she could run away.
There are plenty of ways to escape.
You tell yourself this until you read the newspaper the next week.
When you notice a familiar face under the obituaries.
When you see that her face is more purple than peach.
But it wasn’t your problem, right?
Your sister comes home late again, her wine-colored nails gripping her latest boyfriend’s arm like a vice.
He smiles politely at you and waves as she pulls him past and into her room.
An hour later you hear a voice raised and slick with venom, so you leave your laptop to check it out.
From a tiny crack in her door you see your sister looming menacingly over her boyfriend, who is huddled on the floor clutching his face.
She spits vicious words at him, makes sure to mention that he would be better off dead.
He trembles in his place like a frightened deer, and lifts his head to reveal a wine-colored gash falling from his temple.
From your place by the door she catches you, and slams it in your face.
Your head runs through the transformation from the polite and quiet boy you met to the petrified and beaten creature you saw.
And how your own family was responsible for such a decaying.
You return quietly to your computer, trying to pretend you didn’t see anything.
It’s not your business.
How she acts in her relationship has nothing to do with you.
He’s a man; he can take care of himself.
He doesn’t need anybody sticking up for him.
You’ll just forget it happened.
Forget his expression of self-destruction.
Forget who put it there.
It’s a Friday and you’re looking forward to seeing your friends.
Everything was planned to be perfect.
The party was set, the whole house filled with booze, music, and good food.
When everybody gets here you say your hellos and get drinking.
The day only improves when he shows up.
Suddenly you are sixteen again and your first crush is the world entire.
You find your skin warming and pulse quickening, excitement tingling your fingertips.
A couple hours in and you are sitting on the couch with him, first drink still in your hand.
You glance away for just a second, to say hi to someone, or tell someone else not to break anything.
When you look back he is smiling at you and you feel ecstatic.
You continue talking and drinking, until your head begins to ache.
Your body grows slack and you can barely feel it when his hand slides up your leg.
Through a half-lidded eye, you see him smirk and your heart falls to your feet.
You wish you could run back in time.
Back to when having a crush was just a metaphor and not an invitation.
You survey the room, trying to find someone, anyone who will help you.
Eyes meet your own, only to sweep quickly away.
It wasn’t their problem after all.
You liked him, so it should be alright, shouldn’t it?
Even if you didn’t want it.
But it wasn’t alright.
You knew this.
Everyone knew this.
But it wasn’t their problem.
It wasn’t their business.
So nobody helped you.
No comments:
Post a Comment