1 - Marks and Scars and Things That Linger
We all have scars, but they don’t have to be physical to hurt like hell. I have a nasty gash on my knee from the bottom of the wave pool at Great Wolf Lodge. I can still feel the sting from the 15 stitches I received the week before February break in 4th grade. If you look closely at my left wrist, you’ll spot the scratches I clawed into my skin on the night my best friend told me I was a terrible person.
Some scars are bad, others are good, but most are invisible. Most of my scars come from those I allow into my life, the people who betray me or who show me how wild and fun the world can be if we let it. I have scars and memories from past loves, from my enemies, from my friends, from my family. People leave their mark on you in different ways, and you can either take those scars and hide them or embrace them, feel them, and let them heal. They can serve as a reminder that everything you’ve gone through has led you to the person you are today. Some marks sit in my chest and press against my heart like handprints on a glass panel. Sometimes, I’ll breathe on the glass of my mind to fog it up just to see those marks appear. The marks Walter and I left in our wake.
My first "hookup" was with Walter. I wouldn't say he was sweet—I think he asked for my body count within the first week of knowing him—but he had kind eyes. He also had brown hair and a six-pack. What else could a curious teenage girl need?
He made a pillow fort for us on the floor. I questioned his efforts as we sat and spoke on his perfectly comfortable couch. I kept talking and talking, trying to push off the inevitable. I had never kissed anyone for more than 5 seconds, and I was afraid that my dreams of perfection would be destroyed by too much tongue or not enough saliva. My rapidly moving mouth was soon silenced by his, though, his lips erasing anything else I had to say. I think we were talking about rowing. Oh yes! He was a rower, which is why he was in such good shape. He ended up going to school for the sport like every other private school kid in Connecticut.
We made our way onto the pillow fort from the couch. The fabric felt soft and warm against my back, and my fingertips explored the random curls scattered around his head. Some were sticking up, rebelling against the countless clusters. When he kissed my neck, I opened my eyes and giggled at the series of very fortunate events unfolding. I felt like I was in The Notebook like I was Allie, and he was Noah, and we were on the floor of a run-down, candle-lit house on a hot summer night.
When I stood up to collect my things, he pressed my arms above my head and walked me up against the glass door that led to his back patio. As he continued to kiss me, I imagined the handprints I made on the glass, the pieces of me that would be left in the morning, pieces of me that were already trying to hold onto this moment just a little longer. I pushed him away sweetly with an I have to get home before my parents wake up, although I didn't want to leave. That was a long time ago, and I haven't heard from Walter in years, but I still imagine that my handprints remain painted on the glass. That on bright, sunny days, when the light catches the door properly, the night I shared with him remains.
It’s funny how the marks that fade or heal so fast are the same things I want to hold onto forever. The other things, the itch I’d like to forget but can’t shake off, stay with me. An itch named Max will always poke the back of my mind in places I cannot reach. The inside jokes and rugburn have yet to fade away into oblivion.
I started to like Max while playing a supporting character to his lead role in a summer production. He was talented. He still is - his most recent gig was the villain in an episode of Law & Order about a year ago. Now, he works at a Sweet Green in midtown Manhattan. That's the price you pay for big dreams in NYC.
I was hesitant to follow him into the bedroom, knowing I had just started my period that morning. He solidified my fears when he asked to go down on me. Um, no, sorry. I'm on my period. He was persistent. Well, it's kind of like getting a badge of honor when you go down on a girl who's on her period. What the fuck. Still, no. After about an hour with him, he asked me if I had ever been in love. No.
He also kept asking me if I wanted to have sex with him. I played one round of beer pong too many but still managed to mumble out no. But again, he was persistent. He pulled me into positions and places where we were close to committing the act. I felt him against the inside of my thigh and used the strength I had left to push him off. I masked my attempt to escape with a laugh and ran to the bathroom. I locked the door, looked in the mirror, and the world came back to me. I had no idea how long I had been with him. I checked my phone: 2 hours. I came out and explained how I had to leave; it's past my curfew. He laughed; maybe he thought I was playing with him. He pushed my hands above my head and against the bathroom door. It was much sweeter when Walter did it. With Max, it made my stomach twist in knots. Emma heard my voice and knocked - It was time to go.
I woke to memories of sweet kisses soured by sober thoughts. His scratchy beard left me with rug burn around my lips. I found bruises, many, which served as evidence, careless caresses of a man taken over by his hunger. I had to wear a turtleneck for 2 weeks in the brutal heat of August while they changed from purple to green to yellow. I applied creams and balms like a madwoman. I rubbed arnica lotion into my body every hour, hoping the scars of that night would disappear, hoping the blood in my body would fill the dents. The marks faded, but the feeling in my stomach remained. When his eyes spoke, you aren't going anywhere, and his grip reinforced that glance, a larger fear of starving men who don't understand formed deep within me.
That fear lay dormant, making home inside my chest and waiting, hoping to break free. Kyle happened to have the key.
Growing up, I made it a habit of asking Kyle what his ideal girl looked like. Freckles, he replied, are the best. That made me happy - my face was stained with them. I kept him company on late nights during my sophomore year with wildly inappropriate text conversations to make him notice me. While playing 21 questions, he asked me if I had any weird "kinks." I told him not really. Sophia was on Facetime from my computer, coaching me along the way. No, you have to say something, she urged. I wouldn't even know where to start, I roared back at her. Well, she continued, I like it when Kevin chokes me. I began to type out a reply I thought he would enjoy, something he would be amused by, even if it wasn't true. Choking?
The night before I left for college, I drunkenly texted Kyle to see what he was up to. It was my last chance before we finally went our separate ways - him to Michigan and me to North Carolina. To my surprise, he told me to come over. I jumped at the opportunity.
Although he assured me no one was home, I slowly crept up the stairs. We tossed and turned around his bedroom. I had seen the painting above his bed from the photos we exchanged, but never in person. It excited me. It felt so intimate to be in the room I'd been picturing and piecing together in my head for years.
The room filled with heavy breathing and scattered clothing. I clawed at Kyle’s back, taking in everything I could. I wanted to remember this moment - maybe in the future, we could look back on our first time together.
I smiled while he hung above me. His hair dangled above my eyes, and I tried to reach for it. I felt pressure against my neck before I could. I forgot what I told him, the lies I gifted him for his amusement. I gasped for air during the few moments he let go. I tried to roll on top of him to have the higher ground. He took that as a challenge, pushing me back below him and pinning my arms up above my head. I didn't have the courage to tell him to stop. My struggle probably turned him on.
The following day, I was met with bruises as I walked up to my bedroom mirror to assess the makeup I forgot to wash off. Some girls want bruises on their necks and bodies - little tattoos to remember the passion from the night before. I didn't. I used a spoon to scrape my skin, attempting to break the blood vessels but only causing more pain. I found the old bottle of arnica cream below my sink and let its contents sit and seep into my body.
I feel the phantom hand of a past love pressing against my throat whenever I'm alone with someone. I feel the power of a man who doesn't know I am hurting. I feel my struggle against his force and wonder if it will always be that way. Do I have to scream at the top of my lungs for him to understand it's not a joke? Do I have to kick, and yell, and claw his eyes out, or can he see the fear in mine? Even if my voice could escape my mind and fly into the air, his hand would force it back into my throat, followed by the seething tongue belonging to something less man, more beast. I am unable to make a sound.
I feel everything like it's happening for the first time. I feel the pressure against my neck, the hands ripping out strands of my hair, on purpose or accidentally. It doesn’t matter. Everything is in the past, but not really. Everything is now and will always be.
