Nothing but Your Skin

Single Voice

Cathy Ytak      

Nothing but
Your
Skin

Shh, listen, there are people walking on
the shore. They have dogs. Did you tell
anyone?
No, no one. They won't find us, we're too far from the edge. All I can hear is your heart echoing in my chest. I feel the sweat on our stomachs, and on your forehead, too.

Shh, listen!
All I'm listening to is the two of us, the ice crackling, and the water of the lake flowing far below. When we were rolling around, the wrapper from the condom got stuck on my bum. I don't want to take it off. There's not enough room to move in our sleeping bags, zipped together to make only one. They're heavy sleeping bags for camping in the mountains, and you were right, they're very warm.

Listen, I hear voices and footsteps, and
I can see the beams from their flashlights.
It's true, Matt, it seems like they're getting close.

You tell me that we have to hurry, that they can't find us together like this, naked, that we have to get dressed. But I'm with you, I don't want it to stop, and I don't know where my sweater is. I took it off so quickly that I heard a rip. It might be torn. It's blue, with a white stripe.

Where did the moon go? Isn't it shining on us anymore? Matt, what color do you think the moon is?

The ice of the lake is beneath us, and above us is your voice, your voice that sounds anxious.
Lou, they're coming…Lou,
shit! Hurry up!
But I don't know how to hurry up. When things happen too fast, I get confused.

I hear them now. They're crushing the frost under their feet. We're trapped, lost in the middle of a frozen lake. We've been caught! Do they have guns?

I slide my hand between my thighs to dry myself a bit before pulling up my pants, they're tangled around one of my ankles, I don't have time to…

I hear my mother first, and behind her I hear dogs barking, and then two men, at least, yelling at us to get out of there, get out of there. But we don't get out of there. We don't get out of there fast enough. So they start kicking the sleeping bag. So I get scared.
Don't shake, don't shake.
Why, Matt, why? They don't have the right. Your lips on my lips and your tongue in my mouth…
Be quiet,
don't ask questions, don't be scared, I'm
here. You won't say anything, I won't
say anything, it's our story. They can't
take it away from us.
Hands grab the sleeping bag and pull in every direction. They tear at everything. The dogs jump in; the sleeping bag rips and feathers come out. My mother screams like a mother and calls me
my daughter
. I hate her.

They make us stand up and their hands pull us apart. They want to know what the hell we were doing, and what that bastard did. It's my father's voice and it's you he's talking about. He's taller than you, he threatens you, he yells louder and louder, asking what you did to her, to his daughter, saying you're despicable, you're scum.

I see my mother hunting through the ripped sleeping bag, she searches and searches and she finds a condom, used and tied up. She stands up under the almost-full moon and she points at you, yelling that you assaulted me. That's what she says: “He assaulted her!”

I see my mother pushing the men aside and walking toward you. She still wears that ring my father gave her on her little finger. She slaps you so hard that your head goes back, and you slip and fall on the ice. The ice shakes and echoes as if the whole lake was going to split in two. The ring hit your cheekbone and cut your skin. You struggle to get up, you have your hand on your cheek, you're bleeding. In your eyes I see the fear, and I hear all the noise: the dogs barking, the men yelling, our beautiful silence shattered, dirtied. You assaulted—
assaulted
—me? And I don't exist, I don't exist anymore. They gave me a sweater but I'm cold. Blood is running down your cheek, your face is gray. My body is gray, too, like stone.

Suddenly I'm in so much pain that I want to howl. Howl like I howled when I was a baby, like I howled when I was a kid, like I howl every time someone comes near me and I'm not sure if it's to hurt me or to comfort me. Howling is worse than talking, it makes everything more confused, and the dogs won't like it. But I'm going to howl because there's no place for words, for explanations, and because I don't know how to cry.

I let my head fall back toward the starry sky, toward the moon that's almost full, long enough to take a gulp of frozen air and let it drop all the way down to my heart. This is for you, Matt. It's my gift. It's filled with me and you, multiplied by ten. The dogs growl, sniff me, then lay their snouts on the ground, whimpering. My mom has her head buried in her hands; the men are frozen. Now they'll all know that I'm the one who howls at night, in the valley. Or maybe they knew that already.

I'm not breathing anymore. I'm drawing out the strength and the softness from your eyes as they stare into mine. I howl again for your lips and your hands, for the blood flowing down your cheek and the blood that just flowed from my body, just a few drops, pink. I howl, most of all, so I'll never forget.

When I come back to myself, there's nothing but silence on the frozen lake. I see a man push you roughly into his car while my parents wrap a coat around my exhausted body. Before the car doors close, my eyes meet yours, one last time. You're crying. Tears slide down your cheeks, turning red from the blood of your cut. The dogs stay back, far behind me. I can see on the ice that they've peed out of fear.

Since then, Matt, the hours go by slowly, matching my own slowness. All I have left is the memory of what there was, before. I hurt my vocal cords when I howled. The doctor said it will be weeks or maybe months until I can talk again. I don't care. I caught a cold, too; I'm in bed, I don't want to get out. My mother brings me something to eat a few times a day, and herbal tea, and orange juice. She doesn't look at me; her eyes shift away and look at the blanket so they won't meet mine. My father never comes into my room. I hear his heavy steps in the hallway. They don't speak to me, not even to scold me or ask me questions. They called the gynecologist. She was a tall, skinny woman with frozen hands. When she put them on my skin, they felt like ice cubes. She wanted to check something, and I didn't want her to. She spoke to me gently so I would trust her, but since that night, I don't trust anyone. She wanted to know what happened between you and me. She put on a clear plastic glove, then slid her hand between my open thighs.

She said, “Excuse me, I always have cold hands, but it won't take long.” I didn't like what she was doing to me. But she was quick, and she didn't hurt me. She pulled out her glove and on the tip there was a bit of red. “You're not a virgin anymore, are you?” I made a sign to her to lower her ear to my mouth. I murmured in a hoarse wisp of a voice, “No, I have my period.”

And it's true, because it's the full moon and my period always comes on the full moon. So I didn't really answer her question. She didn't ask again, she was sure that she had the answer on her fingertips. I'm not a virgin anymore and I have my period. Yes, that's right.

I huddled up under my covers and pretended to sleep. Then I fell asleep for real, and then the psychologist came. He asked me questions, too. He asked if you forced me, and I said no by shaking my head. No, no, no.

“So, you consented?”

I didn't understand what that meant. Consenting means I said yes to you. But that wasn't right, because you were the one who said yes to me, so I wasn't sure. I said no to the psychologist, then yes. So he asked again, “Did he force you?” No. “So, you were okay with it?” Yes. And then I waited for him to ask, “Were you the one who wanted to do it?” And then I would have said YES. But he didn't ask me that question. That's how it went, Matt.

“As strange as it may seem,” the psychologist said to my parents, who were waiting in the kitchen, “I believe that Louella agreed to go with this boy and to have sexual relations with him.” My mother said that it wasn't possible, that I wasn't mature enough, that I was incapable of making even a simple decision. So, no. It wasn't possible.

“Louella's intellectual and decision-making abilities are limited,” he said. “However, she yells less than before and seems to be acclimatizing socially little by little. Her obsession with colors, which we've observed for several years, is nothing to be concerned about. At the special needs school, her behavior doesn't cause any major problems. We know that she is very impressionable. It's possible that she agreed to go with this boy and to have sexual relations with him. You know, normal or not…we never notice our children growing up.”

My mother didn't agree with what the psychologist said. She told him that he was wrong, that she knew me because she was my mother. I buried my head under the covers and didn't listen to the rest. It was dark, and hot. It was almost like the sleeping bag on the lake.