Drown the B'ch

Her head feels so small under the palm of my hand; her dark hair is swirling around my fingers as she struggles for me to let her up for air.

I just wanted her to be gone, and if this was how it was going to go then, two birds, one stone. Things have gotten so much more challenging since she moved in with us. She has taken away the solitude of my room and filled it with innumerable stuffed animals. The fluffy pastel-colored hellions cover every surface, even my piano. If I find a moment to practice, the fluffy dust collecting tattletales shift around or fall over the place. She doesn’t have the same load of chores, and I am always cleaning up after her, and I hate her for it.

Cleaning up after her; is not direct instruction, just me avoiding further punishment for the messes she and her boyfriend make. My step-father never hits her; he doesn’t even yell at her. I don’t know if it is because he hates me so much or if he is that afraid of her mother.

She is almost exactly one year younger than me to the day, but she is tiny; her struggling against my holding her underwater is not doing anything. I am in control. I control this situation. No one is home. I have my destiny in my hands. I have her destiny in my hands, and this would change everything.

My chest feels heavy as I try to catch my breathe. I stand there waist-deep in the pool with my eyes shut; I think of my mother’s friend's husband sitting on the edge of my bed in the basement, telling me how he would make me feel better. I was five years old with a broken collar bone. I can see the single bulb swing back and forth and the pain shot through my shoulder. I didn’t understand as he touched me, as he grunted and then abruptly left. I didn’t understand the shame I felt. I didn’t understand why my mother wouldn’t hear me. I held that secret.

I think of boarding school and the headmaster standing in the cafeteria with a 2x4, smacking it against his palm – “come get your stuff, one whack for everything you claim, two whacks for everything you don’t claim.” I was always so careful not to leave anything out of place, but the terror would churn my stomach until I’d hurl my diner back onto the compartmentalized tray, like a blended pure of mushy food. I held that secret.

I think of the train slamming into my best friend, whisking him away, and sucking at my nightgown, like a broken promise to take me too. Rock in the River. The overwhelming hurt and the bitterness that I felt for not having the courage to join him burned in my chest. I held that secret.

I think of all the time that my step-father has hit me or belittled me….zipping through my mind like a montage of exploding white pain or blood-flushing embarrassment. I am holding that secret.

I think of neighbors kind of trying to help but never really helping. I think of all the times I would try to share my secrets, but either no one would hear me, or I just decided it was easier to hold those secrets. I am so tired of holding all of these secrets. They weigh heavy on me. No one is going to rescue me, and I don’t have the courage to rescue myself.

My step-sister digs her nails into the back of my hand, and I look down at her struggling to come up, fighting to get a chance to breathe. I see the blood of where she was gouging me swirling in the water, but I don’t feel it. I am numb. The weight of all those secrets is like a weighted blanket that muffles everything. I feel no joy, no sadness, and no pain. I let her up, so I could see her gasp for air, and I pushed her back down. I am in control.

I think of my Dad as he sat in the mustard yellow chair at the gate, as my mom and I boarded the plane what seems like so long ago; 6 years ago, he just let my mom take me, only six years ago so much has happened.

I think of last night when my step-sister and her boyfriend were drying trays of weed in the oven while my mom and stepfather were out to dinner. The house stank, and it will be me punished. The boyfriend finally leaves only to come back and egg the house. It’s 10:00 at night, and I am sobbing, trying to get all of the teak wood clean before they get home. My step-sister and her boyfriend stood there and laughed. Then, chanting “freak…freak…freak,” I am not a freak!!

Back to the task at hand, I pull her head up; she is sputtering, “YOU ARE CRAZY!! So down she goes, I am in control.

The side of my face is still throbbing; it is bruised and swollen from where my stepfather slammed my face into the side of the garage door last night. I can still feel the burn of his whisky breath filling my lungs; burning, He was in a full alcoholic rage. I tried to explain why I was hosing down the garage door and driveway at 10:00 at night, but he wouldn’t hear me. No one was there; they had vanished, leaving me to take the blame; I was doing the right thing, but it didn’t matter. He pulls my head back and slams it again against the wet clean, teak wood of the garage door.

I couldn’t go to the hospital again, but I couldn’t go to school either. I spent the day alone, in solitude, waiting for round two when she came home. I’ve been cleaning the pool, and I get in to cool off. I hear my step-sister coming into the house. We go to different schools. The glass door scrapes open, and she jumps in the pool laughing and splashing me, calling me “nutter,” that’s a new name. I don’t answer, my brain is numb, and she’s taunting me, “last night was fun. I’m gonna just make stuff up to see the show”. Her voice scraped against my nerves, “Maybe I’ll invite the girls over to watch this time.” I don’t answer. Everything she says is true; it’s that easy to get the shit beaten out of me. She comes closer to see why I’m not responding. Closer. Closer. Bam, she’s underwater, and my hand is holding her there. I am in control. Now what?

When I finally let her head go. She scrambles out of the pool, screaming, “YOU'RE CRAZY!!” and runs into the house. I sit on the pool stairs.

I don’t know how much time has passed; it’s getting dark. I don’t hear anything except the monkeys’ chittering in the trees. It’s getting cool, I haven’t turned on the lights for them to warm up, and I haven’t put out the apples that I sneak home for them. “No apples today.” My stepfather is out of town; the last thing he said was, “maybe you should go back to boarding school; his daughter is his priority.”

I wish I could cry. I know this is going to get worse.