Your Lifeless Arm

This . . . is not a work of fiction.

A woman I once loved hit me in the face. She hit me as hard as she could. I could tell by how fast she leaped from her chair, by the way her arm muscles twitched, by the clenching of her jaw. I was sitting down when she struck me. The blow knocked the tunnel from my stretched ear lobe. Months later I found the tunnel in a paper sack she had hastily filled with some of my belongings. She must have found it on the floor of her kitchen. I decided I couldn't wear the earring anymore. So, I placed it in an envelope and labeled it "Left - the side she hit me." The right earring was useless without it's matching partner. So, it received a similar treatment, but that envelope simply read "Right." Speaking of my left ear, it rang in waves for three hours after she hit me. Also, it took two days for the redness and swelling to finally subside from my cheek.

Yes, she hit me that hard.

It was an open-handed slap, a description she often used in an attempt to mitigate the violence it actually represented. Through it all, however, violence is violence and one can't soften a physical blow by describing it with soft words. And yes, I know this momentary onslaught was not the worst anyone has ever endured, especially women. Be that as it may, my experience definitely exceeded the cutesy, poorly-deserved slaps across the face you see on television, in books and in the movies. This, as a storytelling cliché, infuriates me to no end because it perpetuates the idea it is acceptable for women to hit men in situations that don't call for it.

The actual chair from which she leaped.

To be clear, this wasn't the only time my ex physically attacked me. She pushed me to the floor of her apartment a couple times. Plus, in the worst times, she administered no shortage of emotional abuse. I could explain the details that gave rise to her abuse and violence. I could talk more about her infidelity and how she lied to me, but these details are really quite unnecessary and, frankly, they are entirely unimportant to me these days. Simply put, the only important thing to know is she took a shit on nearly every relationship agreement we ever made. What's more, I did nothing to warrant her physical or emotional abuse. I did not physically harm her or even threaten her. She wasn't defending her safety. In short, I simply called attention to her narcissistic facade, she lost control and she hit me - flat out.

No gruesome act followed. I did not restrain her or return the violence. I remained quiet as her breath heaved in my face. I was mostly in shock. It's not every day someone, who claims they love you, tries to smack a hole in your face. I recall the way one side of her nose scrunched up tight. How her nostrils flared. And how her blue eyes glowed as angry, frost-bitten orbs. Truly, the look on her face would have scared children. And, under closer consideration, I see this now as one likely explanation for the made-up stories of witches who live alone in a neglected house at the edge of every suburban neighborhood in America.

Yes, her face looked that frightening.

Thinking back on that moment, though, I suppose it could have turned ugly. I recall how, several months later while still suffering from blinding rage over her trespasses, I imagined myself exploding from my chair, grabbing her by the back of the head and smashing her pretty face into the kitchen counter repeatedly until I hyperventilated. I'm deeply ashamed I even thought this, but thank goodness for the difference between a misguided thought and one put into action. I take solace in that I did not become violent as she did. I did not lose control. I did not do what so many men do to women all over the world.

Staring in the face of her narcissistic rage, I stayed relatively calm and curtly said, "You shouldn't have done that."

My physical injury, of course, went away a lot faster than the emotional one. Such is the case when dealing with an abusive partner. In turn, I began having violent nightmares about her, ones where retribution for her violence played out. A couple dreams had her paralyzed from a broken neck. In another, I watched her take a stray bullet in the back of the head from somewhere outside her apartment window and, in my conscious mind, I can still hear the sound of her body hitting the floor; I can still see one of her eyeballs bursting into a fleshy mist when the bullet exited her socket.

I barely slept.

You would think these images would provide some sort of feeling of redemption. Instead, the nightmares crippled me for days. I walked around like a zombie, wide-eyed and reliving the imagery over and over again. I'd sometimes wake up with tears streaming down my cheeks and I'm pretty sure I yelled in my sleep a couple times.

Surrounded by the fear of constantly reliving my nightmares, I resolved to do something about it. A year or so after she hit me, I finally mustered up the courage to write down the dream I had most often. I hoped this treatment would help to flush it from my mind. I hoped to finally kill the thief who had stolen my sanity and my sleep.

The following is what I wrote that night:

I won't be able to scratch the images of your lifeless arm out of my head. Your screams. Your blood. Your loss. These images will stay with me for the rest of my life. They came in the constant nightmares I had after I left you.

This won't be easy . . .

The nightmare goes like this:

I recall thinking, over and over, about how none of this was supposed to happen while I was tied to a load-bearing post in a basement. The shadows were sharp and deep everywhere I looked. The musty smell of mold filled the air. I tried to swallow, but the gag in my mouth prevented it. I choked instead. My tongue tasted like rust. I concentrated on breathing through my nose. The left side of my face hurt. It felt swollen and a trail of something sticky stretched from an ear to my chest - definitely blood.

"Left - the side she hit me."

I blinked my eyes, adjusting to dim light. I heard a body shifting ahead of me. I concentrated through a blur.

And then I saw you.

You were facing away from me, draped over a large wooden barrel. It looked like you were hugging it. Ropes bound your wrists, which were tied off at two eye bolts mounted to the floor on either side of the barrel. You were face-down, but I could see your head bobbing up and down.

You whimpered. The weeping crushed my spirit. You sounded like a dying ghost.

I tried to call out to you, but the dirty rag in my mouth made me sound a thousand miles away. All of my efforts to reach you only made me choke again.

You finally noticed the noise I made. With great strain, you tried to turn your eyes toward me, but you couldn't. I won't soon forget the fear in your voice when you spoke. So broken with fear.

"Who's there?" you asked.

I mumbled through cloth, not making any sense.

"Speak to me, please," you continued, your voice rising and starting to sound like glass breaking in slow-motion.

I couldn't answer you. Whoever put the gag in my mouth knew what they were doing. They knew my words would have made sense to you. They knew my words would have comforted you.

"Speak to me!" you screamed finally, kicking your feet and trying to flail your body off the barrel. But it was no use. You could barely move. Your wrists were bound too tightly.

Tears streamed down my face. I could do nothing to help you. I strained against my own bondage and it didn't budge anymore than yours. I watched you, helpless, convulse over the barrel wracked with fear and grief. You cried so violently that your asthma kicked in and your sobs turned into desperate gulps for air.

I'm not sure why our assailant chose to gag only one of us. There is meaning in that, but I still don't know what it is.

A door suddenly opened at the top of some stairs. From above, a blade of light cut through the stale basement air. I saw specs of dust floating and I made every effort to think of them as frolicking stars - like the stars I recall from the beginning of our relationship.

A squat, pear-shaped figure stepped into the light, hands on hips. The figure issued a sigh that sounded irritated and something about it seemed familiar. I got the feeling I knew the person at the top of the stairs. It sounded like a woman. But who was it? She stepped down and closed the door behind her. The blade of warm light disappeared.

You looked up from your barrel to see the woman full on as she got closer to you.

"Mama?" you said suddenly in soft, hopeful voice. "Oh, mama! Help me! Please, help me!"

My eyes widened in complete disbelief. Your mother stood in front of you. Surely, we'd be saved, but how the fuck did she find us? She lived so far away. She was so far away, so distant from being truly available for most of your life. Her sudden presence seemed out of place.

You sobbed uncontrollably. Tears of relief.

"Help me," you said again with a whisper.

"Shut up!" your mother returned sharply.

A dreadful heat rose in my chest. Your mother was not there to save us.

Seeing I was awake, she walked over to me. Her eyes locked on mine and she grabbed my hair in a tiny, violent fist.

"Mama, what's going on? I don't understand. Get me outta here!"

Still holding my hair fast, she turned her head in your direction and yelled, "Shut up, you stupid girl! I said shut up!" I've heard that voice before; I remember your mother screaming at your step dad when we visited them. It was a lot like your voice . . . screaming at me.

She banged the back of my head against the post and I nearly passed out. And then she slapped me hard across the face. Her eyes lit up with malice while she wiped a bloody hand on her pants. My ear began ringing from the blow and I realized the source of the dried blood.

"You will watch," your mother suddenly said to me.

She turned away and walked over to a work bench lit by a small, teal-colored desk lamp. From the bench she grabbed a dirty hacksaw and walked back to you.

Your mom's breathing turned course, like she had broken, jagged concrete in her lungs. She palmed your chin with her free hand. Her eyes, severe and dangerous, pointed at you and her face contorted with derision.

"Oh, stop your crying, you little shit. Your crying is done! What did I always tell you? You only get to cry for so long and after that you're done. Your sadness is done. Turn it off now!"

She shoved your face from her palm and then knelt down next to you.

I watched in horror as she rested the blade of the hacksaw on your right arm.

Your body went rigid. You had just realized what was about to happen. Your own mother would separate you from your arm.

"Ma-mama, what're you doing?"

"Oh, shut up. It's time for you start seeing things correctly."

"Mama-stop-NO!"

You jerked in all directions to free yourself, but nothing worked.

Without warning, your mother drew the blade across your flesh below your shoulder.

You screamed. I'll never forget that sound. The blade was already deep and your mom continued to saw. I watched her labor change when she got to your bone. Blood poured in waves down the barrel. It pooled on the floor. My eyes reached for the back of my head, but I couldn't stop watching. You wailed and wailed. You sounded like a wild banshee being raped.

Mama's done saving your life.

Your mother gritted her teeth, getting through the bone.

You lost consciousness from the pain.

Your mother grunted, finishing the job.

When she was done, you fell asunder from the barrel to the floor, your arm on one side and the rest of you on the other. Blood squirted from your stump. You came to and the screaming started again. You tried to pull yourself away and I could hear your exposed bone clicking on the concrete floor. Your mother stood up and kicked you in the gut and then she re-positioned herself to punt your nose toward the back of your head. Your nose would be squashed and crooked for the rest of your life because of that kick.

"Quit squirming!" she yelled. "I need to tie off your arm! You have to live through this!"

She applied a tourniquet to your shoulder and the bleeding subsided. You vomited several times until they turned into dry heaves. I didn't blame you; I could barely keep the bile down in my own throat.

You looked up and saw me. Our eyes locked. We were both crying. Wet diamonds from my eyes. Wet glass from yours. You had a strange look on your face - as if you were understanding me for the first time, like you finally understood what it meant to sacrifice.

When your mother was done saving your life, she walked over to me and without hesitation hit me upside the head with a 2 X 4. The last thing I remember before I lost consciousness was the image of you peering hopelessly at your dead arm on the floor nearby. You would never have that arm again. You will never drive a manual transmission again. Tying your shoes will be nearly impossible. You won't be able to put up your hair the way you like without paying someone to do it. Every bit of dancing you'll do for the rest of your life will be out of balance. Hugging friends will only be half as strong. And you won't be able to please a lover the same way you use to.

And I . . . I will never forget how you hit me.