Words

 

I’m trying not to think about what having sent this letter might mean. What’s done is done. The less I think about it, the less likely I am to torment myself with worrying thoughts about “what could happen.”

I made sure to drop it in her mailbox at a time where Angela doesn’t usually come home. I didn’t want to be seen. Or caught. It’s fortunate, I guess, that my despicable act of recording her walk home revealed which box belonged to her – my avenue of hope.

I just hope that she’s the only one in her unit with short black hair and a tendency to wear red.

I’ll check back tomorrow. Part of me screams of the stupidity in hoping for a response apart from a call to the authorities. Part of me is hopeful regardless. Either way, part of me is crazy.

While I wrote it, with every step and minute on the train, I didn’t stop to think about any consequence. I kept myself focused on the thought of connecting with her. I chose to pretend that none of this had ever happened, I chose to shun aside what I thought was a curse and regard it as a moment of delusion. A long moment.

As I slipped it into the mailbox, I felt optimistic. But once it slid into the metal and beyond my sight, I couldn’t shake the feeling that this was a mistake of the most severe degree. I turned to walk away immediately and forget that I had sent the letter. Regret is now the enemy. Its army was a sinking feeling in my stomach.

There was some sort of rally taking place at my local Town Hall – from what I gathered, femenism was the topic. My attention dwindled – the gentle swaying of the train ride back home wasn’t the most envigorating. I peered around at the women (and men) in the crowd as the various speakers took the outdoor podium to yarn on about injustices and the lot, and saw the audience’s interest change with each.

A blonde haired, articulate, early 30s law graduate took the stand to talk about the glass ceiling. Everyone hung on her every word. Good looking people have that kind of effect. She didn’t really break any new ground on the issue, but she spoke well. The crowds stared in admiration.

Following her was an Asian migrant, who’s occupation I didn’t catch as I (along with others) marvelled at the difficulty involved in pronouncing her name. A greater contrast couldn’t exist. She shook, her words were nervous and rarely in correct grammar. She struggled, to say the least. Peering around, I saw every set of eyes roll. Not the “good god save us” roll, but more of the “good god save us – but let’s still pretend to listen attentively because we’ll be ‘racist’ if we don’t on account of her shitty English.” I couldn’t really understand what she said – but I got the feeling that I was at a loss.

It was during this observation that I spotted her.

Naomi.

She was standing a few feet away from me with an old handbag clutched between her arm and ribs. Her bruise hadn’t healed at all – there were now a few smaller bruises along her forehead, chin and arms. Her hair was frizzed, more so than when I first saw her. Her eyes were almost a Drug-Fucked shade of red. Poor Naomi.

Within moments she turned and walked away casually, away from the crowd. Her manner suggests she was just as much a casual observer of this spectacle as I was. Perhaps she had an interest in the issue, but lacked belief. I, on the other hand, just have a knack for wanting to know what’s happening. Did I care about their plight? Not particularly. The world’s too full of narrowminded pricks to give my interest or active participation any relevance or justification. The world’s going to be a discriminatory place regardless, but at least it can be so and not dig into my time.

Careful not to be noticed, I broke off from the crowd and followed her at a distance. She’s no Angela, but she yet remains a mystery. I’m curious. Two and two make four.

She gallopped her stained runners through several residential streets before arriving at a brick fortress that bordered on derelict. She nervously made her way past the electrician’s van parked in the driveway. Its logos, tagline and phone number were the only colour visible in this scene – yet still plain and indicitive of a self-employed cheap tradesman.

That’s when he marched out the door in a haze of anger and what I’d describe as intoxication; were it not for the patch of white powder clinging to his nose. Typical. He moved forward onto the porch and collapsed into her arms, hugging her in a very dependent, needy manner. For a moment, I almost felt sympathy for these two lost souls and their symptoms of suffering.

Still embracing, he slowly slid his hands under the back of her top and feebly reached for her bra strap. Naomi, still until now, pushed him back gently. He grabbed her arm and pulled her inside – muttering in a quiet, belligerent manner. She barely resisted. The screen door creaked and closed with a weak thud.

The puzzle pieces fit. There were only two. The whole picture was as I had guessed it.

It was a slow walk home. I now knew of Naomi’s story and felt a level of discomfort thinking about it. I felt the warmth and optimism of the last few days fade away the more I thought of the image of her being dragged inside. My gut fell cold at the recurring image of that drooling bastard reaching to undress her on the very porch.

But it was her silence that made me stare into nothingness. It was that feeling when shock takes you and your mouth struggles to even form a frown. Why did she stay silent? I imagine her presence at the femenist rally showed a deep seated desire to be free of this predicament – so why say nothing? Was she dependent on him? Was she in fear of him? Did she love him? Despite how he treated her, was she trapped in a cage of love?

Even love must have its limits. I guess, I pray that it does. For her sake.

Because she didn’t say a word.

As such, who she was ceased. There is no greater form of powerlessness.

Trust me.

Speech is the mirror of the soul; as a man speaks, so he is.

- Publilius Syrus