A Final Apology

She sat at the table, her hands pressed flat against the carvings in the worn wood.  Some were more distinct, yet some were hardly noticeable, worn from time or failed attempts to smooth them.  So many hands had traced these marks as she had, lost in the patterns as she was now.  She felt for initials of those hoping to leave a reminder of their existence etched in perpetuity, followed geometric designs and rudimentary sketches, and smirked at the jagged profanities dug in succession meant only as a means to pass the time. She wanted to feel their stories, to understand their minds from when they sat in the same lopsided metal chair, when the handcuffs bolted to the table dug into the raw skin around their wrists.  She wasn’t trying to escape from her shackles; she only wanted to live beyond them. 

“Miss Crider, would you answer the question please?” 

She looked up at the faces before her – blurs and lines, gelled hair and gray suits.  She had no idea if she had seen these men before or if this was their first acquaintance.  If they had been speaking to her beforehand, she could not recall.  The voices warped and distorted, like the announcer on the radio when the reception was poor during a storm.  She widened her eyes, trying to bring the forms across the table into focus. But the fluorescent bulb that dangled from a single, fraying cord swayed like a pendulum, each pass across her field of vision disturbing her focus further. She sat forward, leaning her weight onto her forearms, the sear of pain on her chafed skin sharpening her attention. 

“Your question?”  She inclined her head expectantly, the man to her right grumbling as though inconvenienced by her request. 

“Are you sorry, Miss Crider? For what you did?” 

“You don’t have to answer that, Julia.” A rough voice murmured beside her, his words muffled by the hand cupped around his mouth that reeked of stale cigarettes.  It was a voice she had heard before, in broken phrases and suggestions. One that was assigned to help her, as she could not provide one herself. The only voice outside of her head that defended her.  Or so she was told.  It was almost impossible to tell.

“We have danced around this long enough!” One of the gray bodies had jumped into standing, the crash of the metal chair on the tile punctuated by his shouting.  She pushed away from the noise, her shackles clanking against the heavy chains as she moved, her wrists skinned open once again from the grating of metal on flesh.  

“Answer the question!” 

She sat erect in her chair, eyes wide and pupils dilated, tracing the oscillations of the light bulb, right to left, to and fro, never ceasing, its motions propelled by the humming ceiling fan above.  She felt the rhythm, allowing her head and shoulders to abide by the demands of the illuminated conductor, swaying to the song that only she cared to hear.  Her throat began to vibrate, a raspy hum that resonated in her chest, the iron from the blood breaking through her cracked lips as she smiled.  She always loved music. 

“You were right, she’s batshit crazy…” A gray man mumbled.  The gray heads besides him nodded, but not to the beat that led her dance.  Their beats were concordant with the other grays, but dissonant with hers.  That only made her lean into the dance more, intensifying her commitment to the rhythm.  She did not want to trouble herself with them, knowing how such men thought, how such men behaved. She closed her eyes, sang her song, and moved to the tempo as innate as her own pulse. 

She had only just found solace, only just learned how to shut them out. It wasn’t easy, building the walls within her mind, finding the textures, the scents, the sounds that became the scaffolding of her shelter, the shield against the threats and demands from beyond that rained on her like bullets.  She was told they would make her stronger, but they had only led to suffering.  It broke her down, slowly, methodically, to the point where the only semblance of pleasure she knew was the burn on her cheek after his palm struck her face.  Because when her face began to swell, when the warmth began to radiate, she knew she would be left alone.  Usually.

She remembered the time before today, before she was chained to this chair in front of those men. There was a time where she would have apologized to those men, as though it were her fault they could not hear the song, her fault they could not feel the rhythm, her fault they could not understand. That was what had gotten her here in the first place, wasn’t it? Saying sorry like she didn’t mean it. 

It was one of the first words she learned, one of the first words she could say.  She had no other choice, as she was always in the wrong.  Saying the wrong thing, standing in the wrong place, looking the wrong way.  She never knew why she was wrong, just that she was.  As though her presence alone constituted an apology.  Attempts to correct her wrongdoings were always insufficient; her actions meant nothing if it was not paired with a proper apology. 

It wasn’t just the word that granted forgiveness, but how it was said.  Not a statement, but a sacrifice.  Presenting herself as an offering, a lamb willingly spearing herself with the spit.  The words were a recognition of misbehavior and the first act of contrition.  But to hold any meaning, they were given on bended knee, with eyes cast low, tears welling in the eyes, cries and whimpers rewards to the one doling out the corporal punishment. 

And then something changed.  She grew older, taller, her dresses longer and worries greater.  She apologized for everything, whether it was warranted or not.  She was fearful of mistakes, trembling at the anticipation of punishment and the sweet respite of release it would bring.  She deserved the abuse, needed the abuse.  Without the harsh words, without the culpability, she was lost. But now she was told not to apologize.  She was told to say nothing at all. 

She continued on, cringing at each criticism internally and masking her dismay with more apologies and forced smiles.  This cycle was repeated ad nauseum, the words of contrition to her parents, to her friends, her suitors, and eventually to the new man she was told she would be betrothed to as though they were her personal creed.  It did not matter who she apologized to, so long as she knew her place. 

The next words she remembered saying were “I do.” 

She had hoped the future would be different.  A different owner, a different leash.  One that seemed to be lax at times, only nudging her with gentle tugs, guiding rather than coercing. One whose face was painted in a smile, whose eyes were bright, whose words were warm and tender. 

Until the chicken wasn’t. 

He had tolerated her cooking.  Even complimented it.  Scraped the plate clean, even helped with the dishes on occasion.  But he started arriving later, the glint in his eyes now dulled, the charming grin a permanent scowl.  Washing the dishes became an impossibility, a ridiculous ask, especially as one hand held a glass and the other firmly attached to a bottle.  

And one day, the chicken was dry, every last juice evaporated to nothing, the skin burnt and the meat jaundiced.  Even the potatoes were cooked beyond recognition. She knew as soon as she placed the plate on the table before him. 

He didn’t say a word.  He didn’t need to.  The aggravation, the indignation, was palpable, the air in the kitchen somehow hotter than the blaring oven.  She did not need him to speak or move to know.  Her hands began to tremble, her vision began to blur.  The words spilled out of her as easily as she had overcooked the chicken.  

“I’m sorry.” 

He laughed.  Not a laugh of forgiveness, or of absolution.  His laugh was cruel and thin.  Anger teetering on the edge of unrestrained rage. 

She said it again.  

“You’re sorry?  You said you’re sorry?”  

She knew he did not want her to respond. 

“Don’t fucking apologize to me.  Don’t say anything at all. Fucking fix it.” 

He shoved the plate aside, the rim circling on the wood for one, two, three rotations before settling with a clash.  She bit her tongue, fearful she would speak again if she did not force herself into silence.  She grabbed the plate, hurrying to the kitchen, the warmth of the oven luring sweat from her brow. The oven door was barely cracked open, something she always did to help the oven cool.  But now, the warmth felt suffocating.  She scraped the food into the bin, using the carving knife that was resting on the counter to clear every last scrap.  And standing in front of the sink, plate still in hand, she let the cool water warm, the warm water boil, not noticing the stream scalding the skin of her hand.  Then suddenly, she drew her hands back, the plate shattering into pieces on the bottom of the sud laden sink.  

A chair in the kitchen slid quickly on the linoleum, heavy footsteps pounding towards her. 

“I -I am sorry.” 

That was the wrong thing to say. 

“Would you stop the fucking racket? Shut your mouth! It is so fucking loud in this god damned house!” He had grabbed her shoulders, throwing her towards the oven.  The back of her arms seared as she crashed into the door of the open oven.   

Her instinct was to apologize again. That had been the answer for so long. 

Sorry.

Sorry.

Sorry. 

He continued to shake her, and continued to scream.  Demanding that she stop the racket, to quiet down. 

It was so loud. 

So loud. 

So she stopped the noise. 

The yelling was replaced with a grunt, the grunt was replaced with the retching of blood, and the retching was replaced by a collapse of his body and the clattering of the carving knife on the floor. 

But she did as he asked. 

It was quiet. 

She sighed, relieved.  She had done as he had asked.  She had stopped the racket.  She had done as she was told.  

She looked up, escaping her reverie and allowing herself to gaze upon the gray men before her.  Their jaws were agape, the pens cast uncapped on the notebooks flared open before them.  Their breaths were caught between confusion and realization, waiting for her to lead them to the latter. 

The silence was delectable, the only sounds she heard were those she allowed to echo in her own mind.And when she silenced those, it was utter bliss.

A bliss she could only make sweeter by answering their question.

“How could I be sorry?”

The gray on the left scooted forward in his chair, grasping for the open pen on his notes.

“Beg pardon, ma’am?”

She leaned closer, the grays shifting away as though afraid.  Of her! 

“I was doing what I was told. How can I apologize for behaving?”

The grays looked at each other in confusion, unsure whether to egg her on or allow her to continue unprompted. She did not need their encouragement. 

“I only wish I would have done it sooner…”  Her voice trailed, her fingers tracing the letters dug into the table beneath her hands?

“Done what sooner?”  Gray on the right, so eager for her to continue. 

“Stop saying sorry.”