Ally or Adversary?

I could not bear to look at her. Not again. I knew she was there, in front of me, waiting to be seen, but I could not bring myself to do it.

“Why?” she asked me, like she always did.

Slouching, I stared down through my dark, stringy tresses. I don’t know why.

“I think you do know,” she returned. “You just don’t want to face it. Do you?”

Continuing to hide, I shrugged to acknowledge her question, her presence, and her concern, but I could not, would not, make eye contact. Her judgment weighed down on my skull, boring into my brain. She wanted answers. I get it.

My bony arms rested on each other as they wrapped around my churning stomach. Their pale skin so translucent the veins could be easily mapped. There was a new bruise among the old, and my hand snuck up to cover it with fingernails filled with dirt and covered with chipped polish.

“How’d that happen?” she asked.

I shrugged again.

“Don’t do this,” she whispered.

My legs shook under her burden. Why does it always have to be this way?

“When will you be ready to face this? You can’t just keep ignoring it.”

I tried to ignore her by studying the countertop between us. Like me, it had once been white and clean and new, but now was stained, sullied, and aged. My hands dropped to grip the tile edge in comradery and support, leaving the mystery bruise temporarily exposed and vulnerable.

“You are the only person that can make this stop.”

My fingers tightened around the lip, and I tried to stand up straighter without looking up. Swaying slightly, I swallowed the reflux that arrived in my throat and braced myself for the rest of her reprobation.

There was silence, and it was worse than her words.

We both waited for the first sign of submission in the other. I pictured her sharpening a big knife on a leather strap while smiling maniacally at my cowered shoulders. Preparing for her razor-sharp attack by lulling me into raising my face to hers, lifting my chin, exposing my heart.

My muscles tensed around vital organs and girded my defenses.

“You deserve better,” she said, and the first layer was sliced through.

My arms started to shake, and leaning in on them was all I could do to hinder them.

“Don’t do this,” I whispered.

“I have to. You know that. No one else will. No one.”

We both took a deep breath to sustain our strength or summon it.

“No one gives a shit about you.”

I know.

“The random cuts and bruises.”

Don’t.

“The missing money and memory.”

Stop.

“It’s abuse.”

Please.

“It has to stop. It’s going to kill you.”

Shaking my head, I wanted to cover my ears, but my hands were locked on the edge of the counter.

“You deserve better.”

No, I don’t.

“Yes, you do.”

No.

“Yes.”

She paused; I waited.

“I love you.”

No. I shook my head. No one loves me.

“I do. I always have, and I always will. And I can’t let this continue. This needs to stop. When you were little, you swore you would never let this happen. Remember?”

I tried to nod.

“You remember. I know you do. You would watch your parents go at it, and you hated them for it. Hated. Remember?”

I offered a small nod while still looking down.

“You deserved better,” she paused, and then said, “you still do.”

We both released the lungful of strength we had shared earlier, and she continued. “You can do this.”

I can’t.

“You can.”

I shook my head.

“Look at me.”

I shook it more vigorously.

“Yes. Look at me. Now.”

Slowly, I lifted my head and released my death grip so as to brush the matted mess out of my eyes.

Her eyes were sad. They were filled with tears and love for me. Tilting her head slightly and biting her lip like I always did, she waited.

Finally, she repeated, “You can do it.”

Without unlocking our eyes, I shook my head slowly.

She leaned in toward me, and I did as well. She whispered, “You can,” and I rested my forehead on hers.

“You deserve better, and only you can make it stop. I believe in you.”

Resting nose to nose, I began to cry. Small sobs bubbled out, then messy hot tears and snot. Eventually, I pushed away and rolled back on my heels. Reaching for a tissue and swiping at my face, I began to laugh. First, involuntary chuckles while blowing my nose. Then, silly giggles as I pulled myself together.

She waited while the healing began.

Then, I stood a little taller and felt a little lighter. Surveying the counter, my eyes ran over the toothbrush I forgot to use the night before, three empty glasses with different stages of dried burgundy around their rims, and a mostly drained bottle of gin. My hand shook slightly while reaching out to it, but once my fingers wrapped around the neck, all I wanted to do was squeeze the life out of it. I yanked it off the tile with one hand and smacked the bottom of the bottle with the flat of my other. Looking down at the enemy stirred my disdain. I shook it violently, and its meager remains sloshed in surrender.

“You can do it,” she said.

Blinking away the hateful trance, I looked up at her. For the first time, in a very long time, I saw her, really saw her. Her hair was a bit stringy and unkempt. Her eyes were puffy and red from crying. She was biting her lip, and in her hands was the gin bottle.

We stared at each other. Then, we smiled.

We said, “You deserve better,” and finally I believed it.

I looked at her and said, “Yes, I do.”

We both held the bottle over the sink between us and began to pour.

I emptied every last drop of gin, a few more tears, and the dregs of my soul down the drain in front of the mirror.