The Color Of A Fighter

TW: sexual abuse, physical abuse, institutional abuse

The boat is made from wood we found behind the cross-filled cemetery, buried under yellowing furniture and carriage carcasses with no wheels and rusted pails. A graveyard for trash behind a graveyard for people. You told me there's no difference between the two. We took the wood that didn't break when I jumped on it and built a sagging boat with a sagging hull.

You brought me red paint, said it would make the boat look like it belongs to me, and I had grinned. We missed Church to paint it, using a dirty rag to slap red onto the yellow and brown and orange planks. The next day, a bearded priest wrote SINNER on our foreheads and we stood statue-still as everyone formed a line to spit white clods of saliva at our feet. The Holy Saints look down on missing services.

It's dark now, and I can only see the dim outline as it bobs in the river—no red. A thick rope keeps the boat from running away with the river. The water is tar black, reflecting the sky: there are two moons, two boats, two sets of stars.

You watch as I pick up the first sack lying on the shore and toss it into the boat, then go back for the second. My life, gathered in six pilling moth-bitten sacks. The boat whines softly and rocks from the added weight, settling a little deeper into the river. You watch me, but don't offer to help. I want you to say something, to cry or yell or ask me why, but you only watch me.

“Did they touch you again?

You don't answer, don't move. I want to tell you it's not your fault, but you walk away when I say that, so I keep quiet. I need you here, to see you grow smaller as the river whirls me away. I toss another sack and it misses the boat, and lands with a splash, sending rippled circles across the water. I curse and wade in after it. The ice cold digs it's thousand pin prick fingers into my calves, and my ankle-long dress becomes heavy with water. The soggy hem clings to my skin, the fabric squelches when I gather it up. “I hate these dresses.”

You flinch like I am one of those balding priests. “Don't say that. We have to wear them—“

“I know, I know. We gotta be modest.” Only it's not modest when they come to your room, snap the light on and beat you if you don't let them do what they do. It's in the will of God, they say. You nod with me, arms folded, thin as a slip. A purple bruise is blossoming on your face, and a yellowing one below your mouth, like you ate chicken soup and forgot to clean off. I used to be jealous of your heart-shaped lips and delicate figure and eyes bordered with lashes that sweep your brow bone. I'm not jealous anymore.

“You should leave with me.” I'm close enough to grab you. I should drag you with me, bundle you int one of my sacks and row you far away, far from the monsters dressed in priests' robes and nuns' habits. Some people fight them, and some surrender every night. Which one are you?

“No.” You unfold your arms, fold them again. “This is our home; we grew up here. Why do you want to go?”

I've tried telling you what it is, to see thousands of stars, far enough to never reach, all alive, and to feel my breath catch. The stars aren't the only thing out there. There are horseless carriages that take you wherever you ask and places built only for eating and clothes that aren't shapeless black frocks and women who can choose whom they marry. There are the things Nana whispers about—roads that reach beyond our little town, roads that border the world—and you smiled when I told you, said Nana is a nice old lady, but a little soft in the head. She wears the bells around her neck, the ones the crazies have to wear. 

So I don't answer you, instead just turn away, bend down to get another sack and toss it to the boat. One sack—thump—and another—thump—and the last—thump. 

“It'll be hard to row.” You say. “The sacks'll make it heavy.”

“I can manage.” I managed when those boys pushed me into the pig pen and laughed when I got stuck, and when Sister Liza picked up my dress to check if I had sneaked extra fruit down my pantyhose. I say again, “I can manage.”

You finger the bracelet on your wrist, purple and green, made from fabric scraps you dyed our favorite colors. I'm wearing an identical one. “If you can get through Sister Penelope's scoldings, you can get through anything.”

“A-are you sure you won't come?”

You shake your head, and your face moves in and out of the weak moonlight. 

“You should!”

Your voice becomes very quiet. “Its not a magic trick.” I look up at you. “Even if the river takes you on it's most crooked winding path, you can never really get away.”

“I can.” I say loudly.

“I want to stay.” You smile, and your eyes look like the deer we hunt, when it sees us circling around with our guns cocked. “I... want to leave. But I... can't. I just can't. It's good you're getting away, but I...” Your quiet voice becomes quieter. “You understand, right?”

“No! If you leave, you can taste wine, wear something besides these dresses, eat good food and sleep in a comfortable bed and go swimming without the long wool swim robes and—”

“Those are sins.” 

“No it's not. No they're not!” 

You spread your fingers wide, palms facing me. “Don't yell. Can't we at least say goodbye as friends?” 

I breathe in sharply and whisper, “Okay. I... I just don't want you to stay.” My voice cracks.

You walk with me, in silence, up to where the river slaps at the shoreline, and I go the rest alone, into the water. My heart feels like lead, ready to sink the boat as soon as I step onto it. I kick up crystal drops as I walk; the water rises from my ankles to my calves to my knees, and I am beside the boat. I slip one leg over the hull, then the other, the world tumbles in a cartwheel, and my feet are not on solid footing, but on a wooden floor that is lurching side-to-side, rocking to the rhythm of the river. The braided rope, thicker than my wrist, is the only thing holding back me and my boat from flying away through the twisting water. 

You stand alone on the safe, steady ground, and we look at each other. I remember six-year old you, sitting on the side when we played tag, thumb in your mouth,hair in neat braids, watching from where you wouldn't dirty your dress. When the sisters gave out apples to whoever sang hymns the loudest, you got one even though you didn't sing—you were cute—and shared half with me. When we went hunting, you did everything right except pull the trigger. The animals were too alive. I've been your friend for so long I forgot what you're like.

My hair flaps around me, and wet strands curl at my face. There's no one to tell me to tie it back. I feel like the angels painted on The Holy Saints' Cathedral, wild and invincible and free. Do I look like them? The moonlight halos your face, a lock of auburn hair escapes your braid and whips your face. Your mouth is moving with no sound. Are you praying for me?

I tell you to let the rope loose, and you bend over. You hesitate, and I wonder what makes you do this for me when you call leaving a sin, then the rope is off. I'm floating down the river, slow at first, then gushing down the winding bends. I sit backwards, facing you, and I watch you standing there, dress pulled tight around you, as you grow smaller

and smaller 

and smaller

and smaller...