Mosaic into another forest

-"I don't make resolutions." she says dreamily to herself, "That only betrays that we expect that the paths we've walked in the past year will be the same ones we're going to take in the next. Or at least the fear of it. That is probably why we are not able to keep them. Fear is a bad motivator. At least for me anyway."

-No resolutions," I say softly, "but intentions perhaps?"

She shakes her head resolutely, sinks back on the couch, and puts one arm under her head.

-"I remap." she says, staring at the ceiling. "I paint a mosaic that runs in different directions. A pattern that requires all my attention. Every form is mapped out, and with every stroke of the brush I wonder if I still want this form."

She brings her fingers to her lips as if holding a cigarette: "I could die for one." she says, looking at me questioningly.

-"Can't help you there." I answer.

-"I have always been wild. Or maybe I have always been asking for trouble." she sighs.

-"Somewhere along the way I chose to be predatory and promiscuous."

"Why?" I ask curiously.

-"So that no man should have that advantage over me.

She sits up straight again with her knees drawn up.

-"Can I entrust you with a story?" she asks.

-"Naturally." I answer.

-"This is a story I would tell on my deathbed. A story about the aftermath of events." she starts.

-A before and after story, in other words." I interrupt her.

-"What happened lasted a few minutes, and it took me nowhere for a long time. Not that I could talk to my mom about it. Or anyone. There was no talking in our house. That is one of the few things I could be sure about growing up.

We met at the water tower, with its darkness and our daring. We were sixteen or seventeen and searching without knowing what we were looking for.

He always drove ten miles out of our village to a liquor store first.

Back then, I was known for two things: the drunkest at any party, and the drunkest one anyone could do whatever they wanted with.

I used to drink two to one of everyone else, then wander off to back seats, back rooms, and into the back of more pickups than I care to remember. Problems had a way of finding me. Maybe it all started with the lukewarm beer I drank in my locker in the morning before class started. Or the beer I stole from the fridge. Or maybe it was when I sneaked over to Bill's house to sit on the porch and spend the afternoon French kissing. Or maybe it was the parking lots and pickups, and that one night where I learned what troubles my problems could cause, and yet kept running back to them.

It was a normal day, and I walked home with Bill after school. We often did that. His mother was always in her room and not to be disturbed. And as far as my mother was concerned, she only cared that I showed up for dinner.

That day, Bill and I sat down in the basement and listened to music. His older brother was in the house too. When Bill briefly went upstairs, his brother dragged me into the bathroom in the basement, where he let me touch his penis. He showed me a picture of a naked woman with a lot of pubic hair, which scared me. I still remember that. What I forgot is if he put his penis in my mouth. When he was done with me, he opened the door and pushed me out. He laughed. Yes, I remember that all too well: he laughed.

I did not tell Bill. I believe it was planned. I went home and did not tell anyone there either. I just sat down at the table. strangely enough, I remember exactly what was on my plate that evening: hard rolls and boiled vegetables. I drank a glass of milk and went to lie down on my bed staring at the wall.

Everything changed that day, and I did not tell anyone.

My mother had never given me advice about the dangers I might face. She never even tried to protect me. She was fatalistic; non-religious. What would she have thought of that laughter when he kicked me out that door?

I leaned toward the edges of nothing good far too quickly so that I could forget. It was never so much rebellion as it was about escape.

I can still hear his laughter. He laughed because he knew I could not tell anyone.

Once after a concert, two guys carried me to the car because I was too drunk to walk. One of the boys was only two years older than me; I was not yet sixteen. He was devastatingly man-like and dangerously evolved.

I remember him driving a long car. Something old that would not have been cool if someone else had driven it.

He drove extremely fast; I clenched my fists around the door handle. The threat of being in the car with him was stronger than my silent desire. That same longing still vibrated through me when I stood next to him at another concert.

I do not remember how he got it, but at one point he came back with two beers in his hand. I drank it of course. And then another and I do not remember how many others. I do not remember anything about that concert, but I have a flash in my memory, that this boy asked a man to help him carry me to the car. Then he drove to a dark parking lot. Dark yes, it was so dark there. He sat on me and in me and then drove me home. When I asked him why he did that, he laughed and said he had to do something to get me sober. And I walked up the long sidewalk to the front door of my house. I walked to the bathroom. I can still see all the blood. I was so afraid of it. Yes, I was afraid of all that blood.

Is there anything that could have prepared me? Could my mother have said something that would have been effective?

I sometimes wonder if I inherited her fatalism and her belief that whatever I did would always get me in trouble.

At sixteen, I was innocent. As innocent as an animal that has been taught not to bite.

On a Saturday evening in March, I went to a party with a friend. I lied to my parents about where I was going.

A cousin of that friend brought us to the party. He would pick us up later and take us home. That cousin was considered the most handsome man in the village. And was complete and utter trouble. A man who could have any girl he wanted and dump her as easily as soon as he was done with her.

He was indeed very handsome, but also very boring. At the party, of course, I drank with abandon. I had a fun time and laughed my head off. There was not a trace of caution or concern in me. By the time we had to go home, I was so drunk I could not go down the stairs. My friend's cousin carried me down two flights and put me in the car. There he took possession of me, and I have no idea what became of my friend.

When he finished with me in the car, that cousin took me to a house and threw me on a bed. I was in and out of consciousness, I opened my eyes as he sat on top of me. I have no idea how long he was on top of me. When he was done, he pulled me up, put me in the car, and drove me home. Not a word was exchanged between us. He did not even get out to help me to the door. Get out! That was all he said.

I went to the back porch looking for a key to open the door. I do not know if my father heard me from his bedroom, but it is hard to believe he didn't even guess something was wrong when I ran a bath at 4:30 in the morning.

My mother did not move that night either. She never did, by the way. The next morning my father told me that his mother had passed away.

At night boys knocked on my bedroom window sometimes, or they called me on the phone to tell me that they wanted to meet me. I closed the curtains and hung up the phone.

A lot of my trouble happened in hotel rooms. What I remember best is my body heavy and rocky in a blue haze of TV glare.

I wonder if my parents could ever read the panic on my face. The kind of anxiety attack that comes on when you fall off a ledge.

I once had a conversation with a woman who, after a dozen glasses of wine, told me that she had spent hours under a bed during her teen years. Hiding from her stepbrother. We had something in common, that woman and I: siren-like sexual aggression, a craving for conquest, and a need for nights that end with a man in us and our mouths. Probably, she too had chosen to be predatory somewhere along the way.

When I was seventeen, my mother decided she had reached the end of her tether to deal with me. She was done with the burden I had always been. Maybe I was never wanted.

I think women look at each other and see something we'd rather not see in ourselves. I know I do.

Sometimes I see the futility of trying to get across the water safely. I am probably running too fast for that. I always ran to the same forest.

-"I was always wild." she sighs as she stands up. "But now I don't expect the paths I walk to be the same as the ones I want to take now. I do not play drinking games anymore so they can get me drunk enough and they all get to watch. I am not a shadow anymore. Now I paint mosaics, with patterns that require all my attention and patience.

I switched to another forest...