Life Ain't P'urty, No I-t'Ain't.

Love Lies Bleeding

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* ~ “I don’t even think of those times with you.  You’re a work of fiction.  You stumble along, like a walkin’ contradiction” * ~ Lynn Ann ~ *


I’m 19.   Ronnie’s brutality toward me seems to be reaching a fever pitch.  He has absolutely no control over his chaotic emotions or his drinking.  And I’m no angel.  I’ve gone back to him too many times and enabled this whole noxious thing.   But it’s reached the point where I am finally,  finally just plain scared shit and at the end of my rope.   I file a harassment complaint with the local precinct and acquire an order of protection against him.  I am desperate to be cleansed of it all, to turn the page and move on to a fresh, Ronnie-free phase of  life.

My older brother Alan comes with me to Ronnie’s house to personally serve the protection papers.  I wait in the car and watch: Alan jumps from the car, rings Ronnie’s bell.   Jackpot:  Ronnie himself answers the door.  He stares blankly at my brother, whom he has never spoken to and whom he most probably does not even recognize.

Alan slaps the envelope roughly onto Ronnie’s chest.  Ronnie fumbles for it clumsily as Alan bounds back to the car.  Ronnie’s gaze follows him and then our eyes lock.  Slow-witted comprehension lights his face.

I look into the rear-view mirror of my brother’s car:  Wild-eyed and sneering,  Ronnie  methodically shreds the order and tosses it into the air.  As we pull away, his vile cackle grows fainter yet continues to linger in my ears.  Dizzy, I realize that I have been holding my breath this entire time, an arctic dread permeating my core.

But then, nearly two peaceful weeks go by wherein Ronnie does not terrorize me - a genuine oddity.  Granted, these days I’ve been making myself pretty scarce in the ‘hood - i.e., at the park, the local hangouts and bars.  But even so, he hasn’t shown up at the bus stop on my way to work, or in front of my office building at One Wall Street, or at any of the other places he’s been known to menacingly materialize during the course of my daily routine.  In fact, rumor has it that lately Ronnie’s been spending a lot of time over in Ridgewood, a neighboring town. And while these reports are not exactly concrete, he may even be seeing somebody.  With the passing of each ‘incident-free’ day, my sense of impending doom begins to lift at a precarious, guarded pace.

So I decide, one balmy late-summer evening, to head up to the park for a few beers and just a little of that human interaction I’ve been so starved for.  It ends up being a mellow time with perhaps a handful of regulars who are surprised and happy to see me and thankfully nobody brings up the topic of Ronnie.  I play a game of cards (brisk), staying only for a couple of hours  before heading home.  I have to work in the morning.  

One of the guys, James, is going in my direction, so we leave together.  Me and James have known each other since junior high. We amble along, talking music, sipping from our beer bottles as we walk.  I feel relaxed and rejuvenated. 

 James offers to walk me to my door but I thank him and decline:  It’s only three more blocks.    So we part ways at Union Turnpike and I continue toward home, alone.  Less than a minute into my solo trek, Ronnie’s voice accosts me from behind.  It cuts through the stillness, low but echoing from the shadowy depths of a residential driveway.

Ronnie (Slurring): “SO - you  fuckin’ JAMES now?”

Iced water in my veins. I let out an involuntary yelp - unbearable to my own ears.  This makes Ronnie snicker sadistically, more unbearable still.

I don’t break stride and I don’t look back.  Instead, I pick up speed - one frantic thought blasting in my head to the rhythm of my sandaled feet slapping the ground – to the rhythm of my pounding heart:  He WILL not touch me… He will NOT touch me... He will not TOUCH me… I was forced to wear long sleeves for the entire month of August because of what he did to both of my arms during our last encounter and those contusions have still not faded.

 I hear him running up behind me.   He drop-kicks me full force, the blow landing just beneath my right buttock.  The pain is like white fire (now, THAT’s gonna be a helluva bruise…) and I nearly hit the deck.  My next thought: You can’t go down.  If you go down, you’re finished. So I don’t.  Instead, I spin around wildly and face him. I raise the beer bottle I’ve been sipping from high above my head – my arm is trembling violently and seems to be moving of its own accord - I’m a marionette! - and I smash this bottle down directly into Ronnie’s face.

Blood starts gushing immediately and everywhere.  Ronnie staggers sideways and leans on a car.  I turn away from him and proceed to continue homeward.  But after less than half a block, I stop and turn around.  There’s nothing on the street now but silence, and Ronnie’s silhouette – he has slouched to the ground, slumped on the curb.

I stand frozen under the street lamps. Even from this distance, I can see blood collecting in a pool all around Ronnie.  I can’t say exactly how long I stood there, watching him bleed.  But it can’t have been for too long.  I run to his side.

Me: “Get up.”

 He doesn’t answer, only gazes up at me with those bright blue eyes fringed in thick dark lashes, pupils now completely dilated so that the blue is nearly nonexistent.  I remember reading somewhere that this is a symptom of shock.  But never mind his eyes…it’s really the lower portion of his face that grabs me…
           

His entire jaw, neck and collar are drenched in thick, dark blood and it’s pumping out steadily from somewhere, impossible to tell exactly from where.
           
Me: “You gotta get up. You gotta go to the hospital.”
Ronnie just continues to stare up at me with those monstrous pupils and all that blood.

Me: “GET UP.”  I start pulling his arms.  Christ, he’s so big and tall and…slippery…and

drunk and in shock.  There just ain’t no way.

I kick off my sandals and sprint up Union Turnpike to Woodhaven Boulevard.  Yellow cabs are everywhere and I run out into the middle of the boulevard and flag one down.  There’s Ronnie-blood all over my shirt, my hands, even my feet.   I hastily explain to the driver that  my friend has had an accident and there’s no time to waste, please please please please please  you have to help me.   I grapple in my shoulder bag, hand him a twenty up front.  We drive back to where Ronnie is still curbing it.  Driver takes one look, sez: Whoa...   He doesn’t say anything else after that, just helps me hustle Ronnie into the back seat of the cab.  We high-tail it to St. John’s Hospital.  

 I am sitting next to Ronnie in the back seat.  He’s actually sitting upright, like something out of a zombie movie.  I have taken off the bandana I was wearing and wrapped it in some kind of weird figure-8 thing around his neck and jaw.  It’s not really helping too much.

Ronnie speaks: “I’m glad this happened.”

I don’t answer.

Ronnie: “I am.  I’m glad.”  He prods my side. “I hope it’s a BIG scar.”

My head hangs low and I am silently sobbing.  I can’t believe this. What happened to this guy?  Why on earth is he like this?  And how in God’s name did I end up with someone like him? 

How could I have let this happen.

Ronnie (Softly, like a little kid): “You’re never gonna be my girlfriend again, are you?”

I can’t stop crying, which seems to satisfy him.

At the Emergency Room entranceway the EMT attendants rush forward to grab Ronnie, mid-stumble.  I back away.  This is as far as I’ll be going.  Just before the automatic doors close between us, Ronnie turns to gaze at me one last time:   Lucid, starkly bereft. 

 My mind flashes to a heady autumn evening long ago:   We’re huddled together on a park bench late into the night and he cradles me in his arms, smoothing my hair, kissing me ardently and professing his everlasting devotion.  I had never felt this safe, this special...

And now he is smiling:  Almost sweetly, ghastly, thru the glass hospital doors and his

 
own gore:

 “Well, lookit this, Lena…”  His laugh is a wretched bark,  hopeless:  “Would ya just

look?  Take.  a  LOOK.  AT.  THIS.”

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 Days later, when I tell Janet about it, she goes ape-shit.

Janet: “ASSHOLE!!! Yes, YOU.   I’m talking about YOU, LENA!!!

Me: “Fuck you, Janet.  Fuck you.  What the hell else was I gonna do?  He was

 BLEEDING to death!”

Janet: “I  tell you what ya do…You let the fucker DIE.  You let him bleed to DEATH

 
on the STREET like the animal he is.   THAT’s what you do!  SIMPLE.”

             Me: “No.  Just...no.”

 

Janet: “You should have let that fucker DIE.”

 I feel so weary: “I couldn’t, Janet.  I couldn’t.” 

 Janet: “See, that’s the difference between you and me, Lena…”

Me: “I know the difference between us, Janet.  I already know.”

 

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