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.”
* * * * * *
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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