Scar

Dear K-----

That scar looks wonderful there, rising thinly from your knee before thickening and knotting as it approaches the inside of your thigh. What makes it even more beautiful is that I put it there. I marked you with it; an unforgettable pronouncement. Even when those sad sailors see it white and gnarled beneath their fingers, you will know that you are mine. And always will be.
It was August and hot. There were three straight weeks without rain, turning the lovely suburban lawns from brilliant green to a muted, brittle yellow-brown. It was my favorite time of year. Everyone moved more slowly. People were less aware of themselves, less concerned with how they looked and acted. Much more vulnerable.
I had seen you out there, standing usually by yourself or, at most, with one other girl. You were always smoking. I couldn’t imagine what it would be like to approach you, to enlist your assistance. I never heard you speak before that day, but I always imagined your voice to be falsely deep, the result of that constant smoking. As I watched you from my window, I imagined what your conversations with those men were like. I imagined what I would say to you. Nothing ever seemed right.
I remember that on the day before we met you were approached by two men at once. This had never happened before, as far as I could tell. You looked a little taken aback after the taller one said something, but rebounded quickly and accepted whatever proposition they had offered. I was jealous of them, as I was of all your companions. It wasn’t fair that I was stuck inside and could only look at you and never touch. It was just too hard not too touch. But I didn’t touch myself when I looked at you. I don’t want you to think that.
I will always love you, too. That’s something else you should know. Even from here, from this close darkness, I still love you. If you ever doubt that, just remember the scar. That beautiful scar. My gift to you forever.
Those two men, they didn’t love you. In fact, I think they probably loved each other. You were just their excuse. I never got to ask you what you did with them. Was it one at a time? Or both together? I’ve always wanted to know.
You could always write me back and tell me, if you wanted. But I imagine that that is too much to ask. I don’t think you like me very much. That saddens me. It saddens me like seeing those filthy men, those beggars and perverts and freaks, take you away with them. As if they could control you.
Please don’t forget about me while I am away. I will think of you everyday, every minute of every day. That is all they have left me here: thoughts and wants. You are in both. There are moments during the day when I am lying on my bed and staring at the colorless ceiling and thinking about you. About that scar. And the taste of blood in my mouth as I licked you. It was the taste of fear.
You were so good to me at first. You didn’t stare or laugh. You didn’t ask if I could perform, you just took my hand and led me back towards my building.
“I’ve seen you watching me,” you said. Your voice was softer than I’d imagined.
You had seen me. I was so enraptured that I didn’t notice. That’s how much you distract and beguile me. I was so happy when you told me that. So happy that we’d been watching one another.
There we were in my bedroom, the shades drawn and the lights off. You helped me out of my shirt and laid me down on the bed. You approached slowly, undressing as you came. Beauty personified. Nude, you proceeded to undress me, pulling my pants and underwear off simultaneously. I looked down and saw that I was erect. You moved beside me, taking me into your hand.
Not once did you laugh or shudder. The marks and scars did not bother you. I was so happy. It was beyond sex, beyond pure physical gratification. Far better than any late-night imaginings. I had to finish it, to bring us closer. I asked if I would touch you, taste you. You hesitated. There was a look of concern in your eyes. I told you it would be okay, that you would like it.
I stood up before you to take it all in, to see your beauty in its entirety. There, beneath my feet, lay my discarded pants. In the pocket was the Swiss Army knife that my father had bought me when I was 8. I reached down and took it from the pants, opening the longest blade and holding it up in the dim light from the streetlights outside. You looked at me, then at the knife. You couldn’t help it.
“I carry it with me everywhere,” I said. “In a city like this, you can never be too sure.” I smiled. You had never looked so beautiful.
I climbed onto the bed, holding the knife firmly. I began to kiss and caress my way up your right leg. I kissed the bend of your knee and looked up at you. There was fear there.
“Shhh. It’ll be okay,” I said, pressing the tip of knife into the flesh below your kneecap. You twitched and screamed out, but I held your leg there and slowly moved the knife upwards, applying more pressure as I went. I am always telling people that I’m stronger than I look. Aren’t I? You screamed out and kicked at me, but I know you didn’t mean it. You wanted this. You wanted us to be joined like this forever.
I slid the knife along the inside of your thigh, the blade about halfway in, and approached the soft patch of hair. That was my stopping point, I thought. I can’t go any further than that. The blood was seeping out onto my hand and onto the bed. When I reached as far as I would go, I pulled the knife out slowly, accompanied by more screams.
I threw the knife to the floor and licked along the open space where it had been, running my tongue from there into your patch of hair, feeling the wetness of sex and blood mix within my mouth. And I came again.
It was wonderful, wasn’t it? Something that only certain people can experience. I was not another John to you. I was someone special. I was the closest thing to God that you’d ever seen.
That scar looks wonderful there, rising thinly from your knee before thickening and knotting as it approaches the inside of your thigh. What makes it even more beautiful is that I put it there.
I put it there.

Driving home

There was no talking to Paul. When he got something in his mind there was only one conclusion: he would drop whatever he was doing or whoever he was with and concentrate solely on this new obsession. When I was 12 Paul was preparing to get his license. He would practice for hours on end, driving up and down the long gravel driveway at my father’s house. From my bedroom I could hear the approaching and receding crunch of tires on stone, and hear the monster engine of my father’s double-cab pickup truck roaring up and down the long, empty way.
This seemed to go on for weeks. It was summer vacation, usually the time when Paul would sleep until noon (or later if he could get away with it). But that summer, or at least from the time school let out until his birthday in July, Paul would wake up early and trudge out to the garage in a pair of torn jeans and the tee shirt he’d slept in the night before. He’d start the truck up with a roar, usually waking the dog, who liked to spend the mornings laying in the square of sun that came streaming through the window of the door that separated the kitchen from the garage. Rufus would bark his fool head off, still lying flat on the ground with his paws splayed out in front and behind him. This would be my signal to wake up. Not that I had much choice, with the dog barking and the gravel crunching outside my window.
It all ended rather badly. At first we thought he was kidding us, that he’d break out into a smile and hold up the piece of paper that authenticated his right to drive. But he never smiled, he never broke stride. He just walked right past us, a stern look on his face, and headed out into the parking lot, careful not to look at the line of people waiting to get their pictures taken. My father looked at me and shrugged confusedly.
“Wait here a sec,” he said. “I’ll go talk to him.”
I watched him as he walked outside and approached Paul, who was standing in the middle of an empty handicapped parking spot smoking, something he’d never done in front of my father before. I couldn’t tell what they were saying, but Paul looked angrier than I’d ever seen him. My father looked like all he was trying to do was stop Paul from exploding. He remained calm and collected the whole time, even as Paul threw his cigarette to the ground and kicked at it. My father never yelled or pushed or pulled. In fact, he didn’t touch him at all. That wasn’t what Paul needed. He needed someone to yell at, someone to listen patiently. My father was always good at knowing exactly what you needed. He couldn’t always deliver, but he was intuitive enough to know. I think that was one of my favorite things about him.
After a few minutes Paul was looking calm and less filled with fury. My father looked towards me and nodded slightly, almost imperceptibly. I took that as a sign and headed outside to join my father. Paul was already inside the truck by the time we got over there. He was sitting in the passenger’s seat. My father opened the driver’s side door for me and I clambered over his seat to the small jump seat behind Paul. It was a tight fit. The driving instructor must have been a tall guy; he’d pushed the seat as far back as it would go. Paul hadn’t thought to move it up, and I didn’t want to ask him.
Most of the ride home was silent. My father would occasionally point out something interesting on the road or beside it.
“Looks like the Sherman place was finally bought up.”
.....
“Guys, check out that Mustang up there. Pretty cool, huh?”
.....
“Wanna stop for something to eat?”
.....
Neither Paul nor I answered him. It seemed more of a rhetorical question to fill the silence. We pulled into the driveway a short while later and my father came to a stop at the top of the gravel lane.
“Take it for a spin,” he asked Paul, a hopeful smile on his face.
“No, thanks,” Paul mumbled back.
“You sure?”
“Yeah.”
“How ‘bout you?” my father said, looking back over his shoulder at me.
“What?” I asked, shocked at what I thought I had heard.
“Do you wanna take a turn down the driveway?” my father clarified. “You can’t be the only one who hasn’t driven it yet.”
“Really?”
“Yeah.”
“Sure!”
Paul stirred uncomfortably in his seat. I couldn’t see his face from where I sat but I could imagine what it looked like. I’d seen that face a few times before. It was the face he made when he thought about our mother; a distant, angered anguish. I didn’t want to be responsible for that face.
“Well—” I started.
“Don’t worry about it,” Paul said, knowing what I was going to say before I said it. “Have fun. I’ll walk.”
With that he unbuckled his belt, opened the door of the truck, and jumped out. Before I could say anything, my father looked at me with a huge smile on his face.
“Well c’mon then. Daylight’s burning.”
This was one of his favorite phrases. He used it all the time, even when, like that morning, it didn’t make much sense. He had a few like that that he would use in rotation, plugging them in whenever he felt it necessary. It was all very ‘fatherly’ of him.
“Switch sides,” he said, climbing out of the driver’s seat and walking around the truck. I stepped around to the seat and sat down. It was eerie.
Everything about the truck looked bigger and more formidable from this point of view. The hood seemed three times its length; the ground fell away, receding from the awesome power and force of the engine which was rumbling softly. I clutched the steering wheel to right myself and keep from teetering over the edge of the dashboard. It all seemed so much more.
My father spoke.
“Make sure your seat is adjusted and you can reach the pedals. Usually you’ll want to adjust your mirrors too, but for today you don’t have to worry about it.”
He slammed his door shut.
“Seat belts on,” he said, reaching behind him for his. I mimicked him.
“Ready?”
“R-ready,” I stuttered. My heart was racing and there was tightness in my breathing. Was this what it was like every time you got into a car? Certainly it couldn’t be, could it? It would kill a person to feel this every single time.
“Okay. Right is gas, left is brake. Right?”
“Gas,” I said, emphatically.
“No, I mean…never mind. Okay, now push with your right foot on the brake.”
I reached my foot out and hit a pedal. I pushed it and the rumbling engine roared to life. I let out a little shriek and jumped back from the steering wheel. The engine quieted again.
“That was the gas. Careful this time. Look where your foot is.”
I looked down.
“Now, position it above the brake and press forward.”
“Nothing’s happening,” I said.
“That’s fine, you wouldn’t notice anything when we’re parked. Now, keep your foot on the brake and shift from P to D.” He pointed to an oddly bent arm that was sticking out the right side of the steering column. When I pulled down on the arm it jumped from P to R to N to D. I left it there.
“Now, ease up off the brake. You won’t have to give it much gas.”
I lifted my foot slowly and the truck started to roll forward. I smiled until my jaw hurt. I was driving. Actually, really driving. It was incredible. I watched out of the windshield as the gravel disappeared beneath the enormous hood. It was mesmerizing.
“Good, good,” my father said. We had already rolled down to near the end of the driveway, where the gravel path loops back upon itself. “Now, put your foot back on the brake—”
I slammed my foot down and we both jerked forward.
“Sorry.”
“That’s okay,” my father said. “It’s my fault. What I meant to say was, put your foot gently on the brake and turn the wheel to the right. Good.”
We turned slowly around the loop of the driveway and were near the front of the house when he told me to stop.
“Stop here. This is good. Now shift back from D to P. Keep your foot on the brake.”
I shifted back from D to N to R to P and the truck began to rumble quietly again. My father instructed me to turn the key and pull it out of the ignition. With that done, he climbed out of the truck. I sat there for a minute, surveying all that I had conquered. My father called to me from the front of the house.
“C’mon, you need to let us in.”
I looked over and saw him standing at the front door with Paul. He had been crying and was trying to wipe away the evidence with his shirt sleeve. He looked up at me as I stepped down from the driver’s seat. His face was just as I had thought it would be, while my father stood next to him beaming. I walked towards them, keys in hand, and, for the first time in my life, felt like an adult.