How You
Can Help:
GO TO: Helping You
The devil in him
16-year-old “Katherine”
“Brooke, could you go get me, oh wait, you’re too fat. I’ll get it.”
My heart hits the stained, dirt infested floor of that 2003 Honda Civic. What did he just say to me? I feel my face begin to turn red with embarrassment. Does he really think I am fat? That word stings. I feel as if the place where I hold Max in my heart has suddenly become infested with provoked bees. Why would he say that? How could he say that? Oh gosh, here he comes, his beautiful body running across the uneven, artistic rocks that serve as a patio behind the Lander’s home. Stay calm.
He shuts the car door. I am silent as he puts the car into drive.
Pulling out of the driveway, gravel being plowed over by his tiny car, the same as he has just done to my heart, he says, as casually as ever, “I am going to have to push it to get there on time.”
Don’t cry, don’t cry. Just stay calm. I don’t say a word.
“Hello? Earth to Brooke.”
My lips press hard against each other to force the tears back in.
“What is wrong?”
I want to shout at him “Don’t act like you didn’t just call me that!” but I don’t. I really just want to get out of here so instead I say, “Max, please just take me home.”
“What is your problem?” he blurts out loud and hard as if my hurt is a generation of nonsense.
“Max what do you think is my problem? You just called me fat.” I blurt out uncontrollably. It hurts to say that. I know this, but why would he say it? Does he really think of me that way? I knew it. I knew he did.
“Oh come on, I didn’t mean that.” He pleads while reaching his manly, yet irregular small hand to rub my arm, covered in a sweatshirt which I have had on since the night before.
“Please don’t touch me. Just take me home.” I state emotionless.
“Oh baby I didn’t mean to say that. It just slipped out. You know that’s not true.” He pleads with what sounds like genuine concern, but it doesn’t matter, the damage is already done.
I am pissed. I explode,” What do you mean you didn’t mean to say that? You said it. You wouldn’t have said it if you didn’t mean it. Slipped out?” My voice grows. “Slipped out? That makes it even worse! If it slipped out that would mean it was in the back of your mind and it just accidently came out. That would still mean that you truly feel that way about me.” The last sentence was unable to come out with anger, instead coming out soft with sadness and hurt. He said, “I know that isn’t true,” but the thing is I do think that. I didn’t need him implanting that thought in my head for it to be there for the first time. That is why this hurts so much. I am struggling with this horrible self-image. I just want to go home. Now.
“You know you are being ridiculous! I didn’t mean that and you are making it into a much bigger deal than it is. This is stupid!” He shoves those words hard out of his mouth and into my face.
Why does he have a right to get mad at me? What is going on? “Ok Max, whatever, just take me home.” I state cautiously, but firmly to know I am serious.
“Yeah, whatever.” He says jokingly, but still I feel the hate in his voice.
The car is filled with silence. The only noises are the extremely faint radio, too faint to name the song, and the motor, as it reacts to Max’s racer like press of the gas pedal. We are flying.
Max suddenly moves his hand toward the middle of us. He is reaching for the radio. In order for him to do this he must touch my fat leg. This is not uncharted territory for Mr. Lander; it is no big deal for him to have to feel my leg as he changes the radio station. Just as if my eighteen-year-old boyfriend had been transformed into a five year old he shoves my leg out of the way. I move it back to where it was, directly under the tuning knob. He repeats his action, so I repeat mine. This same thing happens two more times. What is he doing? He is just trying to make a connection between us. In a “mom just caught you in the cookie jar before dinner” voice I scold, “Max stop moving my leg. You can touch me to turn the radio. It is no big deal.”
My face stings with pain.
What just happened? Did he just backhand me in the mouth? Ouch, my Lord, this hurts. My mouth hurts. Is he joking? What is going on? I lean over and ‘play punch’ him in the arm, unaware of why this has just happened or how to react. His commanding fist comes barreling at my face striking my eye socket. My whole face is on fire. I swing back at him, having very little time to react, doing the only thing natural: defending myself. I release a “girly” smack upon his face, which I soon wish I would have held back. His foot shifts abruptly from the accelerator to the decelerator pressing down hard. His sudden speed change causes temporary loss of control of the car. It doesn’t help our driving situation or my physical and emotional situations that one of his hands is not on the wheel. He has struck my face once again, this time with an open hand, palm hitting my fragile skin.
We are in the wrong lane of the road, stopped horizontally. I am balling; my eyes are pouring like the Nile River down upon my face. I am in shock. My thoughts are racing much too fast to decipher. My heart is pounding. Sweat glands begin to exercise their right.
Max straightens the car out and drives, speeding excessively once again, taking what is left of his anger out onto the road. Neither of our lips moves. The only noise you can hear is my wails every few seconds, but I am trying to keep those to a minimum. We drive until we are almost back into town; we are approaching the nursing home. Max looks at me with the devil’s hate in his eyes and directs in the coldest voice I have ever heard anyone speak to me, “If you ever tell anyone about this I swear I will ruin your life. That is a promise.”
This makes what I thought was a large amount of tears seem like a tiny river compared to what now seems like an ocean. I feel as if my heart has melted and is pouring out of my eyes. Thank God he takes me home and without another spoken word from either of us I get out of the car, tears and all, and walk into my house.
I have no idea what just happened, why it happened, or how it happened. I just know one thing: I am a victim of abuse. Physical and Verbal. And I am only sixteen. Not so sweet, sixteen.