Page 92 of Poetry By Dead Men
Finally, I stand in front of the mirror, squeezing my eyes shut.
I don’t want to look, but I think I need to. To see the physical marks on my body, burn them into my memory so I never allow myself to be put in this position again.
I take a deep, slow breath. Then another. A wave of nausea flips my stomach upside down, but I push it away, then open my eyes.
It’s so much worse than I imagined.
Tears sting my eyes, and I shudder, taking a step back. The stitches look like spiders crawling over the swollen blue and purple skin above my eye. There are small cuts across my cheek that I didn’t know werethere. That I didn’t even feel because I was too busy being terrified of losing my life.
My face is pale and gaunt, as if the past few hours have aged me. And in a way, they have. I turn away, disgusted with myself. Not with my appearance, but with the fact that I gave so much of myself away to someone capable of hurting me like this.
NOW
September 2024: Charleston, SC
Little Bird, I can hear you call
Even when you can’t say words at all
Little Bird, I can hear you sing
When you lift up your head and spread out your wings
Little bird, will you come back home
If I set you free, If I let you roam
Little Bird, you deserve much more
So I’ll wait right here, watching as you soar
—An excerpt from "Little Bird," written and performed by Robert Beckett
It’s been four days, but I still jump when Bobby walks through the bus doors, my bruised ribs screaming, and I wince.
“It’s just me,” Bobby says, sitting down. “You doing okay?”
I nod, but there’s no conviction there.
Bobby puts a hand on my arm. “You’re safe.” He leans down and kisses my forehead, and I breathe him in, letting his warmth calm my racing heart.
“I know. It’s just being in here, I think. Right where it all—” I stop, shuddering.
"I think you’re right. We just got to Charleston. Why don’t we get off the bus for a while, if you’re feeling up for it." He tucks my hair behind my ear, so gently, I want to cry.
“I’ll go anywhere if it means I can get some fresh air. Let me go change,” I say, but Bobby holds tight to my hand as the bus stops.
“You look perfect,” he says, standing and holding out a hand. “Ready?”
I take Bobby’s hand and let him lead me down the stairs onto a dark sidewalk. “Well…this took an unexpected turn,” I say as we approach a wrought-iron fence surrounding an overgrown cemetery.
“You said anywhere,” Bobby said, squeezing my hand.
I turn toward the street, trying to place where we are, but it’s too dark to make out the street sign.
“I'm shocked you don't know this place,” Bobby says. “How is it possible that I know a famous literary spot better than you do?” A self-satisfied smile dimples his cheek when I squint, trying to figure out what he’s talking about. “Do you remember when we used to sit at Joe’s, and you’d read me poetry?”
My jaw drops open, mostly because the thought of not remembering those days when we first met is complete absurdity. They’re etched into my brain like carvings in wood, the memories so visceral that I can still smell the coffee and hear the espresso grinder. I can still feel the warmth of the fireplace on my left side as I lean over a book, my knee pressed against Bobby’s thigh.
