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By Dyane Barbour Apparently, he had started the party in my apartment and decided to leave it for me to clean. He had no job and had been out of school for years, so his laziness was inexcusable. I was immediately resentful. Frustrated, I put my purse and jacket into the closet and went into the kitchen. While I was filling the sink with hot water, I tried to remember if I had ever been so tired in my life. I was a senior in high school, had a full time job, and was taking night classes in emergency medicine. That whole year had been stressful: the pace far too manic for me. I heard him coming up the stairs with his noisy friends. They went into the living room to play video games, yelling and cussing at one another. One light bulb above my head suddenly burned out, so I looked under the sink for a replacement. Not finding one, I stood up to wash the dishes. I decided that although the room was dark, I could still see the area around the sink, and that was good enough for me at that time. I shut off the water and reached for the dish detergent. I flipped the bottle upside down above the sink and watched the foul, blue gel swirl to the bottom. I replaced the violin shaped bottle onto the counter and splashed the water around, making bubbles. To this day I still I don’t understand why they called that soap “Dawn.” I still must have had soap on my hands because the first dirty glass I grabbed slipped through my fingers and shattered on the floor. I held my breath and listened. The laughter in the living room stopped immediately. I heard the men going back downstairs. My heart pounded when I heard the sound of his footsteps coming towards the kitchen. For such an obese creature, he moved at an alarming pace. I barely had time to turn around. His face was twisted in such rage - all I could think of were gargoyles on city buildings. I threw my arms out at him and his arms came out to me as well. Insanely, I heard a voice in my head asking, "Shall we dance?" One hand grabbed the hair on the back of my head and my chin rose in response. That sick voice again, "is he going to kiss me?" His other hand grabbed my throat and my hands grabbed his lapel. Somehow, all I could think about was dancing. He pushed me up against the counter, a horrible growling coming from him. For one moment, I thought about the times he had put me onto the counter to kiss me. No, there was no love in his face this time. My hands reached behind me grabbing for everything, anything, along the counter. I knocked the detergent to the floor, as well as several glasses. The sound of glass breaking acted as a lever. This crazy dance we were performing quickened from a waltz to something much faster, and much more primitive. He was pulling me, and I was pushing him. We danced circles around the kitchen. Suddenly, I was on the ground and he was straddling my torso. His face loomed crazily above mine. It was a huge, shiny, scary moon in that dark apartment. Although it would have ended this all, I refused to cry. The bottle of detergent came into my view, between his face and mine, and flipped over. I focused on his face and saw that he was laughing. The voice again, “see? He was playing.” Relieved, I began to laugh, and when I did, I smelled the detergent. For some reason, that odor caused me to panic. He squeezed the bottle and the foul, blue gel swirled to the bottom of my mouth. I gagged and tried to turn my head. His hand tightened on my throat and the detergent invaded my eyes and nose. As suddenly as he started, he stopped. For a moment, I thought it was over. He ripped my blouse open and stood up. That awful moon was shining down on me again. He smiled one last time before spitting on my chest. I broke down and cried just for him. Now it was over for him and he left satisfied. He went out after his friends and after a short time, I cleaned up. Many nights, I relive that day in my dreams. It always ends the same way - I am covered in sweat, and I wake up thinking the beads of sweat are shards of glass. When I realize what has happened, I am embarrassed and angry with myself. So what does it take to raise your heart rate? What makes you sick to your stomach? Is it seeing graphic scenes in movies, and reading stories by King and Koontz? I have a hard time believing that reading a book, or viewing a horror movie will lead to nightmares. The repetition of the reminder dictates how often, and how vivid your dreams will be. Do you see sharks chasing a family down the coastline? Unless you watch the movie Jaws on a regular basis, you wouldn't see that happen in your dreams. I say that your body is your enemy. You can’t hide from your senses. You smell bread and remember Grandma. You smell the ocean and remember losing your virginity on the beach. For me, the sound of glass breaking or the scent of Dawn dish soap closes my throat. Every time I walk into someone’s kitchen there is a fifty-fifty chance that they use Dawn soap. Just the sight of the bottle makes my heart pound. I want to run and hide but I am frozen, thinking about that awful parody of a dance. Just the thought of that violin shaped bottle, and that foul blue gel… ©2003 Words Words Words All Rights Reserved. |