You Can't Keep Me (Here)

A touch can mean anything; a touch can say a lot. Your touch says to me, "Bitch, you had it coming". The heavy hands at my throat testify of your temper; my disrupted sense of time allows me a crystalline moment to examine this second in time. It’s distilled, a pure moment of struggle – for both of us. You're struggling to keep me, while losing me all the same. I'm struggling to get away, and stay away.

Adam: you can't keep me here. I'm not a butterfly under glass. I'm not your blowup doll, hidden shamefully in the closet under the stairs.

I'm fighting back, even though I know I'm sure to lose. The frantic energy in my veins lends me the potency to rake your face, bypassing blocking holds. If you're taking me down, I'm gunna let people know who did it. I feel no anger, really. Just a slow edge of dread. It's overwhelming me, just as you are the overlord of this circumstance. You're going to win, and I'm going to end up hidden, too. Will I be unearthed one day? Will my family get to say goodbye?

I'm biting your hand; you let it slide up my face, when you went for my hair. You squeal like a little girl, batting me with the other hand. I'm a tough little bitch: I hold the fuck on. I don't quite take a chunk out, but, I make an awful mess out of your palm. Hoorah for Chelsea. Score one point for the good gal. Your fist wrenches my head down upon the coffee table. The tabletop cracks, with a satisfying crrrrchk. My mouth loosens enough for you to rip your wound away from my thus-far solitary successful weapon.

"Fucking bitch," you hiss, slapping me in the forehead. My head bounces off the table a little, agitating the crack. It tingles where that touch got me. Smarts.

"Adam…"

"Yeah, Eve? Got something more to add? I've fucking had it; you break up with me, and come back every time. This time for good? My ass." you pace, while I slip limply to the floor, where I stare up at you, my blank little eyes fixed on your face. "I'll show you," you utter, spittle flying from you in a fine, arching mist.

You come back to me with a pistol. Or, I assume, it's a pistol. You're the gun-guy. I just visit. You wave it in my face, looking to get a rise out of me. Failing to procure any real fear, you let it drop to the floor.

"Take me back, won't you?" you say, suddenly reproachful. The tone seems misplaced with the dialogue. "You know that I'm the only one who loves you for what you are."

It’s true. No one loves a former prostitute, usually.

You cradle my head in your lap, gingerly dabbing at the cut on the side of my head. You sing me sappy 50s love songs, because you're like that. You sing me an emotionally-taxed rendition of La Bamba; you only like it because you look a little like Richie Valens. You wanted to be just like the guy, remember?

You bring me to the bathtub. I can sort of see where you're going, with this. You keep a jar of dried rose petals handy for these things. The bubble bath is lavender, and a little eucalyptus. My favorite; I'm glad you remembered.

And as you push my head under the water, I'm thankful that I'm not alone. As I stare up at you, feeling the black crowding the edges of my thoughts, I pucker my lips at you. You don't comply, but I guess it's okay – you don't want to come with me, where I'm going. I hold my breath, hoping that I pass out before the drowning takes hold. I want to miss out on that.

I can feel time pausing again. I can see the nicotine stains on your ceiling, the Dora the Explorah stickers your daughter Jenny affixed to the bathroom walls. I can see the perplexed look on your mustachioed face. My limbs give a little flutter. It sort of shocks you in to letting go. I don't rise immediately to the surface, no: I lay down here and survey things for a moment longer. Breath compels me to act, so I launch up, out of the water. It must be that second wind. I come at you with a strength and passion I had all but thought I'd given up on. The bathtub is slippery, so I crash, taking you down with me. Your back hits the toilet with a force that surprises both of us. Feeling no doubt defeated, you lay there, as I crawl out of the bathroom. I skitter to the living room, feeling adrenaline pumping me up for one last flight. This flight from a fight that I'm outnumbered and out-powered in.

I will get out of here; I will be anywhere but here. I came to Calgary to visit, I have no where to stay while I wait for Tuesday's plane, but, by god, I will carry on. My suitcase is haphazardly packed; I tried this earlier, remember? I grab that little fucker, and boogie the fuck out of the apartment. You get up to chase me down the hall, a little less murderously.

"Chelsea," you whisper, a dark urgency almost luring me in. "You can't make it without me." I look at you, striding beside me as if you're hustling me to be in a porno. Hey, pretty lady – I know how you can pay the rent this month… You're the same old scuzzy Adam. You're the chunky fucker who begged me to come down this month, and be with you. Your divorce finalized, and your daughter is living in Toronto somewhere. You're not the man for me.

"Forgive me; come back. I promise to—" he coos, sliding a hand down my mobile thigh. "—Make it up to you, somehow." This ploy disgusts me.

I can forget, but I will never forgive. Not this time. No way.