THUGLIT Issue Eight by unknow

Author:unknow
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Publisher: Thuglit Publishing
Published: 2013-10-28T04:00:00+00:00

*****

Edmund opens his futon. He's not concerned at all about my archived injuries, those long settled into my skin's surrounding rough topography. I tell him about Marcel and about these decades old mis-healed streaks of corrugated flesh, wrapping my stomach, a few on my back, dotting my forearms, like I'd fallen though the backend of a box cheese grater when I was young. A cheese grater named Marcel. "Marcel's scars will poke fun at these weak ones you gave me." I try to smile.

Edmund brings me a stack of blankets, says they are his only ones, but that he gets hot at night anyway. "Sounds like Marcel should be in prison," he says, then asks if I want some water.

"You don't have to give me your blankets," I say.

"Of course I do," he says. "Look at you."

I don't need to.

Marcel was an uncle, the brother of a step-dad who stayed only long enough to plant my sister before moving on to the next vacant womb. My mother sniffed out another suitor, but Marcel found ways to embed himself into my life, becoming a loose thread I couldn't snip. He'd show up at school. He'd walk me home. He'd ask about homework and offer his help. He'd insist.

Marcel charmed his way into my life the way a mold charms its way into your walls.

Edmund insisted I take his bed. He'd take the futon.

Marcel's constant presence seemed premeditated to ensure the proper kind-man narrative in preparation for inevitable courtroom trials years later where those scars of his had healed too much, enough to justify only six years of prison. Six fucking years.

I was seven years old when Marcel dragged a halved golf club across my gut. It took weeks for the wound to finally stop bleeding at night. Mom had no money for doctors. No money for lawyers, either. Plenty of money for blinders, though. Custom fitted. Most nights I never saw her, she never saw me. She was a nomadic bar fly. I was bound to the home. Today the scar maps my lower rib at odd angles. Collagen fibers snake the purple line, some kind of bloated earthworm shape you'd mistake as an abstract relief wall-hanging if it were ripped from my skin and framed for snooty art gallery viewers. So raw, they'd say. Such emotion. They'd be correct, in a way.

He burned holes into my back skin. Decorated my arms with construction staples once. I was a canvas. He, a demented artist. That's not a reasonable explanation, of course, nor an excuse, but I've given up on reason. I let him have the artist's logic, convincing myself that he had access to a hidden aesthetic, and that maybe what he did to me was worshiped by some. Maybe I'd be museum quality. Maybe I was a golden idol. Maybe I was a Stockholmed little girl with no better context against which to measure those scars.

Edmund is the only man I've been alone with since, in any room. "We can share the blankets if you want," I say like it's a required etiquette.

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