Broken
She stood there on the edge of the water; the foam lapping at her ankles in a way that made her feel very uneven. Seven, fourteen, twenty-one, twenty-eight… counting in sevens made her feel more in control of the present situation. If she stopped counting, her heart would leap into her heaving chest and choke her with tears of anger and helplessness, so she continued, thirty-five, forty-two… The wind was harsh and whipped the sand against her already chafed face, cleansing her. Pain, she thought, was much better and easier to focus on outside of her head.
So she began like that. Counting in sevens because of the significance that number held for her. A scrawny yellow retriever, with patches of fur missing, eyed her, sizing up whether or not she had food to give. He was hungry, and rather pathetic with his half-missing ear flopping in the frightened gusts. She saw the dog. “Oh God, I can’t deal with this. I can’t give you food, or shelter. I can’t… I can’t.” She fell to her knees sobbing for the pitiful beast, for herself, for the loss of everything that was once worthwhile.
In the distance the waves crashed more furiously and the edge of the water surpassed her crumpled body, swirling around her knees and just barely the bottom of her thighs as they were flattened down to a wide fleshy mass in her position of supplication.
As the tide ebbed, it stole the ground from beneath her, sinking, sinking into the mud, incapable of changing her uncomfortable position, yet savoring the icy bite of the mid-March waters and the burning of her joints, “I don’t bend, I just break” she muttered to herself.
The yellow dog began to approach her - eyeing suspiciously and giving a wide berth – moving closer only as the water receded. More dogs, all hungry, with sunken eyes, dull, malnourished fur and battle wounds, began to circle, a few at first, and then more that came from underneath the rotting pier, and from distant corners of the desolate beach. Here was a rarity: a person, still as death, and vulnerable – yes.
She was unaware of the circling dogs. Or maybe she just chose to deny their existence, seventy-seven, eighty-four, ninety-one. Seven, seven, seven, seven, why?! Why is this happening to me?
She is vaguely aware that she is now fifteen feet into the swelling surf. Her reactions are slow, her movements deliberate and forced. She places her hands in the bitter cold ocean and pushed her legs straight, her back up like a cat, her disheveled hair wet at the tips and dangling in the splashing flood. She pauses to think and raises her head, slowly turning to face the land. She falls, or rather is knocked down by this immense weight on her, and slowly rises, soaked, wretched, shivering. The dogs begin to howl and yelp as she plods. Step. Step. Step. Drawing her withered, ragged body from the grasp of this blue death. She trudges, stoically, no tears. They have all been washed away. Her face granite, sand-blasted and tight. Too tight for a smile.
The street appears to be walking under her feet, endless pounding. Nameless faces, prisoners of this cruel world, pass by her, unacknowledged, their gawking stares of wonderment go unnoticed. The dogs have become constant. They won’t leave her side. They fight, beg, whine, biting each other in their excitement.
She walks into a bakery that lies along her route. She buys one loaf of bread. Simple. Fifty cents will buy her a ticket out. She turns to the dogs. There are seven, led by the scrappy yellow retriever, missing an ear from a previous era. She looks at them and they at her. And in that instant she realizes that she wants to swim not sink. But the dogs become frenzied, and like prisoners on a Nazi death train they attack the holder of their salvation.
She retracts her arms tightly to her chest and clings to the loaf, as the dogs tear at her, pounding her flesh into the ground, snapping their fierce jaws breaking her already wounded body, clawing her face. They have eaten. They walk away. All but the yellow one who licks a trickle of blood that oozes from her mouth. Her jugular bleeds dry. Broken.
July 1997
(OK, so don't judge me so harshly, this is an artefact from when I was only 19... and no, there has been no editing. Actually, it seems somehow apropos after watching _Mar adentro_)
So she began like that. Counting in sevens because of the significance that number held for her. A scrawny yellow retriever, with patches of fur missing, eyed her, sizing up whether or not she had food to give. He was hungry, and rather pathetic with his half-missing ear flopping in the frightened gusts. She saw the dog. “Oh God, I can’t deal with this. I can’t give you food, or shelter. I can’t… I can’t.” She fell to her knees sobbing for the pitiful beast, for herself, for the loss of everything that was once worthwhile.
In the distance the waves crashed more furiously and the edge of the water surpassed her crumpled body, swirling around her knees and just barely the bottom of her thighs as they were flattened down to a wide fleshy mass in her position of supplication.
As the tide ebbed, it stole the ground from beneath her, sinking, sinking into the mud, incapable of changing her uncomfortable position, yet savoring the icy bite of the mid-March waters and the burning of her joints, “I don’t bend, I just break” she muttered to herself.
The yellow dog began to approach her - eyeing suspiciously and giving a wide berth – moving closer only as the water receded. More dogs, all hungry, with sunken eyes, dull, malnourished fur and battle wounds, began to circle, a few at first, and then more that came from underneath the rotting pier, and from distant corners of the desolate beach. Here was a rarity: a person, still as death, and vulnerable – yes.
She was unaware of the circling dogs. Or maybe she just chose to deny their existence, seventy-seven, eighty-four, ninety-one. Seven, seven, seven, seven, why?! Why is this happening to me?
She is vaguely aware that she is now fifteen feet into the swelling surf. Her reactions are slow, her movements deliberate and forced. She places her hands in the bitter cold ocean and pushed her legs straight, her back up like a cat, her disheveled hair wet at the tips and dangling in the splashing flood. She pauses to think and raises her head, slowly turning to face the land. She falls, or rather is knocked down by this immense weight on her, and slowly rises, soaked, wretched, shivering. The dogs begin to howl and yelp as she plods. Step. Step. Step. Drawing her withered, ragged body from the grasp of this blue death. She trudges, stoically, no tears. They have all been washed away. Her face granite, sand-blasted and tight. Too tight for a smile.
The street appears to be walking under her feet, endless pounding. Nameless faces, prisoners of this cruel world, pass by her, unacknowledged, their gawking stares of wonderment go unnoticed. The dogs have become constant. They won’t leave her side. They fight, beg, whine, biting each other in their excitement.
She walks into a bakery that lies along her route. She buys one loaf of bread. Simple. Fifty cents will buy her a ticket out. She turns to the dogs. There are seven, led by the scrappy yellow retriever, missing an ear from a previous era. She looks at them and they at her. And in that instant she realizes that she wants to swim not sink. But the dogs become frenzied, and like prisoners on a Nazi death train they attack the holder of their salvation.
She retracts her arms tightly to her chest and clings to the loaf, as the dogs tear at her, pounding her flesh into the ground, snapping their fierce jaws breaking her already wounded body, clawing her face. They have eaten. They walk away. All but the yellow one who licks a trickle of blood that oozes from her mouth. Her jugular bleeds dry. Broken.
July 1997
(OK, so don't judge me so harshly, this is an artefact from when I was only 19... and no, there has been no editing. Actually, it seems somehow apropos after watching _Mar adentro_)
posted by ilana at 9:28 p.m.
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