If I could do it all over again, I would probably still beat the blood out of Marquise. Maybe next time it won’t be for trying to give me a hug.

He reached for me. I remember that much. We were in the kitchen. He knew I was angry. I told him not to touch me. And he still reached for me. That day I blacked on him like I’d never done in my life.

“I didn’t want his hug!” I was fuming, still swinging my keys, and being lifted off of Marquise into the air. Terrelle placed me on my feet and I discovered that my knee hurt as I waded through the mess of magazines strewn across the living room floor.

“You crazy, Ro,” Marquise said. “You crazy.” I surveyed the damage.

It had to be the new house key that actually made him bleed. Incisions like those could only be made by freshly cut metal. I guessed that my gimp lanyard left those lashes across his face and neck, and that my little metal globe had him cupping his swollen eye and calling me crazy.

As he stood up, all 6’4” and stupid, I had to let out a bitter laugh. Because time is cruelly selective and she would soon heal his little scars, but would probably never heal mine.

No matter how hard I shake the hourglass, I can’t get that feeling off my thigh. That slick grip of a grown man’s hand cupping my three-year-old leg like a garter, lathering me in baby oil.

No matter how hard I crank the gears of time, I can’t stop the urge to vomit when I see the menacing stain of oil on brick, or smell Tampico Tropical Punch, or hear a man ask me to suck anything.

No matter where I pause the song, I can’t escape the loop of “like that?” and “feel good?” and “like that?” and “feel good?” and “like that?” and “feel good?” I can’t drown out the noise of the napkin scratching at my blue and green stripes, trying to erase the evidence of his satisfaction from my polo.

The problem is I can’t tell the difference. My ears can’t discern between his whisper and yours and my fists waste no time swinging if you come too close. My shoulders don’t know the difference between his grip and my father’s. My waist doesn’t know the difference between the atoning hug from my 16-year-old cousin and the slick caress of nastiness that preluded every session of the abuse.

“You crazy, Ro.” He said. “You crazy.” And I joyfully accept his accusations. Because crazy means I finally fought back. However untimely and inappropriate the response, I still fought back. Crazy means you can’t have your way with me. Crazy means I’ll be touched when I want to be touched. And with that, I find a little comfort in my crazy.

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Roconia
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