Slander by Sindes Dawood
People ask me, “What happened to your arm?”
I say the garbage disposal ate it.
Other times, I say a shark ate it.
Sometimes, I tell them I woke up one morning to find it gone.
The truth is no one wants to hear the truth. The fact is I have a hard time admitting the truth. I don’t want to come to terms with reality. Not only do I not want to, I simply cannot do it. I hate the idea of giving myself completely to a person. The last time I opened myself up to someone, I came out of the relationship with a shattered heart and a stub for a left arm. I eventually became a bruised canvas torn to shreds by its artist.
Fact: I still am.
At my office desk I sit in the dull light from the old desk lamp and look at the newspaper clipping before me. The headline reads: TWENTY-SEVEN YEAR OLD MALE SENTENCED TO 8 YEARS IN PRISON FOR… I can’t continue to read on, so I stop. The story disgusts me. He disgusts me. Before I can catch a glimpse of the next word, I grab the clipping, shove it into the opened drawer of my desk, and slam the drawer shut. I stare at my computer screen with great intensity, hoping I will burn my retinas to crisps; instead, I begin to cry.
The first time I met him, the twenty-seven year old man from the newspaper article, was in a café. I was sitting in a comfortable green chair, reading The Picture of Dorian Gray. I was so absorbed in a paragraph I was reading that I did not notice him hovering over me from behind. He said something, but I did not reply. In the next second, he whispered in my ear, “I keep a
diary of my life from day to day, and it never leaves the room in which it is written. I shall show it to you if you come with me.” His voice sent shivers down my spine. I looked up to find him smiling, and his green eyes sparkling. I was taken aback for a moment. Who was this man luring me to his room? I then realized where his remark came from. He quoted Dorian Gray. I was impressed, but too shy to say anything. So I smiled back at him. He stayed with me for the next two hours, and during this time we talked of literature and music. Well, he did most of the talking, but I was perfectly content listening to him.
In the weeks and months we were together, he controlled me. He spoke for me. I simply agreed to whatever he said for me. He ordered food for me at restaurants. He convinced me he knew best what I liked, or what was good for me. He chose the books I read. We listened to his music. We drove in his car. We visited his friends. We travelled together and stayed at places he enjoyed. We moved into an apartment he fell in love with. He talked about his life, his future plans, and he rarely asked me of mine. He bruised me when he was mad, and loved me when he was feeling happy. The bruises on my body outweighed the number of gifts he tried to give me as an apology, to excuse his temperamental behavior—always telling me it would never happen again. I always believed him. Most of the time, I did nothing wrong to have deserved the pain. I did not realize this then, but eventually I did.
The night I told David I wanted to end our relationship, he tried to kill me. It was late at night when we were cruising around in his motor boat on the Gulf Coast, taking in the vast starry sky and yellow moon. In this serene and peaceful moment, I took courage to tell him how I had enough of the pain and hurt he constantly inflicted upon me. I told him how I couldn’t handle his verbal and physical abuse anymore. I told him I wanted out.
He replied, “Don’t be a fool. Now is not the time to talk like that. Can’t we just enjoy this night without you being a sore in my side?”
He said, “Who is going to love you? You’re no one. You were worthless the day I met you, and you’ll continue to be without me. I give you everything, and it’s my decision if you’re leaving.”
He told me, “Stop crying. I told you to stop crying. All you do is cry and whine. You want to leave? I dare you to.”
There was no one else on the boat to stop him from grabbing me. No one was there to stop him from shaking me, or to stop him from thrashing me against the boat. His hand and fingers gripped my throat. He dug his nails into my skin. I couldn’t breathe. I stumbled back and he let go of me, only to push me off the edge of the boat. Somehow, I grabbed onto the edge of the boat. I tried to push myself back in the boat, but I felt so exhausted. My body ached, and when David tried to rip my fingers free, I had a difficult time fighting him off.
In the end, he managed to do so, and when he did, I fell back into the dark abyss of the ocean. As the boat turned sharply, and my body twisted under the weight of the waves, my arm got caught in the boat’s propeller. I screamed and screamed from the pain and fear I felt as my arm was ripped from its socket by the slow, and yet fast turning of the propellers. The ocean swallowed me whole again. I went under with lungs full of salt water and blood, but I kicked my feet with all the strength I had left to bobble my head back up to the surface, to be saved by a pair of welcoming hands.
This is the scenario I played in my head over and over again to convince myself what I did was okay.
The truth is I am a liar.
The truth is David did not try to kill me that night. He tried to save me.
The night we cruised around in his boat, was the night I tried to end my life. I looked David in the eyes, turned myself around, and unsuccessfully threw myself overboard. Half of my body was dangling out of the boat when he grabbed me by my hand. I barely hung onto the edge of the boat. He was trying to save me, but I did not want him to. In the moment I believed I was going to die, I thought of pain. I thought of my pain. All the pain I had recently experienced by his hands. I could not allow him to save me with those hands that have bruised me ever so purple and blue. I realized he would never change, and I could not change him. I had to let go so I could be rid of him. I had to let go of the pain.
Sometime, in the second he tried to pull me up onto the boat, and was trying to shut off the boat’s motor, he accidently let go of my hand. When he tried to re-grab my hand, I simply allowed myself to fall back into the restless waves of the ocean. It was then my arm became mangled with the slowly running propeller. The peace I momentarily felt rapidly vanished, and was replaced by horror. It was then I lost my arm to the ruby red ocean. It was then I felt the most excruciating pain of my life.
I was disgusted by his hypocrisy. I was disgusted with myself. So I began a lie. I lied to the police. I told the police my boyfriend David pushed me off the boat, and tried to kill me. I told them that as I tried to hang onto the edge of the boat for my dear life, David tried to unlatch my hands so that I would fall back to my death. My lawyer used the bruises on my back, the bruises David gave me the night before the boating incident (he had violently pushed me from behind into the kitchen counter because I complained of his inability to pay the rent for our apartment on time), as evidence of David’s past violent behavior. David’s fist hole in the kitchen wall was used as another piece of evidence. My chipped tooth and the dent my teeth marks left on the kitchen counter were used as well.
My lawyer showcased my battered body and missing left arm to the jury and judge. He told them David did this, and he would never stop hurting me until I was six feet under. I cried on stand. I choked on my words and cried. I never once looked David in the eye.
David’s pleas of his innocence were ignored. The jury ruled in my favor. They ruled David was guilty of attempted murder. I should have told the truth, but I couldn’t do it. I told a lie to save myself. I told a lie because I was too scared to go home to David.
When people ask me, “What happened to your arm?”
I want to say it was my fault.
Other times, I want to say I was the victim of domestic violence.
Sometimes, I want to say a suicide attempt gone terribly wrong.
The truth is I am slowly coming to terms with reality. The fact is I made the mistake of loving someone who constantly broke me down. I thought I was the only person who could try to fix him, but I was also too scared to leave him.
I take a tissue from the Kleenex box on my desk, and begin to dab my eyes dry. As I do so, I reopen the drawer I had shut, and take out the newspaper clipping. I look at the picture of the man I loved, and then stick the article into the paper shredder near my desk. I throw away the wet tissue into my trash bin, gather my work papers together and pack them into my briefcase. I switch off my desk lamp, take a deep breath, and stand up to leave my office. As I walk out of my office, I think to myself:
Eight years from now I will have to deal with the consequences of my actions. I don’t want to, but it’s inevitable. The man who hurt me, whom I have hurt, will come back to hurt me once again. I’m scared of what may come, but I will try to take comfort in the things life has to offer me. I have eight years to live a life free of pain. It’s time to start living today.
