Page 18 of I Am the Messenger

Half an hour passes and I nearly fall asleep, but when the time comes, my heartbeat devours the street.

A man comes stumbling over the road.

A big man.

Drunk.

He doesn't see me as he trips up the porch steps and struggles with the key before going in.

The hallway explodes with light.

The door slams.

"You up?" he slurs. "Get your lazy arse out here now!"

My heart begins to suffocate me. It keeps rising until I can taste it. I can almost feel it beating on my tongue. I tremble, pull myself together, then tremble again.

The moon escapes from the clouds, and I suddenly feel naked. Like the world can see me. The street is numb and silent but for the giant man who's stumbled home and talks forcefully to his wife.

Light materializes now in the bedroom as well.

Through the trees I can see the shadows.

The woman is standing up in her nightie, but the hands of the man take her and pull it from her, hard.

"I thought you were waiting up," he says. He has her by the arms. Fear has me by the throat. Next he throws her down to the bed and undoes his belt and pants.

He's on her.

He puts himself in.

He has sex with her and the bed cries out in pain. It creaks and wails and only I can hear it. Christ, it's deafening. Why can't the world hear? I ask myself. Within a few moments I ask it many times. Because it doesn't care, I finally answer, and I know I'm right. It's like I've been chosen. But chosen for what? I ask.

The answer's quite simple:

To care.

A little girl appears on the porch.

She cries.

I watch.

There's only the light now. No noise.

There's no noise for a few minutes, but it soon starts up again--and I don't know how many times this man can do it in one night, but it's certainly an achievement. It goes on and on as the girl sits there, crying.

She must be about eight.

When it finally ends, the girl gets up and goes inside. Surely this can't happen every night. I tell myself it isn't possible, and the woman replaces the girl on the porch.

She also sits down, like the girl. She's got her nightie on again, torn, and she has her head in her hands. One of her breasts is prominent in the moonlight. I can see the nipple facing down, dejected and hurt. At one point, she holds her hands out, forming a cup. It's like she's holding her heart there. It's bleeding down her arms.

I almost walk over, but instinct stops me.

You know what to do.

A voice inside me has whispered, and I hear it. It keeps me from going to her. This isn't what I have to do. I'm not here to comfort this woman. I can comfort her till the cows come home. That won't stop it happening tomorrow night and the night after.