An Untamed State Read online

  I drank the first drink fast, so fast my teeth ached down to the pulp and I felt a tight pressure between my eyes, making it hard to focus on anything. The bartender continued to talk and I learned about how he loved to play the clarinet and not many people knew that about him. I drank the next cocktail a bit slower but not by much. I never let the ice cubes melt. I was hungry, but I ignored the persistent gnawing in my stomach. It was still too difficult to eat regularly. I put food in my mouth when Lorraine insisted but never very much or often enough and I always threw it all up.

  The bar was filling fast and a deejay played popular Top 40 hits intermixed with country music. The combination was disconcerting but the patrons seemed enthusiastic, spending most of their time on the dance floor, alternating between line dancing and movement that tried to approximate the dancing you might see in a rap video.

  A tall blond man slid on to the bar stool next to me. He was not handsome. He was not quite ugly. He had a choppy haircut and his hair hung shaggily over his ears, with a blunt shape along his forehead. His jeans were dirty and he wore a T-shirt with a hole in the left armpit. He offered to buy me a drink and I let him.

  “You don’t talk much,” he said.

  I shook my head.

  “Fine by me. There’s nothing more annoying than a woman who talks a lot but ain’t got nothing to say.”

  His comment was so common it wasn’t worth rolling my eyes. He said his name was Shannon; he hated having a woman’s name, insisted he was all man, offered to show me just how. I wondered what it was about me that compelled men to be so confessional. I took a tiny red sword from his drink and stabbed the palm of his hand. “I like them feisty,” he said.

  I stabbed him once more with my tiny red sword. He smelled raw. He inched closer and closer to me and talked and talked and didn’t seem to care that I only nodded. He said he worked for a meatpacking plant in the slaughterhouse. It made sense. He said I was Prime Grade. I offered nothing in return. He didn’t care. I was meat, lean meat, but meat nonetheless. He pulled me on the dance floor. I could barely stand. The bar was terribly hot, the air thick, the walls pressing in on me. We started moving, our bodies always touching. He hooked his fingers into my belt loops, pulling me more tightly against him. My skin felt like it was rolling in waves trying to separate itself from the fat, bone, muscle beneath. I slid my hands around his waist, swiveling my hips. He said, “Damn, you’re sexy.” He was a liar. I felt heavy and loose and the leash seemed almost invisible. I threw my head back, shaking my hair out. I wanted nothing to do with this man. I wanted everything to do with this man. I thought about Michael hanging up on me, about how I was losing him so soon into our after and we both knew it. I grinded myself against Shannon even harder.

  After several songs we returned to the bar. He bought me another drink. He leaned into me, resting his hand on my thigh, digging his fingers into my thigh. His breath was hot and wet and horrible against my neck. He laughed coldly, said, “We should take this outside.”

  I would let this man with a woman’s name break me again so I might be properly healed. I stood carefully and began walking toward the back door, focusing on placing one foot in front of the other. I paused, turned, looked at Shannon, nodded toward the door. He threw a couple of bills on the bar and came after me. By the time we made it outside, I was leaning against him. He didn’t care. My father didn’t come after me. My husband didn’t come after me, but a redneck meatpacker named Shannon, a man with a raw dead stink, he did.

  The night air was cold. When I placed my hand against the brick wall, it hummed with the bass of the song playing in the bar, music from another room. Shannon stood in front of me. He was much, much taller but fleshy. His girth repulsed me. I was meat. I did not want this but I did not leave. I waited, hoping he would break my bones, needing him to break my bones even though they were already broken. He leaned down until his lips were practically touching mine. I turned my head slightly. He could not have my mouth. I was defiant. He tapped my chin with a calloused finger. “I bet you like it real rough.”

  I lowered my head, grateful. I tried to relax my entire body to make it easier for him to break me. I wondered how his fist might fit against my chin or in my gut or how his hands might span the circumference of my neck or how much pressure he would apply to my throat before none of this mattered anymore. I wanted to say, “Put me in the ground. I am already dead.”

  The back door opened and three girls in silk camisole tops, high heels, and tight jeans stumbled out, laughing loudly. They paused, saw us, and giggled some more before heading to their car. Their perfume was still sharp and it lingered long after they were gone. I hoped they might come back for me. I was like them once.

  I waited. I waited for Shannon to do what needed to be done. He did not take long.

  He grabbed me by my shoulders, digging his fingers into me hard. I closed my eyes. I knew, by then, how to surrender, how to surrender to being broken, how that could be fighting. He pushed me against the brick wall, tried to push me into the wall. The bruises on my back brightened. He kicked my legs apart and grabbed me by my hair, yanking my head back. He shoved a hand into my pants. He stared at me. I did not look away. I felt nothing as he jammed two fingers inside me. I was dry, very tender. He said, “Yeah, baby.” He licked my cheek. I swallowed the sharp acid that rose. He slid a third finger inside me. I closed my eyes even tighter. I felt nothing but the pain was not bearable. He started moving his fingers in and out of me. I could feel him hard against my thigh. “You are so hot,” he said. He was still a liar. He was a man. I was meat.

  He released his grip on my hair and started to tug my jeans lower. I hoped the cover of night would hide the marks I did not care to explain. He thrust his fingers especially hard. The pain was perfect and necessary. I wrapped myself around it. I was still dry. “You know,” he grunted. “You could help me out.” I shrugged and he stopped. His features changed, rearranged themselves into something more dangerous. He wrapped a hand around my throat, answered one of my questions, closing his hand tightly. I did not gasp. He said, “You’re going to give me what I’m due,” as if I were putting up a fight he couldn’t quite make sense of.

  My bare thighs were cold. Goose bumps spread across my skin.

  Shannon slammed me against the wall again. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

  I shrugged once more. This time, though, I smiled.

  He shook his head and started unbuckling his pants. “Fucking women.”

  A large rodeo buckle held his belt together but he did not give me the impression of a man who had ever ridden rodeo, who had ever put himself in a circumstance where he might be broken. He reached into his pocket for a condom, tore it open with his teeth. I watched us, me against the wall, the mark of his fingers around my throat, standing there, spread open, waiting for him to take me. It was such a relief for something to finally make sense. He pulled my hand to his cock. “You feel that?” I swallowed as I felt the heat and length of him in my hand. He wrapped my fingers around him, covered my fingers with his. I squeezed lightly. There were tears at the corners of my eyes. I refused to cry.

  I prayed for mercy from him, for myself. I opened my hand, stretching my fingers. I did not want to touch him.

  That first night the seven men came for me, after the first phone call where I told my father and husband lies about my safety and they told me lies about my safety, when I lost count of how many men used me for hours and hours, I prayed because I had faith, because I needed faith as much as I needed to fight. I prayed because I was always taught that through prayer I would find salvation. I prayed for mercy and I prayed for more, for a breath of cool, dry air, for someone to come through the doors, to pull the men off me, to undo what had already been done. I prayed to forget. No one came for me. I prayed and no one came. I remembered everything. There was no salvation. But here, I could save myself.

  I planted a hand against Shannon’s chest, tried to pull my jeans up with my other hand.
“No,” I said. My voice was hoarse. I hardly recognized the sound of my voice.

  Shannon laughed. “Playing hard to get?” He pulled at my neck with his teeth.

  I swallowed huge gulps of air. He pushed my jeans back down, held me against the wall with his arm to my throat. I started clawing at his chest. I wanted to scream but my voice was still too new. “No,” I said.

  His body was wholly pressed against me. I was meat. He was going to take me because I asked him to.

  “What kind of game are you playing? You know you want it.”

  “No.”

  Suddenly the back door swung open again. I whispered, “No.” There was a rush of cold air. When I opened my eyes, the bartender was holding Shannon by the collar of his shirt.

  “The lady said no, so you best leave her be.”

  “She’s a fucking cock tease,” Shannon said, pulling his jeans up. He left the condom on. He spit on the pavement to his right, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and pointed a finger in my direction, looked like he might run up on me again.

  “No, sir,” the bartender said. “She is not. Go on home. This was a misunderstanding and you’ll live.”

  I tried to pull myself together, my fingers stiff as I fumbled with the buttons of my jeans. I fell to my knees and then I fell farther still, resting my forehead against my hands.

  Someone finally came for me. I still had no faith.

  In the morning, I wrote Lorraine a note telling Michael to come get me. My husband found his way to me faster than I thought possible. I was sitting on the porch swing wrapped in a blanket, hungover and sore. I felt crazy. I was crazy. A maroon Dodge Charger sped along the gravel road leading up to the farm and then Michael was out of the car and up the steps. He stopped, breathing heavy.

  He looked at me like he was afraid of me. “Can I hold you?”

  I stood, the blanket slowly falling from my shoulders. “Where’s Christophe?”

  “With your sister.”

  “I see.” I wanted to lean into him until I remembered our last conversation. I stepped back. “No, Michael, you can’t touch me. You are sick of this. That’s what you said. There has barely been any this and you are already sick of it.”

  His arms fell limply at his sides. We stood, staring at each other. He did not apologize.

  At dinner, we sat silently around the table—me, my husband, his parents. I watched as Lorraine and Glen and Michael ate—roasted chicken and cauliflower from the garden and a salad. My mouth watered. I hungered. I refused to eat. I traced the edges of my knife with my fingers, over and over.

  Michael pointed at me with his fork. “You need to eat.”

  I shook my head. “I don’t want anything inside me.”

  He set his fork down. “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “Michael,” Lorraine said, sharply.

  I stared down at my plate, the skin of the chicken glistening warmly. My mouth watered more. “I do not want anything inside me. What do you think it means?” This time, my voice was barely more than a whisper.

  “Babe,” Michael said. “You’ve lost too much weight. You look terrible.”

  I bristled. A semblance of my vanity was still intact. “Stop saying that. Guess what? You look terrible too. Your shirt is ugly. How many times do I need to tell you to throw that horrible shirt away?”

  “My shirt?” Michael slammed his fist against the table, making my silverware jump.

  His anger was too much. He was too close. He could hurt me. I got up and ran out of the room.

  “Miri, I am sorry,” Michael called after me.

  “What the hell is wrong with you, boy,” Glen said. “Get your head on right.”

  “I don’t know what to do,” my husband said. “She is completely unreachable.”

  “How else is she supposed to be?” Lorraine snapped. “What she’s been through.”

  “She won’t tell me what she’s been through. How can I help if I don’t know?” My husband started crying and I paused, looked back and saw him bent over, his face in his hands. His entire body shook. His sobs were deep and ugly and filled the room. Glen went to his son, gently placed his hand on Michael’s shoulder. I wanted to turn and go to Michael, to kiss his face and his pretty shoulders, to brush his hair from his face, to offer him some kind of solace, some kind of promise that we could find our way back to our fairy tale.

  “I am so sorry,” I said. “I have to go.”

  The volley of our apologies was wearing.

  I stopped in the mudroom and found a flashlight. The walls of the house threatened to collapse on me, vibrated as they readied to close in. Even though it was a cool night, I walked out of the house to get away from the grief I was causing and the cage trying to trap me. I walked until I no longer felt the throbbing in my feet because the pain had radiated everywhere. It hurt to breathe. I heard the Commander’s men laughing in the near distance and then I heard him, his lazy drawl explaining what he was going to do to me. “No,” I whispered.

  There were footsteps behind me. I started to walk faster. Someone called my name, a deep voice. I ran, even though I was so tired, so weak, my mouth so dry. I hungered. The cold night air made my bones ache. I looked up at the sky. There was no cross to guide my way, only moonlight. I could not tell if I was in Port-au-Prince or in Nebraska. On both sides of the gravel road, high stalks of corn. My name again, the footsteps, louder, closer. I turned, shining my light from side to side. A man, tall, moving toward me. I couldn’t think clearly. Panic began winding through me. I screamed. The Commander had found me. I knew it. I ran faster. My feet were hurting again. Dampness in my shoes, cuts newly opened. He told me to stop. I looked around for someplace to hide. There was nothing but open fields. I veered right and ran right into the stalks of corn.

  “Dear God, don’t go in there,” the voice said. “It’s not safe at night.”

  I shouted, “Stay away from me. I’m not going back in that cage. You can’t trick me.”

  “You’re not safe in the fields,” the voice said. He sounded as scared as me. I did not understand.

  I ran, stalks of corn hitting me in my face. I turned off the flashlight so he couldn’t find me. I had no idea where the field would end. I stumbled and tripped, falling hard to my knees, new bruises. I got back up, kept running.

  There were outbuildings dotted along the edge of the property. As a teenager, Michael and his friends would hang out in the sheds, drinking beer and smoking weed they grew in small plots between the rows of corn. “It was the purest stuff,” he once told me, “made from the best soil on earth, Nebraska soil.”

  The Commander’s voice, it had to be him, was farther away now, echoing into the night. So much corn. My thigh muscles threatened to tear. Finally, I reached another service road. I was soaked with sweat, my clothes clinging to my bones. I smelled the stink of my fear. I did not know how the Commander had found me so far away. I hoped Michael was safe in the house, was almost relieved the Commander was chasing me so my husband and child might remain free. There was no place I could ever hide from the Commander; I knew that. I looked up at the sky again.

  During one of our first trips to the farm, Michael and I had walked around, late at night, the air still and warm. The sky was clear and full of stars. It was the first time I saw a constellation and didn’t have to pretend I could see the handle of the Big Dipper. He told me how to find my place in the world using the stars. I no longer heard the Commander calling my name. I needed to think clearly. I needed to hide. I wanted to lie down; I was so tired. I tried to remember what Michael said about which star to follow, how my hand felt in his, the small way he laid claim to me by pressing his fingers against mine. I picked the brightest star and walked toward it. It still wasn’t safe to use my flashlight so I moved carefully through the dark.

  Finally, I came upon one of the outbuildings. I quietly opened the door, praying it wouldn’t squeak. Inside, I turned my flashlight back on and looked around. There was a bag of s
eed, a large wheelbarrow, a roll of barbed wire, equipment I didn’t recognize. In a toolbox, I found a pair of wire cutters. I climbed into the wheelbarrow, pulling a tarp over me, leaving only my eyes exposed. I clutched the wire cutters, holding them out in front of me. I stared at the door. I tried to breathe shallow. I waited. I did not blink.

  It got harder to stay awake. Every time I heard a noise, I waved the wire cutters in front of me. My eyelids grew heavier. It was so cold. I curled into a small ball, wrapped the tarp around myself more tightly. I waited. My eyes were so dry. When I started falling asleep, I jerked myself awake. I had never been so tired. It was not long before I couldn’t fight sleep anymore. Something dark and heavy covered me.

  There was a noise, voices. My eyes flew open. A truck idling, a door slamming shut. I covered my mouth with my hand, tried to make sense of where I was. In my other hand, something, I blinked, wire cutters. I was cold. My body was stiff. Thin plastic covered me. I lifted it up slightly. Thin shafts of light poured in. Suddenly, I remembered where I was. The Commander was out there with his men. He hunted me down like a dog and I was alone, at his mercy, at the edge of a vast farm. No one who could help me knew where I was. The door to the shed opened, a man standing in the doorway, behind him, blinding light. I unfolded myself, every joint aching. I waved my arms wildly in front of me, stabbing into the air with the wire cutters. This time I would make him bleed. The wheelbarrow tumbled backward and I fell to the floor. I ran to the corner and huddled into myself, covering my head with my arms. I wanted to die but I was already dead. I couldn’t bear the thought of the Commander taking me to a new cage. A woman was screaming and she sounded peculiar—hoarse and hollow and hopeless. My skin crawled as I realized I was the woman screaming.