GODDAMN VIRGIN ANGEL BABY: SURVIVING MY STEPDAD & SELF- DESTRUCTION

JUST ME AND THE BEEFSTEAK

I'm eating a steak for dinner. A juicy, pink, massive beefsteak tomato.

While my dinner recently consisted of a beefsteak tomato, three small balls of mozzarella cheese, and five spinach leaves, I’ve come to my senses and realized my caloric intake was simply too high. Now it’s just me and the beefsteak.

I carefully cut it up into twenty-two pieces, so I can savor each morsel, each bite. While my figure can normally be described as a potato, okay, more accurately a pear, in no time at all, I will be a bean pole. A string bean. A tiny, erect, spaghetti noodle of an actress. People will be in awe of my prominent collarbones and sunken face. Think of a dead zombie, just more alive. I’m also fairly certain you grow an inch in height for each inch lost around your waist. At this rate, I’ll be 6’ 2”. At least 5’ 8”. 

Once I complete my twenty-two-piece feast, I rinse it down with a nice glass of agua on the rocks. To the finer things in life. 

I’m working out like a madwoman. At least three hours a day, up to five. Running. Lifting. Taking classes. The goal is for my ass to be so hard it won’t move when I walk. 

I am doing this for myself. For my growth. For my strength. And so that when I post pictures online, Jai can see how well I’m doing. Working out is his thing. I never felt skinny enough or strong enough when I was with him. I worry it's part of the reason we didn’t work out. Well, look at me now.

I can see results, not as intense as I’d like, but this small, cheap gym I go to is right on my street, a literal minute walk from my apartment, so I have no excuse not to go.

    Well, almost no excuse. There’s this guy. The front desk guy. He’s handsome enough, I guess. He’s physically fit, I guess, but he seems like one of those guys that only wears Polos, even to bed. He’s kind enough, but his sense of humor is a little zany. He won’t really leave me alone.

I mean, maybe it’s in my head. I think it is. He seems like a fine enough guy. He goes out of his way to say ‘Hello’. He seems to enjoy our conversations. And sometimes when I stay late towards closing, if I’m the only one there, I can see him watching me outside the door. I’ve caught him a few times and he goes back to the front desk and we both pretend it didn’t happen. 

Is that supposed to be sweet? I’ve been out of the dating game for a while because I love Jai. I’m still in love with him. I don’t know if I’m turning down a new possible good thing, seeing this innocent guy as a little creepy, because I’m interested in someone else. Maybe I'm not giving him a fair shake, because I need to move on. I need to date, get out there, get over Jai, and it’s not going to happen on my couch crying with a tub of Ben & Jerry’s.

So here I am, at the gym late. I’ve checked my phone three times in the past six minutes and Jai hasn’t texted. He hasn’t texted since I flew back. This wasn’t exactly how it was supposed to go. He was supposed to be pining over me by now, especially with this rock-hard ass in training.

I look up from the elliptical and it’s Dan. Just me and Dan, the front desk guy, the fellow aspiring actor.

“You scared me!” I inadvertently yell at Dan as I take out my headphones that were blasting my eardrums off.

“Sorry, I’m sorry. I just wanted to let you know we’re closing soon.” Dan says.

“Oh okay, thanks, Dan. Am I the last one here?”

“No. I mean, yeah. But take your time! Seriously! You can even stay later if you want, I have the key, you know.”

Something funny rushes through my spine, I think. 

“Great, thank you.” I think I’m going to end my workout early and refrain from the showering part. I want to go home. I’m feeling a little weird.

I collect my gym bag from the girl’s locker room and go to head out when I see Dan. He’s crying at the front desk. Literal tears are falling. I feel for him and I don’t even know what’s going on.

“Dan? Are you okay?”

“Sorry, I don’t want you to see me like this, you know?”

“It’s okay, it’s okay. What’s going on?” I am nothing if not a caretaker.

He’s holding back, he doesn’t want to tell me something, but he feels he has to.

“I’m all alone out here, away from my family, and I don’t have friends, you know? Everyone’s cruel here, I wish someone would listen, and I’m trying hard, to have a friend.”

My heart breaks for him. I understand feeling alone. I know the difficulty of making friends and feel deeply for anyone who’s bullied. I feel it's one of my callings to help those who are down and out.

Before even thinking, I say it. “I’m your friend, Dan. I’m sorry it’s been hard on you here.”

“You are?” His entire demeanor changes. A heaviness lifts. A huge smile. 

“Yes, and I’m here to listen.”

Without missing a beat, he asks “What are you doing now?”

I’m a little taken aback, a little caught off guard. I don’t know what I feel comfortable with. “I, I.”

“Because you live close, right?”

That shiver. I don’t remember telling him where I live, maybe I did, maybe I’m overthinking this. By the time I realize it, it’s shown all over my face.

“Unless you don’t want to, I understand.” He slinks back in his seat and it looks like tears are reforming.

I hate this. I don’t want to be cruel. This man is suffering and it's my job to help him. Who knows what he’s going through? I'm being irrational.

“No, I want to,” I say.

“Really? Seriously? You want to hang out with me?”

“Yeah.” 

“Well, I’m all ready to go, let’s leave.” 

“Oh, okay.” I incorrectly assumed he had closing duties or something else to do. 

As we’re walking out together, I'm feeling a little queasy. He’s telling me how grateful he is, how much he’s admired me, and I can’t help but wonder if this is okay. 

Maybe I should tell him I’m sick and get a rain check?

No. He’s suffering. He needs your help. You’ve spoken to him every day for weeks. You know where he works. Stop overreacting. Don’t let your mind go there. 

I unlock the security door to my apartment complex and we enter my building.

“Wow! This is great! A whole pool!”

“They have half pools?” Not only is my joke not funny, but it also doesn’t put my mind at ease like I wanted it to. Dan laughs. Hard. Extremely hard. Too hard.

We’re walking upstairs to my apartment door when I’m starting to have serious doubts, just because of how intensely my body is telling me to run. Go. Drop the keys and sprint. Get out.

But I don’t have a choice at this point. We’re here now. Nothing left to do but open the door.

We head in. 

“So, this is it!” Since I have a studio apartment, it literally is a bed-room, which makes me more uneasy.

He compliments my decorations and I head straight to my DVD binder. I figure my best strategy is putting on a TV show. Something light and fun, like “I Love Lucy.” Everyone loves “I Love Lucy”, it’s literally in the name. It’s also thirty minutes long. In and out.

“Do you love ‘I Love Lucy’? It’s my mom’s favorite.”

“Can we just talk?” He has those eyes again. They’re desperate. He’s sad. He’s broken.

“Of course.” I remember why I invited him up. It’s okay. He’s just a sad man.

He sits down on my bed, and I sit down on the ground, cross-legged. “Is it okay if I come sit down by you?” I like that he asked. That’s a good sign.

“Yes, of course,” I respond.

He sits down beside me, close, and lays his head on my lap. He puts my hands over him, one over the other, and now I’m cradling him. I don’t feel completely comfortable, but I’m not completely uncomfortable. It’s okay. I’m okay, I remind myself.

“I’m happy to be in your arms, Mommy.”

I think I misheard him, right? 

“What did you say?” I ask.

“I’m happy to be here.” 

I’m hallucinating. I’m freaking out. He didn’t just call me his mommy. That would be weird. 

“I don’t understand why everyone’s so mean and so bad, and so.” And then Dan loses it. He’s sobbing, hysterically. He’s convulsing. If he’s speaking, it's in tongues. I want to be compassionate, but this is a lot and I don’t know this guy. I want him out of my home. 

And yet, I know I can’t say that, not now. I tell him he’s okay, tell him everything’s okay, stroke his hair once or twice, and he starts to quiet. I’m good at this. I know how to do this. I think some of my worth may even be wrapped up in this. “Thank you, Mommy,” he repeats himself.

“I want to be close to you, Mommy.” I know what he means. He’s in the entirety of my lap. He couldn’t get any closer physically. He wants to be in me.

Alright. It wasn’t a mistake. He’s calling me his mommy, intentionally. I can’t. My mind imagines kicking him hard in the groin and running out of the front door, but I don’t think it’ll work. This is a problem. I know now I have a situation. I’m going to have to outsmart him to get out. 

The shiver. Panic. And then, a calm. Something changes in me.

“I am close, I am here, Dan,” I hear myself say.

He reaches toward my leg and starts stroking me. My entire body tenses up and he sees it. Something in him turns. Something I knew was there all along but didn’t want to admit to myself. I should’ve trusted myself.

“Is there a problem?” His hand grips down, hard, on my thigh. He's hurting me.

“That tickled.” I giggle a bit, toss my hair. He buys it, for now, I think. His hand lets up and I know I can’t let him touch me again. I’m a damn good actress, but he’ll know. And when he sees the rejection in my eyes, he’ll snap. He’ll break. I don’t know what will happen to me then.

“Let’s go over to the bed, Becky.” 

I don’t know why I’m surprised. Deep down, I knew where this was heading. I didn’t trust myself, but now it’s happening and I’m scared. I’m terrified and I want to scream and run but that’s not the way out. There’s no way out. He’s going to-

That calm washes over me again: the same calm I get after smoking, the same calm I get when running, the same calm after eating an entire bag of Salt and Vinegar chips.

He grabs my hand and I go over with him. My mind moves in hyper speed as my body glides in slow motion.

“One second,” I say. I let go of his hand and feel his glare. He releases some tension when he realizes I’m turning off the lights. He grins.

If he can’t see me, I have a better chance of lying. If he can’t see me, I have a better chance of hiding. If he can’t see me, if something happens, if he does anything, at least he won’t see me, and hopefully, I won’t see him. 

“Come here,” he says. He gets in the bed, hugging the wall, and I once again think about running. Bolting for the door, down the stairs, out, out where I don’t know, but out. 

You won’t make it. Over and over again I hear it. You won’t make it.

I lay down in bed beside him. At least he hasn’t touched me. He also isn’t calling me Mommy. 

“So. What do you want to do?” Dan inquires.

I want to end you, I think. I want you to end so you won’t think it’s okay to manipulate me. To prey on me. To prey on others.

But I don’t say that. I go through my options.

I could run, but he would grab me. He would grab me, and I know what would happen then. I don’t want to think about it. So, I can’t run. 

I could try to stall. I could try to use the restroom, but I think that would piss him off. He’d see it as rejection and punish me for it. I don’t want to think about it.

I could just do it. I could just, give him what he wants. At least I could try to have some control. At least-

“So?” 

I have to convince him he’s in control. Without me touching him. Without him touching me. Think. Think.

“Do you want to touch yourself?” I ask him.

“Yeah, yeah, I’d like that.” He’s salivating as he puts his hands down his pants. He squeezes himself.

“And I’ll touch me, yeah?” I suggest.

“Yeah, yeah,” he responds. 

I keep on my leggings and place my hands down my pants. I’m playing the part I believe he wants. I remember I have to make some noises. He seems to be satisfied, as is. Thank everything holy, he seems to be okay with this.

“Let me see,” he demands. I don’t want him to see anything. I want him gone. I want to leave. 

It’s okay, I tell myself gently. It’s pretty dark. As long as he doesn’t touch me, I’m okay. I remind myself that I am okay.

I take my legs and put them on top of the blanket. I don’t take off my leggings, but he can see my grazing hand. He can’t see me though, not like that.

I can’t have anything happen to me. I can’t, not here, not now, not again.

He’s pulling at himself, fast and hard. He’s looking down at me and all I can do is watch his eyes. His hands. His body language. I need to be alert. I need this to end.

He tugs even faster, a few more times, when his head tilts back into my pillow, his mouth drops, and he groans. Loudly.

I feel a bit of relief and roll out of arm’s reach, close to the edge of the bed away from him. He’s preoccupied with his own fluid, which he’s rubbed on his boxers, which he’s tucked away into his jeans.

“How was that for you?” he asks.

I smile and nod, “Yeah.” I can’t say more than that. I need him out now. He has to leave now.

“Good?”

“Yeah.” I’m pretending to fade, pretending to be tired. I’m playing dead, dead tired. Please notice. Please. Please. 

“That wore you out?”

“Yeah.” Everything I want has to be his idea. Please.

“You must be tired.”

“Yeah. I have to work in a few hours.”

“Are you serious? I’m sorry. I didn’t know. I have to leave, you need to sleep.”

Yes, yes, please. Please, you have to go!

“Yeah, I’m sorry, I’m tired,” I say out loud. I get up out of the bed and I turn on the lights again. 

“You don’t have to do that, Becky!”

I tell him it’s no problem at all. I want him to get out safely. I bring him his shoes. I even put them on his feet for him. I walk over to the door and I open it. It feels heavenly when I open the door. I feel like I’m safe now. Like it’s over, it’s all over.

Except his eyes shift again. He’s not happy. He feels like I’m rejecting him, or something. Like I’m kicking him out.

“I’m sorry, Dan. I’m just so tired. With working, and then working out, and then I have to work so soon.” 

It’s not working. He’s not moving. The switch again. He seems livid with me, but I won’t close the door. I will run out the door now if I have to.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah?” I say it. It’s not true. It’s a complete lie, but I don’t care. I’d say anything to get him out.

“Really? You want to see me, Becky?”

“Yes, so badly. Tomorrow, okay?” 

He runs up to me and he squeezes me as if to crush me, as if to burst my insides with a hug. I expect him to go in for a kiss, to smash his lips on my face, but he doesn’t. He gives a boyish grin, he waves, and with that, he leaves.

As soon as his two feet are through my doorway, I lock the front door, all three bolts. I bring a chair and put it under the door. I take my sheets and put them in a trash bag, which I place on the balcony. These will go out for trash day tomorrow. I’d burn them if my apartment bonfire wouldn’t take down the whole building.

I then make sure the balcony door is locked. I double-check that the wooden stick my landlord gave me is firm in the door threshold to prevent it from being opened from the outside. How’s that saying go? Speak softly to Dan and lock him out with a big stick.

 I run bath water and jump in the bath. Hot, scalding hot water. I splash water on my face. I cup the water in my mouth and spit it out. I do that multiple times.

I sleep on the ground, with fresh, clean sheets over me. I can’t bring myself to sleep in the bed.

I tell myself, over and over, you’re safe. You’re safe. I’m safe.

 #

I don't respond to Dan's calls. Or his texts. Or his messages. And there are quite a few. A lot. His emotional state goes from nice to angry to nice again. Where are you? I need to see you, I had an amazing time. Answer me! I know you’re there! Now! Please, I want to be together.

I cancel my gym membership when I know Dan isn’t there. They’re going to charge me for two extra months but I don’t care, I can’t go back. I can never see Dan again. He’s not safe. I won’t be around him. And I won’t second guess how I feel about it this time. 

I’m online staring at Jai’s new pictures of him out drinking with his guy friends and having a grand ol’ time when I get the message. It’s from Dan:

Becky,

You should’ve blocked me. Oh well. Can’t change that now. I want to remind you, you were quite cruel to me at a weak time in my life. If I ever have the chance to revisit any of that back on you, I will. Please learn how to treat people. Not everyone will handle garbage like you as well as I did.

I run downstairs to my girlfriend’s apartment in the same complex, Sunbeam. A quick way to describe Sunbeam: she’s never met a stranger who didn’t fall in love with her laugh or looks, she religiously sings to her scoby which is a mushroom that produces her kombucha, and just yesterday she got a random guy at a bar to taste her self-proclaimed period blood of life. She’s a ray of sunshine.

She says we should go to the police station, but I don’t want to leave my apartment. I tell her I’m afraid he’s watching, waiting for me to come out. He’s unstable, I say. I know he’s violent and I don’t know what he’ll do to me if the moment presents itself. Sunbeam says that’s all the more reason to tell the police.

At the police station, I show them his message and the officers let me know there’s nothing they can do. It’s not a direct threat. It’s creepy, but they can’t charge him with a crime. I’m on my own. They encourage me to come back if anything else happens. 

Great. So if he kills me, they’ll definitely do something about it. The system’s designed to work that way. 

Well. I guess if that’s how it’s going to be, that’s how it’s going to be. 

#

I wish I could say this is uncommon, but this always happens to me. Assaults like this follow me, or maybe I just inadvertently put myself in these situations. Men on the street groping me, men in the workplace harassing me and grabbing me, men that I’m dating pushing the boundaries and I let them. Every time, I feel like it’s my fault.

This time, I go online and I block Dan, even though he says it’s too late for that. One small step for mankind. Then I get an even better idea. I screenshot his message to me. I make sure to get his profile picture and his name in there, too. And then, I post it. His picture, his message, on my social media. I write the caption: ‘If I end up dead in the trash can, it was him.’ At least if he does try to kill me, or if he succeeds, he’s not getting away with it. Everyone I know will know it’s him. Well, except my mother. I hide the information from her on Facebook and life because she’ll only make me feel worse, or inadvertently blame me.

Is this my fault? Damnit. I wish I wouldn’t have been nice to him. Felt a need to play caretaker. But even more than that, I wish I would've trusted myself. I knew all along.

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