“A tall Gypsy woman with a long mane of curls held back by a scarf of stars had caught me, and with two fingers she’d deafened my ear – with an alarming whistle – that had brought a crowd.”
Poolside – Bette
I get that psychopaths are broken people living in their own hell that they are compelled to inflict on others. And I know that sociopaths are many times the best dinner companions, especially at long tables where no one knows each other well. The sociopaths’ glib self absorption, or fawning attentions can swing a party from tedious to fantastic while they have the stage.
But rapist are cruel, and they disgust me deeply. I understand my darker urges to kill them, or any evil bastard that gets in my way. Tina leaning against me and crying from the inflicted psychic damage left by this creep Allsweld makes me wonder how many times just today have I wanted Henry face down dead? In my fantasy I step over him, pick up my daughter, and Tina and I walk away free from those ashes.
And it’s impossible, and it’s what I’d give anything for, but at this moment I’m notched far down from where I ever thought I’d be. Tonight, I’m Tina’s friend.
Oh, how in the loving name of God are we going to do this for the rest of our lives and Angelica’s? If we didn’t have the baby, would she have just driven off one day and that would have been that? I don’t see any trail that leads her completely away from me. I’ve heard what she says and I see her trying to keep our visits shorter. I know we’re not tripping backwards down the hallway to our bedroom anytime soon. But fuck it all. What else is there to do? Dive down to the bottom of the pool and pull the plug? Let all of it drain away? I’m not there. And she’d better never be.
What I want to do is hold her in my arms, as she cries and remembers and tells me the truth about how she got the scar. In the police report, I had surreptitiously read, there were photographs of her on the scene with a frightened look, and the other shots were of her injury – jagged and dotted red from surgical threads knitted through her skin.
I’ve kissed this scar many times. Gliding over it and barely thinking anymore about the barbed wire horseback riding story that apparently was a lie.