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campkilkare) wrote2010-10-08 02:59 pm
campkilkare) wrote2010-10-08 02:59 pm
Rude Awakenings
She wakes up when the car hits the water; the icy water floods into the trunk and shocks her awake. She gasps ragged shreds of close air, scrabbles around, and for a long moment--short, but almost long enough to kill her--her mind only shrieks nonsense,
I didn't think he'd be so MAD!
so MAD he was SO MAD
she slaps helplessly at the lid with a hand that hurts so bad, and then she gets herself together, she thinks:
Your name is Vi
Your name is Violet Townsend and you're hurt real bad.
You have to get out of this car.
There's a toolkit in her; she remembers Pete lecturing her about it once, walking her step by step (she's not good at mechanical things) how to change the tires, how to work the jack, all the ways it could save her life someday.
She fishes out a drill; applies it to the lock.
On the surface, her hair blinds her in thick, ropy strands, clumped with blood and silty water. She's under the bridge. She hurts all over; the worst is in her right breast, and at first she thinks it's her heart, and then, remembering, she feels stupid and childish, mistaking a shattered implant for a broken heart, and when the darkness closes over her she thinks she'll die this way, disillusioned, lonely and desolate. A fool.
Darkness.
In the darkness she calls out, to anyone and anything that can hear her. She writes a blank check to the infinite, and the shadows take her.
String string a ding ding
"It's all right."
Darkness.
"I'm a doctor.
"You're going to be all right." She has trouble believing that. She hurts all over; she feels his hands moving over her, both tender and dispassionate, testing, probing, tracing the twin arcs of scar under her breasts, palpitating her side (she wants to scream, but she can't get her breath, and all she manages is a tense unhappy vibration in her throat), and then his hands go lower, and she can't feel them, and that scares her so bad. And she still can't see.
"We'll fix you riiight up, Vi." The washcloth brushes her face, cool and soothing, and it wipes the blood from her eyes; her first impression of him is a weird, tall shadow sketched against the overwhelming light. He clucks his tongue. "Someone's been tuning up on you pretty good."
"Pete," she whispers. Her memories are all in fragments--her head feels like it is, when the doctor's fingers probe under her straw-blonde hair she imagines she feels him tracing a jagged eggshell shape, but that would be impossible--her memories are all in fragments and her train of thought is jumbled but she can't forget Pete, Pete shaking her awake, the back of his hand, the strings of blood and spittle that sprayed out on the tile.
I was asleep when he got home. Worked a close, she can remember that, but not the name of the bar, although she's worked there ten years and she met Pete there, and the worst thing is--
"I can't remember why," she whispers. Liquid, tacky and hot, runs from the corners of her eyes, and the doctor twinkles at her.
"Why doesn't matter," says the doctor. "Why never matters."
"I hurt," she whispers, and he says, "I know." There's a strong, chemical smell that makes her think, for some reason, of high school, and he hooks up an IV. "This will help."
Why high school?
"I don't...."
She tries to take another breath and wishes she hadn't; she feels coldness spreading through her from her arm. "I don't think you can fix me..."
The doctor opens an old leather bad, shabby and dark; takes out gleaming instruments. "Oh, but I know I can." Twinkle twinkle. "Surgery, Miss Fender, is an art--
And the darkness comes back.
In the darkness there are other memories. She remembers meeting him, at the nameless bar, his sexy smile and his flattened nose; he chalked it up to his brothers but later she would know about his dad, his dad and why he always stops after two beers and never touches the strong stuff; she remembers long walks and throwing popcorn at the screen of bad movies, a grim visit to his mom's place in the armpit of the Atlantic, her wedding swathed in gold taffeta, too shy to wear white but feeling like a princess; she remembers the beating, the endless pain and the blind look of obsession in his eyes, giving way to panic far too late, and the sudden jumpcut to him dropping her in the trunk of her little Corolla, but nowhere in the darkness is there an answer to that question; nothing that can make that crooked letter straight.
And eventually, something wakes up and thinks of course. Frogs.
The doctor had to cut her clothes off; he helps her dress, and she doesn't ask where these came from. There are scars and stitches and discolorations, but no pain; no pain at all, she feels as lithe and limber as she ever was, if not more. Most of them vanish under her clothes, anyway. When she rolls the sock high up her knee, over the blackened patch on her shin, she's perfect.
"Can I borrow your bag?" she says, checking her lipstick in the mirror-polished steel of the wall of drawers; her voice is smooth now, contralto and calm.
"Keep it," says the doctor, beaming broadly as he dons his top hat. She puts her drill in it, and hums quietly to herself; one of the old songs her mother used to put on the record player.
Ding ding ding went the bell.
He's asleep; she slips the loops over his wrists before she shakes him awake. His eyes flutter open, and then he screams; screams and arches, bent like a bow, trying to dig his way down through the bed and away from her.
And that makes her smile, and she doesn't know why.
I didn't think he'd be so MAD!
so MAD he was SO MAD
she slaps helplessly at the lid with a hand that hurts so bad, and then she gets herself together, she thinks:
Your name is Vi
Your name is Violet Townsend and you're hurt real bad.
You have to get out of this car.
There's a toolkit in her; she remembers Pete lecturing her about it once, walking her step by step (she's not good at mechanical things) how to change the tires, how to work the jack, all the ways it could save her life someday.
She fishes out a drill; applies it to the lock.
On the surface, her hair blinds her in thick, ropy strands, clumped with blood and silty water. She's under the bridge. She hurts all over; the worst is in her right breast, and at first she thinks it's her heart, and then, remembering, she feels stupid and childish, mistaking a shattered implant for a broken heart, and when the darkness closes over her she thinks she'll die this way, disillusioned, lonely and desolate. A fool.
Darkness.
In the darkness she calls out, to anyone and anything that can hear her. She writes a blank check to the infinite, and the shadows take her.
String string a ding ding
"It's all right."
Darkness.
"I'm a doctor.
"You're going to be all right." She has trouble believing that. She hurts all over; she feels his hands moving over her, both tender and dispassionate, testing, probing, tracing the twin arcs of scar under her breasts, palpitating her side (she wants to scream, but she can't get her breath, and all she manages is a tense unhappy vibration in her throat), and then his hands go lower, and she can't feel them, and that scares her so bad. And she still can't see.
"We'll fix you riiight up, Vi." The washcloth brushes her face, cool and soothing, and it wipes the blood from her eyes; her first impression of him is a weird, tall shadow sketched against the overwhelming light. He clucks his tongue. "Someone's been tuning up on you pretty good."
"Pete," she whispers. Her memories are all in fragments--her head feels like it is, when the doctor's fingers probe under her straw-blonde hair she imagines she feels him tracing a jagged eggshell shape, but that would be impossible--her memories are all in fragments and her train of thought is jumbled but she can't forget Pete, Pete shaking her awake, the back of his hand, the strings of blood and spittle that sprayed out on the tile.
I was asleep when he got home. Worked a close, she can remember that, but not the name of the bar, although she's worked there ten years and she met Pete there, and the worst thing is--
"I can't remember why," she whispers. Liquid, tacky and hot, runs from the corners of her eyes, and the doctor twinkles at her.
"Why doesn't matter," says the doctor. "Why never matters."
"I hurt," she whispers, and he says, "I know." There's a strong, chemical smell that makes her think, for some reason, of high school, and he hooks up an IV. "This will help."
Why high school?
"I don't...."
She tries to take another breath and wishes she hadn't; she feels coldness spreading through her from her arm. "I don't think you can fix me..."
The doctor opens an old leather bad, shabby and dark; takes out gleaming instruments. "Oh, but I know I can." Twinkle twinkle. "Surgery, Miss Fender, is an art--
And the darkness comes back.
In the darkness there are other memories. She remembers meeting him, at the nameless bar, his sexy smile and his flattened nose; he chalked it up to his brothers but later she would know about his dad, his dad and why he always stops after two beers and never touches the strong stuff; she remembers long walks and throwing popcorn at the screen of bad movies, a grim visit to his mom's place in the armpit of the Atlantic, her wedding swathed in gold taffeta, too shy to wear white but feeling like a princess; she remembers the beating, the endless pain and the blind look of obsession in his eyes, giving way to panic far too late, and the sudden jumpcut to him dropping her in the trunk of her little Corolla, but nowhere in the darkness is there an answer to that question; nothing that can make that crooked letter straight.
And eventually, something wakes up and thinks of course. Frogs.
The doctor had to cut her clothes off; he helps her dress, and she doesn't ask where these came from. There are scars and stitches and discolorations, but no pain; no pain at all, she feels as lithe and limber as she ever was, if not more. Most of them vanish under her clothes, anyway. When she rolls the sock high up her knee, over the blackened patch on her shin, she's perfect.
"Can I borrow your bag?" she says, checking her lipstick in the mirror-polished steel of the wall of drawers; her voice is smooth now, contralto and calm.
"Keep it," says the doctor, beaming broadly as he dons his top hat. She puts her drill in it, and hums quietly to herself; one of the old songs her mother used to put on the record player.
Ding ding ding went the bell.
He's asleep; she slips the loops over his wrists before she shakes him awake. His eyes flutter open, and then he screams; screams and arches, bent like a bow, trying to dig his way down through the bed and away from her.
And that makes her smile, and she doesn't know why.
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She has also written a really good piece of analysis on the second song Fake Palindromes, and since Andrew Bird often leads into it with Dr. Stringz, the connection seemed straightforward.)
I like being mysterious but since this is so derivative I felt like Mr. Bird deserved credit.
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Also, this is still my favorite line, and I still think it gets at the whole thing:
"Why doesn't matter," says the doctor. "Why never matters."
(How I wish it was those dishes you were throwing.)
I don't know that I agree with it, but it's still my favorite line. And. Ugh. So many only halfway-coherent reactions. Thing!
You should write me fic all the time. Thank you.
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Chillingly well done.
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*APPROVES*
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(Anonymous) 2010-10-11 01:23 pm (UTC)(link)I just don't understand why she'd fight so hard and resourcefully to get out of the trunk... Maybe she's a superhero and her life situation hadn't slowly beaten down her will to live? I guess that's the case since at the end she seeks such sadistic revenge? Though I don't know how someone capable of that violence(even in revenge) would end up on the receiving end of domestic violence? It's usually a slow process that escalates, the abuser realizing he can get away with more and more. I feel like it's a giant accomplish for most women just to get away. Because the abuse is rarely just physical. So the chances of them responding to even ridiculous levels of violence in the way you may expect(violent revenge) doesn't usually happen. Maybe something cracked in her? I feel like when domestic violence victims crack, they don't turn homicidal. Maybe I'm reading it wrong... It's really well-written(as always)... maybe I'm missing some backstory because I'm not on Milliways. Or maybe the violence at the end was just a fantasy in her head? That's more believable to me, if that's the case. Sorry to be so critical, just a topic that hits close to home.
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I don't know if you're tracking responses or not, but in any case I dropped by to reread this for a couple of reasons and spotted your comment. Now, obviously I don't know your personal situation or experience, but I'm afraid I must disagree with you on a few points. To wit:
Though I don't know how someone capable of that violence(even in revenge) would end up on the receiving end of domestic violence? and I feel like when domestic violence victims crack, they don't turn homicidal.
Fortunately or unfortunately, this just isn't the case. People respond differently when faced with situations of stress and trauma, including situations of domestic violence. Domestic violence victims have committed violent and even premeditated violent actions in self-defense. The Burning Bed is probably the best-recognized example of such a tale in media. The National Clearinghouse for the Defense of Battered Women was established for the purpose of helping victims of domestic violence find justice when charged with related crimes.
I must also gently point out that although this opinion is widely held -- namely, that 'strong/capable people' are not domestic violence victims, that's not true either.
It's usually a slow process that escalates, the abuser realizing he can get away with more and more.
Sometimes, but not always. I agree that there is usually a definite cyclic pattern over time, but a) there's not always that time given, and b) it's not always an escalating one for the reason you give.
Ironically, however, when it is, this is exactly how anyone could end up in a domestic violence situation. There are no simple answers.
I do agree with you that it is a significant accomplishment for most in such situations to find the way out of them, both for their own reasons and due to the institutional and justice systems in the US (if you're writing from elsewhere, I apologize for the America-centric presumption).
I must to work now, but would be glad to continue this conversation over email. An LJ message will reach me, or if you'd rather stay anon, feel free to drop by my own journal and leave a comment somewhere, as I don't want to invade
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(Anonymous) 2010-10-11 02:26 pm (UTC)(link)no subject
(Anonymous) 2010-10-11 02:42 pm (UTC)(link)Why not explore some of the more subtle reactions after domestic violence.
I mean, take Rose Madder(since I know you've all read all of Stephen King), Norman meets a bloody death. And Rose moves on with her life with a better dude, Bill. But what if when they get more serious she finds out that Bill has the favorite song as Norman or uses the same toothpaste. These things invoke particular and complicated emotions.
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Evidently you know me better than I do you, or you appear to think so, anyway.
After reading these remarks, I have two things to say:
1) I am not going to speak for the author or get into the difference between authorial intent and textual interpretation, but it is my personal opinion that the story is an excellent fit with the source and a logical and plausible derivation thereof. You are of course free to disagree.
2) It has nothing to do with
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(Anonymous) 2010-10-11 03:54 pm (UTC)(link)2. I don't know what I did to offend you, and I don't have any specific desire to engage in any kind of discussion with someone who is automatically on the defense. I was offering a critique of a story that gao wrote, which I assumed was a stand-alone. I was mistaken(my fault because I didn't read all the comments afterwards). I understand some degree of protectiveness, but is it necessary to start attacking me based on an unfavorable impression(which I now admit was based on incomplete information), which didn't contain any slander or immaturity... just my impressions of the piece. I don't think its necessary to always be 100% enthusiastic about everything everyone writes.
3. I do know you, though not very well, and I have no ill will towards you.
4. Why is it more appropriate to have a discussion of gao's story on your journal instead of his?
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3) ... Um, okay! Thanks, Anon!
4) See point 2 above. Fic talk in fic setting is one thing. I started by addressing other points from differing factual perspective, better done elsewhere.
And now that misconceptions are (I hope) addressed, I really am stopping here.
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The violence involved is certainly out of character for her in life.
The origins of the characters/situations, and why I wrote this story and not the story you wish it was, are explained in my comment to
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(Anonymous) 2010-10-11 03:14 pm (UTC)(link)