The Wall

My mother was wringing her hands, standing by, watching him hurt me. Help me, I thought. For once! Don’t be afraid of him. Help ME!

Paulo gripped the phone. The numbers spun in front of my eyes even though they were still. All the control, all the stifling stiffness, was gone. He shrugged it off like a shroud, revealing the cruel twist of a man beneath. He was going to kill me. I could see it in his eyes—they were a swirl of empty black, ominous, terrifying.

He kicked me in the stomach hard and I fell backwards to the floor again, my head half-hidden under the chair. He clapped the chair out of the way. Telephone raised, ready to strike. He had me pi

I had the ridiculous thought that this was a very bizarre way to go, beaten to death with a telephone. My mind conjured up the vision of my death plaque. Here lies Rosa Bianca. Killed by a telephone. If only they hadn’t put her on hold for so long... A laughed slipped out between my lips. Of all the stupid things to do. His eyes were dancing. He licked the corner of his mouth. He would relish this. The humor was instantly eroded and all I could feel was a numb, stepped-on panic.

I couldn’t scream—they would hear me. And I would never let him see me cry. I closed my eyes, flashes of Joseph circling me with his big, strong arms, our son laughing and watching light dance against the timber walls, green hills and trees. Trees everywhere. I’m so sorry.

The dull bang of metal hitting flesh, and mostly bone, disturbed us both. We looked up to see my mother’s small, brown face, her eyes tired but defiant. Just there in the corner of those eyes, I could see me. I gasped as a small trickle of blood worked its way from her eyebrow down her cheek.

She raised the kitchen pan in her hand and struck herself in the face, hard. It would be comical if it weren’t so frightening. She looked at Paulo, her eyes stony. Then she ran for the front door, unlocking it shakily, her hands struggling to grip the key.

She turned to me, and said, “Run, Rosa,” and then she walked out the door screaming, “Help! Help! He’s beaten me. He’s going to hurt my baby!”

Lights were going on. People were stirring. Soon there would be sirens.

Paulo let go like my skin was on fire. The situation was turning on him and he cowered away from me, eyebrows knotted. A chunk of slick, black hair snaked down his forehead. I saw him for what he was, a small, petty man who had no heart and therefore should have no place in mine. I felt a small amount of pity for him. Very small. His life was over.

“You know, it didn’t have to be this way, Paulo,” I said as I stood unsteadily. I carefully took two steps backwards, holding his gaze, and then I bolted out the back door. The flimsy screen slammed several times. Creak, bang, creak, bang.

I heard him mutter, low and desperate, “I know.”

I ran down the side, picked up my bag without breaking stride, and turned away from my old life for good. Goodbye, Mother.

Why do we go around in circles? Wasn ’t I just here? Nothing changes. Nothing ever changes.

I ran. Tears streamed down my face. I failed. I couldn’t save either of them. I hadn’t even asked my sister’s name. I ran through the list of things I’d wanted to say. You’re a grandmother. I’m safe. I’m working hard. I love you. I miss you. I need you. All of it sitting in my stomach, scrawled on a crumpled-up piece of paper, the ink seeping into my veins.

Could I let it go? She didn’t want me. So maybe I could stop worrying about her now. I shook my head, answering my own question. No. It wouldn’t be that easy.

The night air was piercing, like it was part acid cloud. My puffy eyes made it hard to focus, hard to see the dark shapes I needed to follow. I tightened my hair and wiped my nose with my sleeve, a streak of snot pulling across my face and hardening there. I was at the gate to Ring Three now. I crept up to it and carefully wrapped my fingers around the iron, remembering rust stains on my school jacket, a life that didn’t belong to me now, and probably never really did. I breathed a sigh of relief when it opened easily.

Following the curved line of the concrete wall for a while, I then made my way into the street and snuck past several houses. I kept my eye out for my old house but I couldn’t find it without the purple-and-yellow curtains. They all looked exactly the same.

I stole down a street, hugging the unsheltered curb, feeling more and more like I shouldn’t be here and how I couldn’t wait to be home. A mechanical creaking stopped me in my tracks. It sounded like a giant door pulling open, then glass shattering and muffled voices. I froze. There were very few places to hide. I padded into the front lawn of one of the houses and tried to mold into the shape of the Pau Brasil tree, noticing the lined-up bins on the curb in front of every house. What day was it? Wednesday. Bin collection.

“Damn it,” I muttered under my breath.

It was getting closer, inching its way towards me. I watched as a giant, mechanical arm lifted bins to the opening and shook. A man followed the truck, picking up the different recyclables and emptying them into compartments in the base of the truck, below the mouth meant for garbage. I’d never seen it done before. It was so early, 3AM. What an awful, bottom-of-the-rung job.

A man sidled up to the boxes, picked them up awkwardly, and bouncily walked to the truck, whistling as he went. The driver stuck his head out the window and yelled at the man intermittently, or maybe it was a boy. He was short and thin. He moved like he wasn’t collecting garbage. This boy was taking a stroll through a flowered field, sweeping his hands across the blooms, and looking up at the sky. It was clear he wasn’t taking what he was doing very seriously. The man in the truck yelled at him over and over, his hairy arm gesticulating and banging the door. But the boy seemed unperturbed, walking out of sight, snapping his hand together like a talking mouth, wobbling his head and imitating the driver. I tried not to laugh, covering my mouth with my hand. The tears were drying up now.

The truck was one house away and I prayed the headlights would not cast their light on me. My feet were quite obviously sticking out from the thin trunk. I cursed the ineptitude of the tree for being such a poor shelter. My feet were in sneakers; they would know I wasn’t from here. My eyes, my clothes, they would know straight away.

The truck lurched forward, squeaking to a stop at the house I was standing in front of. The headlights illuminated the front door. I knew they would see me. I held my breath and stood on the tips of my toes, trying to press myself further into the bushy foliage and pathetically thin trunk. I should have run. I’d had time. But the boy loading garbage had distracted me and now it was too late.

Metal clashed, glass clinked against glass, and the truck moved. The headlights weren’t shining on me anymore. But the boy was still there, picking up some loose bottles that had spilled out of an overloaded box.

“Make sure you get everything, boy,” the driver growled impatiently as he rolled to the next house.

“Yeah, yeah,” the boy replied, shaking his head.

I looked down at my feet to see a green glass bottle had rolled under my tree.

The boy picked his way up the path, collecting bottles and sticking them under his arm. I moved around the tree, trying to stay out of sight. Thinking, This is it… I’ll be caught and it will be for nothing.

He got to the front door and turned around. I held my breath. A few more steps and I would be safe. Keep moving, I willed. Don’t look under the tree.

He was just off the path when he stopped suddenly, like a thought had occurred to him. He turned around and marched straight towards my hiding place. He leaned down and scooped up the bottle at my feet. He stopped way too long, staring at the dirt. No, he was staring at my shoes. My lungs burned for air.