Unalone
by Rebecca Evans
It started when I asked Gabe, my training partner, to snag some ecstasy. If you knew me—then or now—you’d know drugs were not, are not, my culture. I strap my seatbelt in the garage, even before starting my car. Before taking medication, I read the warnings. All of them.
Rules keep me out of trouble. Rules keep me out of pain.
I had heard how open people felt on E, free and relieved. By this time, my PTSD presented, mainly through nightmares and door-locking and avoiding the news. I could no longer rinse my bad dreams away; instead, they consumed me.
Maybe E can help me, I thought. Help me return to an earlier version of myself. A return to my childhood: erase the bad, embrace the good. Or perhaps a return to a feeling, one of youth. One of innocence. Like a self-induced past life regression. Regardless, I didn’t bother researching the potential consequences, maybe in an effort to fool myself.
*
Gabe and I met around 1999, when I felt on top of my game. I unknowingly soared through life, oblivious how far off course I’d traveled.
“E is for kids. At 26, I’m considered old. You’re over 30, nearly a hag,” he smiled. “No offense.”
On this day, we sat in the aerobics studio in an Idaho Gold’s Gym, taking a break from our four-hours-a-day training regime. We’d qualified for Nationals in SportAerobics, a sport on the rise as an event for gymnastics at the Olympic level. Think floor dance infused with acrobatics.
“I don’t look my age. I blend,” I told him, spreading my legs into a wide V, laying my chest on the ground in the center.
“You don’t act your age. That has nothing to do with looks.” Gabe stretched his legs, tucking his heels and pushing his toes until they touched the ground. His curved arch would’ve made any ballerina jealous. His gold-kissed skin contrasted his bleached hair and reminded me of a satin wave lapping the beach.
“I’m hot. I’m toned. I look ten years younger,” I said.
“You have ten percent body fat. And you come across like a cop.”
“It’s pathetic that you train with a girl who beats you at everything.”
“Not in the looks department.”
“Who cares how pretty you are if someone can beat you?”
“You gotta be on ‘roids. You’re stronger than me and half my size.”
True. I was tougher than Gabe.
“You’re far more a diva than me,” I said, and then, “Maybe you could get us into a rave?” I said rave in a familiar way.
*
Later, I smoothed my spandex black skirt over my narrow hips and tugged on a tank. I opted out of hose. This looks young. I slipped into stilettos, then tied on tennis shoes instead. I poured a glass of wine, brought it to my lips, took a sip. Probably shouldn’t mix drugs with alcohol. I set it aside, leaned into the mirror. My eyes crinkled, too lived-in.
*
Downtown Boise and Gabe approached a waif-like girl, her hair in uneven pig tails. Her socks, stretched above her knees, clashed against her pumps. Her brown eyes took up most of her face. Gabe whispered to her. They hugged. She departed.
“Who was that? Does she know about the rave?” I asked Gabe.
He grabbed my shoulders, turned me to face him, brows furrowed.
“This is probably the stupidest thing you’ve ever done. You don’t even snort dope. You think you want a hit of the love drug. Is this some way to heal your childhood?”
I shook my head. Looking back now, I can see how I wanted to escape my loneliness, my history. The way I wanted to feel special. Feel good. Feel.
“Okay. The rave is in that warehouse,” he pointed. “They’re screening, and we look…ancient. And suspicious.” I stood with my arms crossing my chest. I probably tapped my foot.
“Stop,” Gabe said. “Stop looking so damn old. Twirl your hair. Be cutesy. Like this,” and he demonstrated. I tried to imitate him and then I puked. Just a little. I wiped my mouth.
“I’m okay,” I said.
“Gawd.” He grabbed my arm. “The girl said we need to go around.”
We approached the back door and Pig Tails waved us inside. Gabe handed her money. Once in, glow sticks and fluorescent lipstick sparkled through darkness. I inhaled mildew and breath mints and an odor resembling the taste of rotten eggs. I wanted to scrape my tongue, remove the stench. I could hear Pig Tails more than I could see her walking beside me, her heels clicking the cement floor. As my eyes adjusted, bodies moved everywhere—vertical outlines swaying to some rhythm, almost in unison. The music vibrated, wiry and loud. Someone had written on the walls in illuminated paint, Simply Disappear. Pig Tails and Gabe and I found our way to an open space along the wall. Pig Tails placed her back against it, slid, legs flopping from under her as she landed.
I inched myself down next to her.
“Can we get some E?” I asked.
Her eyes widened, if possible, then she turned and crawled, hands and knees, into the blackness.
“Silly girl,” Gabe said.
“I know. Why’d she bolt like that?”
“Not her. You,” he nudged me. “She slipped me E outside. That’s why I gave her money.”
I felt like an idiot. Gabe handed me a little pill.
I nodded. This is fine.
I coached myself. Once I ingest this, I’ll feel better. I might even like myself.
The tablet glimmered a shade of lilac under flashing beams. I swallowed quickly so I couldn’t change my mind. I closed my eyes, waiting for the drug to take effect.
What if a cop shows?
What if this isn’t E?
Maybe it’s a vitamin.
If I was caught, I’d say that I thought someone gave me aspirin.
Maybe I can find the bathroom, force myself to vomit before the drug kicks in, get it out of me before it’s too late.
I remembered reading on a bottle of bleach to NOT INDUCE VOMITING. Apparently bringing the substance back up was more harmful than keeping it inside.
I tasted bile.
Then, sound. Music. Beats pulsing like electricity, pushing through the room. Pushing through me. When Gabe talked, he had to yell. I was unsure if a few minutes had passed or an hour. After what felt like a long time, I could no longer hear him.
And then I lost him.
I stood and bumped into the other shadows, most of them barely dressed. Most of them half my age. I hadn’t noticed—the angular jaw lines, the high-curved brows, the full lips. Everyone seemed beautiful now. The air held taste and it was clean. Cleaner than water. I kissed someone, and it felt like kissing for the first time. I couldn’t tell if I tongued a boy or a girl, I only knew that I didn’t want to stop. I danced, no, I bobbed, and I felt part of something bigger. Then I noticed Pig Tails, leaning over a bar stool, her shorts off and lace panties drooping from her hips. I sat on the stool next to her, gently lifted her face. Her tears spilled into my palm and I cried with her, though I wasn’t sure why.
I slid from the stool onto the concrete and lay, splaying my body as if I were a snow angel. Wetness of god-knows-what puddled beneath me and I wondered if I soiled myself. I tried to press my head into the floor. Pig Tails joined me, and we grasped hands. Two snow angels, side by side, as the glow-in-the-dark necklaces on those moving shadows melted into one light and then separated into fireflies and I imagined this was how fireflies saw one another. How they saw the world. Mouths outlined in fluorescent gloss moved in slow motion, singing to the indistinguishable sounds that was once music, like someone somewhere began orchestrating a scene from Fantasia and I was now the floor.
I was only the floor.
At least I’m stable.
And in my stillness, I forgot there was a floor. Forgot there was a me. There were only walls beckoning me. Begging me to disappear. And I wondered what else the walls wanted to tell me. I imagined their stories of parties and boys and girls. Of boys taking girls. Then I remembered. I remembered the walls in my childhood room. The room I shared with my adopted sister, Tina. The stories within those walls. Pale blue like a time somewhere before sunrise, they almost dripped with tears.
Did you notice your sister’s sacrifice? they asked.
You won’t understand her sacrifice now, not at your young age. You will later cry for her. Cry for her loss. Cry for her protection of you.
Maybe this was why I cried with Pig Tails.
I remembered.
My sister was my wall.
*
Do you remember
the early years
when I pushed my bed
between yours
and our bedroom door,
between Daddy and you,
night after night?
I was ten, maybe eleven.
He’d take me first,
while you laid
quiet in your twin,
listening to me
beg, Please stop.
You’d still be next,
though I believed him
less angry if I bore
the brunt of his brutality.
Once he left, I’d pry
your fingers from your
blanket, pull our beds
together, both of us still
smelling of Old Spice
and his spoiled-milk-
breath. I curled you
like a mother would,
smoothing wet bangs
from your face. I did
it for you, Beckala. You
were only five and I knew
our hearts, our bodies,
were irreparable.
*
Do you remember
when I first became
your big sister,
a ward straight
from the state,
my body pocked
with cigarette burns
and you asked why
someone thought
me an ashtray?
I first noticed
your missing front
tooth and the way
your body, small,
fragile, trembled
when I hugged
you. I’d whisper,
You can squeeze
back, and you did.
I thought you’d
never let go.
*
You once asked
about Mother Mary.
I didn’t know
how to explain
“virgin.” Every word
too large, too
grown for your
young heart.
Vagina.
Penetration.
Rape.
Penis.
And I knew each
would lead to more
questions. I kissed
your forehead, replied,
an unloved woman.
Your brows crinkled,
heavy in consideration.
That’s me, right?
You asked, Unloved?
No. Oh no.
My face tightened
as I spilled,
I love you, Beckala
and I wanted,
but couldn’t, tell you—
not then, not now—
Neither of us
are virgins.
Not anymore.
*
Do you remember
when I filled the bath-
tub cup with luke-
warm water and washed
your white-washed hair?
You said my caramel-
strands reminded you
of silk toffee. I’d shield
your eyes with the edge
of my hand? It seemed
we lived on the edge
of it all, in those simple
lone moments, the only
moments I could protect
you, cover your eyes,
keep you safe
from the sting of soap.
*
Remember how we hid
in Mother’s walk-in,
air swollen with stale
moth balls and sweet
lemon oil? We became
something else, someone
else, in that quiet land
of little girls pretending.
Mother’s shoes, toes facing
forward, lined along-
side each other
like soldiers prepped
for war. Fake leather.
Embossed patterns
of synthetic snakeskin.
Baby-breath sky
blue. Yellow so creamy
it reminded me of butter.
Crimson dimmed black
in the creases, like
violent bruising.
We both felt bad
for those shoes.
Beckala, you’d choose
flamingo pink, slipping
in your tiny feet,
filling only half.
We stood at attention
and jutted our hips
just like grown-ups.
*
In our after time,
I’d wrap you, Sweet Baby
Sister, curve you
in my arms, wait ‘til
your heart slowed
and your eyes slid low.
Then I’d sing.
You’d tell me
my breath reminded
you of buttered corn
and I’d pray my essence
stay and linger with you.
*
I leaned close to Pig Tails. I wanted to protect her, like Tina tried to protect me. And, like my sister, it was too late. Pig Tails stood, turned, left.
I made my way to the dance floor and began to move, like a dancer, choreography alive in my body. I kicked my leg above my head, grabbed my ankle, maintained a vertical split. I tried to rotate. I stumbled, crashing into those around me. A hand squeezed my shoulder.
“Take it easy, you’re going to rip something,” a man said. He was my height, stocky, his age undeterminable. He coaxed me from the floor and, after a moment, I realized that he was a bouncer.
“You might want a break. You’re off balance, stoned, and about to take an eye out,” he laughed.
“I’m a dancer. I’m really good,” my words slurred.
“I’m sure you are, just not tonight.”
“I’m ranked,” I said.
“I bet you are.”
“I can’t find my friend. He’s my ride. I lost him.”
“A rave doesn’t seem your type of thing—fit and everything,” he said.
I knew I needed Gabe. I remembered that I’d left my phone at home. I didn’t know Gabe’s number. It was on speed dial. I needed to leave. I did. I slipped away and, guided by the green exit signs, found myself in the back streets of Boise.
I wandered onto 5th and Main and entered a lounge. A familiar guy, his name could have been Alex, waved my way. More than anything, I wanted to kiss him. I hugged him Hi and breathed in fresh-dryer scent off his shirt. I kissed him, wondering if his name was Alex.
“You okay?” he asked. I was glad he cared so much.
“I’m fine,” I said. “I lost Gabe. I lost my purse. Shit! I have no way home.”
“It’s okay. Come on. I’ll help you.”
“I’m on E,” I said, unsure why I was telling him. My body felt good. Better than ever, not even sore from training. His hand, warm and comfortable, held mine.
He led me to a back room which doubled as a closed-off restaurant. Streetlights streamed rays through half-shut blinds. Dust floated, spinning like ballerinas.
Alex sat in a booth and pushed the table a few inches. He pulled me to him, hiked my skirt to my waist, spread my thighs, and sat me on his lap. He tore my panties.
“Not a good idea,” I said. “Please don’t,” but I kissed him anyway.
“It’s okay.”
“No.” I didn’t move his hands. I didn’t shove him away. I kept kissing him because kissing felt wonderful. I wanted to kiss him. I just didn’t want him to fuck me. What is wrong with me? Maybe I secretly want him to fuck me? I didn’t feel frisky. I didn’t feel anything. Then I didn’t care. Just like that. It no longer mattered. At least he wanted me. I felt pretty. I felt young.
If you asked me now, I’d tell you that I had hoped I could go back, find a place in my timeline before I was damaged and pre-bandage my wounds. Step into my now-life padded from the fall-out of pain.
He barely penetrated when the lights flipped on and a man, probably the owner, told us to get out.
Alex bolted. I adjusted my clothes and walked away as if nothing had happened.
Is it even rape if you don’t fight back?
I sat on the curb outside, cradling my face, feeling small.
A cab stopped. The driver leaned across the seat. He looked maybe sixty, bald, and speckled in age spots.
“Need a ride?” he asked.
“I lost my wallet. I can pay you once I’m home.”
We rode through the empty streets, trees spreading like ink blots against deep blue canvas, the sun peaking along the horizon. The cab’s tires spun across asphalt as I squished my face to the window. The cool glass distorted my view, like a kaleidoscope carrying a few colors—hazy green and deep purple—the patterns mismatched.
He parked at my condo.
“I’ll go get some cash,” I said, opening the door. He reached over the seat, grabbing my arm.
“Are you okay?”
What did the cabbie want? Sex? A blow job? Why is everyone taking me like they can?
“No problem. Give me a second. I’ll sit in front with you.” I knew I couldn’t go through with it. The guy was repulsive. I needed out. I bent near the floorboard and thrust my finger into my throat. It didn’t take much to bring up nothing. I gagged loudly, acting out vomiting, hoping to disgust him.
“Go on,” he sighed.
I opened the door and, somehow, sun filled the sky.
I carried my shoes. My panties were gone and I couldn’t find my key. I tried my bedroom window—the only accessible window—but it was locked. I hiked around the complex, mostly landscaped with sharp tiny rocks and evergreens. The stones punctured the soft belly of my arches. I closed my eyes, pretending I was a native firewalker or a tightrope acrobat.
I am a professionally trained athlete.
My mind is a powerful tool.
If you think you can, you will.
I repeated this, perhaps out loud. I found a shovel on the ground near a Big Wheel, grabbed it, and wove my way back home. I walked, crossing my steps, laying my feet softly.
I wish someone would come help me.
Someone I knew.
Someone who wouldn’t take a piece of me.
I no longer wanted to be alone.
This is not the way to be unalone.
I swung the shovel over my shoulder, took a breath, and bashed it through my bedroom window as if to shatter every person who ever did me wrong. The first blow broke through sufficiently enough to unlatch it, but I didn’t stop swinging. I couldn’t. I hammered until shards of glass were the size of pebbles, and then began on the wooden frame, splintering it until I grew too tired to lift the shovel. I removed my skirt and lined the windowpane to avoid cutting myself. I hoisted through, stumbling onto my bed. I sat crisscrossed, naked from the waist down, examining my feet, the skin shredded in small places, the blood already drying.
How will I dance on these feet tomorrow?
I wondered if I’d tell Gabe what had happened. It’s probably my fault that I lost him. I was certainly to blame for almost-sex with Alex. I knew my feet should hurt, but in that moment, I felt nothing.
No.
Oh no.
Not true.
In this moment I felt everything—my fallen arches from track, the bee sting on top of my foot, the drill hitting a root near my gum, my stepfather’s fist crunching my face, the nostril-sting of “pretend” mustard gas during chem warfare training, the entry of my stepfather into my innocence, the ripping of me, the ripping of me, the ripping. My ripping.
I felt emptied of fuel in the middle of a fast flight.
I felt as though I’d crashed, smeared my entire being across miles.
I sat, cradling my torn feet, my torn-ness, spilling tears, shattering memories I’d long buried much like surprise-smashing that window and I began. I began pulling through an opening, a small cavity somewhere within, somewhere that allowed me to sit naked with myself, see my wounds, touch my scars, and feel.
Rebecca Evans’ poems and essays have appeared in The Rumpus, Entropy Literary Magazine, War, Literature & the Arts, The Limberlost Review, Tiferet Journal, and The Normal School, to name a few. Her work has been included in several anthologies. She’s also served on the editorial staff of The Sierra Nevada Review. With an MFA in creative nonfiction and another in poetry from Sierra Nevada University, she’s completed her full-length poetry collection, Tangled by Blood, and is editing her essay collection, Body Language, and memoir, Navigation. Evans served eight years in the United States Air Force and is a decorated Gulf War veteran. She’s hosted and co-produced Our Voice and Idaho Living television shows, advocating personal stories, and now co-hosts a radio show, Writer to Writer. She currently mentors teens in the juvenile system and lives in Idaho with her three sons, Newfoundland, Chiweenie, and Calico Cat.
About this particular essay, Evans writes, “I first penned “Unalone” in my attempt to resolve shame after I attended a rave. As a veteran, I was trained to follow the rules and, when I couldn’t, I fell apart. My poetry and narratives reflect fractured relationships, especially the relationship with self, in the hope of discovering, or perhaps recovering, pieces of me. I hope to start conversations that create awareness and tolerance, informing in a new way, what it means to navigate life through a broken body and spirit.”