"His Betrayal"

 

        I thought he was my friend. We did Midnight Yells, ball games, and concerts together. We memorized Rocky Horror Picture Show and danced with lighters held high. We cried at Silver Taps.

         He came into my home. I trusted him because he became family.

         A lifetime later, I still feel the heaviness of his body as he pinned me to my bed. His invading tongue and beer breath made me gag. His fingers, shoving brutally up and into me, wounded. His laughter as he pushed away and ran upstairs warned me that he already had excuses. I was drunk. It’s just a joke. She didn’t even scream or fight.  

         I buried his betrayal so deeply that it became a wisp of nightmare. Something pushed down and away for so many years that I convinced myself that it never happened. Every time my gut recoiled because he entered the room, I repressed the repulsion and never looked for a reason. I told myself that he’d become selfish and cruel. That was enough reason for me to avoid him whenever possible.

         Then I began reading my journals. All of the spirals, and notebooks, and bound volumes of my life. The words, my own handwriting, sharply focused that blurred trauma, making my own denial impossible.

         I understand why women conceal, sometimes even to themselves, the harassment, molestation and assaults they’ve endured because these men have different roles than simply attacker. They are bosses or co-workers. They are husbands or lovers. They are fathers or brothers. They are friends.

Copyright 2018 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman     

        

        

        

"A Bully"

 

“If you don’t like the real world, invent your own.” Rachel Maddow, October 5, 2012.

 

A bully

Hands clenched

Chin thrust

Legs spread wide

A stance ready for assault

Pummeling reason with illogical fists

Blow after blow

Lie after lie

Kicking the fallen

Feeding off of fear

 

Copyright 2013 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"Taboo"

            Movement catches his attention as he passes her door. He pauses, peering through the narrow crack. She stands facing her dresser, her head bent as she searches her drawer, and her blonde hair a curtain protecting her face from his scrutiny. His eyes fixate on her private dressing. His pulse kicks up its pace as he finally steps back in embarrassment. He creeps soundlessly down the hallway to his own room.

           Weeks later, she stands at the pool’s edge, dipping her toe into the water to test its coolness against the fever of summer. Swiftly, she pulls her tight t-shirt over her head, slips out of her denim shorts, and then tosses her underclothes carelessly into the messy pile. Her dark tan, which covers every inch of her lithe body, proves her worship of the sun. She dives smoothly into the coolness, surfacing midway in the pool, her long hair drifting in golden tendrils around her shoulders. She tilts backward, trusting the water to hold her afloat.

           Upstairs, he watches her peaceful moonlit swim for only a moment. Then, before the rules of society bind him in place, he dashes down the stairs, shedding his clothing in haste. He hits the back door at a full run, bare feet pounding on grass and patio. Airborne for only a second, his muscles constrict in anticipation.

           Startled by the splash, she whips her legs downward, treading water as she spins to locate her predator. His hands snag her right leg, and he tugs her under, using the cover of play to skim his hands over her thighs and whisper them across her breasts. She surfaces, exploding with irritation at his surprise attack, pleased that she lured him into the pool. She bats his hands away, squawking in mock indignation as they play their childhood game in adult bodies, the undercurrents hot with each brush of skin.

           Feeling powerful and cruel, she slips out of his reach and swims to the ladder. She pulls herself up, pausing for effect with her head thrown back, neck kissed by moonlight. His scalding gaze burns her skin, and suddenly shame flames her cheeks. She gathers her clothing clumsily, clutching the t-shirt and shorts tightly to her chest as she quickly runs to the back door. She flies up the stairs, mortified by this sibling skinny dipping. With resolution, she slams and locks her bedroom door, thwarting all temptation.

David Chapman-artist

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

 

"His Betrayal"

        I thought he was my friend. We did Midnight Yells, ball games, and concerts together. We memorized Rocky Horror Picture Show and danced with lighters held high. We cried at Silver Taps.
         He came into my home. I trusted him because he became family.
         A lifetime later, I still feel the heaviness of his body as he pinned me to my bed. His invading tongue and beer breath made me gag. His fingers, shoving brutally up and into me, wounded. His laughter as he pushed away and ran upstairs warned me that he already had excuses. I was drunk. It’s just a joke. She didn’t even scream or fight.  
         I buried his betrayal so deeply that it became a wisp of nightmare. Something pushed down and away for so many years that I convinced myself that it never happened. Every time my gut recoiled because he entered the room, I repressed the repulsion and never looked for a reason. I told myself that he’d become selfish and cruel. That was enough reason for me to avoid him whenever possible.
         Then I began reading my journals. All of the spirals, and notebooks, and bound volumes of my life. The words, my own handwriting, sharply focused that blurred trauma, making my own denial impossible.
         I understand why women conceal, sometimes even to themselves, the harassment, molestation and assaults they’ve endured because these men have different roles than simply attacker. They are bosses or co-workers. They are husbands or lovers. They are fathers or brothers. They are friends.

Copyright 2018 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman