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Hair Of Dog

Jon Rollins

    I’ve never been slapped so hard in my twenty-seven years of life. Come to think, I’ve never been slapped at all. I’m . . . I’m . . . stunned.
    How odd, there was no accompanying sound, no thunderous clap of Frank’s massive open hand slamming against my face. But he did slap me, or maybe it was a punch. I didn’t actually see it. All I saw was his face, flushed with rage, eyes bulging and teeth bared, inches from my own as he spat screaming insults and threats too heavily punctuated with the phrase, “fucking bitch!” All I saw was his rage. And then? A bright flash of purest white. It was sudden. And now, it lingers.
    Ringing. Then ringing turns to whining. The whining swells into a shriek, a series of shrieks, one after the next, the high-pitched shrieks of a four-year old. My brother. I remember, the whole world froze that day. Everyone in the park turned to stone, some standing on the walks, some sitting on the grass or in swings or on benches, but all of them staring statuesque at Teddy, my screaming, shrieking, whining little brother. Mother was one of those who sat on benches, frozen like the rest. I remember how pale her face was, and how cartoonishly large her eyes had grown. And I remember the strong taste of blood.
    It’s back again, that bitter, coppery taste. Might be just a split lip, or maybe something worse, like a broken tooth. My jaw may be broken, but I’m not worried about it at the moment. I’m not thinking clearly, because it feels like my face has just exploded. The pain is excruciating, very sharp along my left cheek. And there’s a searing heat at the base of my skull that spreads down, between the shoulder blades. I wonder vaguely if it’s possible to knock a head completely off. And about then, I fully understand. In some form or fashion, Frank has just hit me. This is a first.
    Mother never struck me, not from anger, not for discipline. At least, not before. But she didn’t need to with me. As far as children go, I was an angel. Mostly. I’ve heard it from her own lips a thousand times: “Bethany was always such a sweet, quiet, playful little girl. Always happy. Always so eager to please. And she just loved playing with the other children.” I’ve heard it told a thousand times, this testament to my gentle nature, while the skeptical eyes of others would study me for any outward signs or symptoms Mother must have missed. And in those tighter, more confiding circles, there were her concerns of bad parenting (which included Father’s frequent and lengthy business trips) followed by the overabundant reassurances by those presuming to be in the know. This wasn’t her fault. It was nobody’s fault. Well, Teddy never saw it that way. Neither did I.
    “Get up, you big fucking baby!”
    I don’t know how long Frank’s been crouched over me, yelling. I don’t know because the whining that became Teddy’s shrieks is finally fading away and the solid white sheet over my eyes is dissolving into colors and shapes again, blurry at first, but now drifting into focus. There he is, my loving, devoted, dashingly handsome fiancé. My attacker.
    “Get up! I didn’t hit you that hard—yet.”
    He’s still shouting, but the bulging eyes and purple hue have subsided, probably out of fear. Frank’s a big boy. He works for a deconstruction company—they gut buildings, salvaging anything saleable before the wrecking ball levels them. He swings a sledge hammer most of the day, then works out fanatically at the gym before dinner every night. And he won’t admit it, but I’m pretty sure he’s juicing. I just bet he is. Explains the rage. Well, there’s also the newscast, and maybe he’s got that all figured out, but I doubt it. Anyway, Frank is huge. Maybe he’s realizing how bad my death would look to a police investigator.
    “Get the fuck up, Bee. Go clean off your face, and I’ll pick up this fucking mess.” What a gentleman.
    Frank’s glaring down at me. I look up, still dazed. I’m flat on my back, one leg across our now broken coffee table. He must have knocked me out cold. The excruciating pain and bloody taste and broken table and me on my back . . . all signs point to yes. He watches me while I struggle to get up, practically daring me to be injured. I fight through the pain and dizziness of standing. And say not a word. A flip of the bathroom light switch reveals the mess of long dirty-blonde hair sticking to my bloody face, the puffy pink beginnings of bruises, and yes, a missing molar. Frank is a big boy.
    Teddy was a big boy at age four, a strong contrast to me in so many ways. I’ve always been tiny. But still, at six, I was bigger. That day, I was bigger. And older. They say I should have known better. That’s what they say. Fuck them.
    I’ll have to do something about my tooth tomorrow. It’s too late tonight. It’s too late for a lot of things. Frank came home too late. Again. He’s drunk. That’s new, and I just bet I know why. That sexy mamacita bitch stood him up, and he took it personal. So, he finally stumbled in, and I caught him on the sofa, watching TV with the volume down real low, just like the sneaky bastard he is. I catch him being sneaky, and he lays into me. He lays into me? Jesus! Now here we are, too late for fighting, too late for confrontations. Just. Too. Late.
    Teddy was a big boy, with a bad temper and the very worst of tantrums. He was my opposite in many ways. He was loud, aggressive, and had the distinct markings of bully in the making. I watched him bully the other kids on the playground, tried to step in and police it. Mother was chatting with the adults, the other mothers, and told me to handle it. So, I tried. Teddy bit me on the arm. It hurt. I cried. Then Mother said . . .
    The TV is off now. Frank’s in the bedroom, undressing. Lamp light glints off a thick gold rope-chain around his neck. I used to think that chain was sexy. Tonight, he just looks like a big, dumb thug in gaudy thug jewelry.
    We climb into bed without a word. I’m not surprised to soon feel his hand on my shoulder, carelessly caressing flesh that will be swollen and blue and mottled purplish black tomorrow. He’s an ogre. Why has it taken me three years to realize this? Kissing my neck, he doesn’t see my smile. He doesn’t get the irony. I had to be knocked out to wake up. That’s pretty damned funny. He’s reaching under my tank top, groping, pawing a breast. Just like Frank. Just like an ogre. I want to throw up. Instead, I let him grope away.
    Teddy was a bully in the making back then. No one gives me credit, but after that day in the park, after all the screaming and the shrieking, after our trip to the emergency room and the stitches and bandages that resulted in a stub where his pinky had been (I spat it out and gave it back as a peace offering), after all was said and done, he was a better person in the end. He’s a better person now. Of course he doesn’t speak to me. None of them do anymore. But I did my part. I made Teddy a better person.
    Frank has me on my back, painful as it is, and pulls at my panties. This is where I’m supposed to lift so he can work the panties down my legs and we can have make-up sex. Only we haven’t made up, because he’s an ogre and doesn’t know the meaning. My fiancé is an ogre. A bully. He grabs at my panties, but I coax him onto his back instead. He notices I’m grinning—a big, toothy grin—and mistakes it for arousal. As I work my way downward, kissing along his chest, his sculpted abs, ever downward still, I can’t help giggling at this man’s stupidity. Did the newscast not announce how his Latino slut girlfriend was murdered?
    “If he bites you, sweetie, just bite him back.” That’s what Mother said.

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