What to Say
Victoria Turner
I fling the front door open and barrel outside like a prisoner on the run. I don’t lock it; hell, I don’t even think of it until I’m already down the street. I begin to sprint like some damn fool on a mission--
Wait. I’m not like some fool. I am some fool.
As my shoes pound the pavement, I think what I’ll say to George. But nothing clever, nothing smooth, nothing remotely casual comes to mind. I can’t even come up with an opening.
I pump my arms beside me, as I fly down the street. With every long stride my heart thumps faster. The sultry summer evening makes thick beads of sweat drip down my face and chest, and I gasp big gulps of air.
I guess I could start by saying, hey, George, remember that one night a couple months ago . . .
No, no, no. That’s too abrupt. We’re still in a fight.
I suppose I could start by saying I’m sorry. One of us has to apologize eventually anyway. If nothing had happened, I’d still be sitting at home scowling, but ready to begrudgingly accept any apology you had to offer. Of course, I wouldn’t accept it right away. I’d have made you sweat a bit, then forgive you for your idiotic male tendencies.
But I won’t tell you all that. You’ll never show any remorse again if I let you know that.
I sprint down the block, throat parched beyond belief. The muscles in my legs bulge and scream in pain from lack of use, but I keep running, keep thinking about what I should say.
I guess I’ll start by telling you how much I love you, how much you mean to me. I could give up my pride for that, couldn’t I? But I won’t actually apologize. I mean, you know how much you mean to me . . .
Don’t you?
Okay, okay, so I should probably say it a little more often, but then again, so should you. I guess we’re both not really the let’s-talk-about-our-feelings type, but that’s not really working in our relationship.
Or do we even still have one?
No, we have to. I put on some speed and ignore the stabbing pain in my calves. I take a short, jagged breath, and the scent of barbecued ribs fills my nostrils. I turn my head to see a backyard full of people under a large yellow tent standing around with paper plates and bottled beer in hand. It looks like a good time and a lot more relaxing than this damn dilemma and I wonder if I should stop by the barbecue and ask the people for a plate to take on the go. I can almost taste the warm, buttery kernels of corn on the cob. Oh hell, I’m already past the house, and anyway, their Doberman is barking its brains out over me running on its damn sidewalk and all that, so I probably won’t receive such a warm welcome if I barge in on their gathering.
I race through the surprisingly lush green neighborhood. It’s such a pretty town. As I run, I pass a brick house with ivy weaving around the windows, a yellow house with white shutters, and a green one with one large window that takes up more that half the front of the house. None of them are particularly what I would want my house to look like, but that’s okay. I don’t have to live there.
I run as fast as I can, which isn’t that fast anymore. My legs and arms curse my mind for even thinking that they could sustain such a pace. My heart beats violently in my chest, my lungs scream for air. Sweat pours off of me in a steady stream and I shake my head in disgust. Why didn’t I take the damn car?
There’s a sprinkler going off in front of a small red house ahead, and I dash around to avoid getting wet, but then think, hey, free cooling and hydration, and I switch directions before my body can keep up with my mind. As a result, my legs tangle together and my feet fall out underneath me.
Damn, damn, damn, here we go. My body tilts forward and my mind screams to fall back. My body and mind argue and I topple forward. My arms fly out in front of me and my hands, seconds too late, try to break my fall. I plummet belly down on the gravel sidewalk.
Pain sears through my body and I let out a strangled cry. My palms and knees burn with raw, stinging pain and tears prick my eyes. Blood seeps in my mouth, warm and gushing, but it doesn’t end there.
And, oh, the pain in my stomach. A gut-wrenching cramp explodes in my womb and this time I do shriek in pain. I clutch my stomach and curl into the fetal position. Tears spring out of my eyes faster than the sprinkler that showers me with cool comfort that I’m too scared and afraid to enjoy. Oh, please, no. Not that. Another wave of jolting pain courses through my abdomen. I choke and gasp and cry there for what feels like hours. The water rinses away the blood from my wounds, forming a small, pink pool around me.
After awhile of lying in my dumbfounded anguish, my breathing steadies. I try to stand, but it takes several minutes of my mind persuading my body. Shaking, my arms and legs force me to my feet, and I stand up. Agonizing pain sears through my bones to the marrow. I can’t even think a coherent sentence. It’s like my mind has temporarily left the building. Blood pulsates to my joints in waves of torment and I slowly stagger my way down the block, limbs not bending. I wipe my nose with the back of my hand and spit blood on the sidewalk.
I still don’t know what I’m going to tell George. I have two houses to go before I reach his. I curse under my breath. Blearily I gaze at his small, gray house. Closing my eyes, I sway back and forth.
So what should I tell you, George? How should I start it, anyway? Maybe I’ll get lucky and you’ll speak first. But if you don’t, I’ll just have to fly by the seat of my pants. I just don’t know. And now I open my eyes and see you standing on your velvety green lawn, your blue eyes squinting, bleach blond hair falling in your disbelieving face. It’s like you don’t recognize me. But then again, I’m usually not coming over to your house covered in blood, sweat and tears. I see you take a slow step forward, daring yourself to believe that it’s really me. Then your eyes widen and realize that this mangled girl and the one you love are one and the same. Then you run over to me, the way I’ve been running to you. And now I really don’t know what to say. The reason I came running over here to talk to you might not even be of any matter anymore.
