Fragments, 6

My eyes peer through sleep-pretend lids. One of my older brothers enters our room after using a screwdriver to unhinge the chain lock. Without a sound, he walks over to my older sister. I cannot see his face or the expression on it. After observing her, he extends his right arm placing it on her. He pauses. He lifts her shirt from at her waist, pulling it up slow. She’s facing the wall, quiet and serene, away from him and me. First her bra and then her breast, or was it already just her breasts without a bra? Perhaps I blinked or closed my eyes too long. Bra or not, he’s touching her skin. I wish for blindness. I keep watch as best as I could, as I had promised my sister I would. I watch paralyzed that I might be next, that his hands may be on their way to touching me at any moment. 

My sister lies motionless, as if really asleep, dreaming a good dream.

He does not come to me. Not that time. I’m not sure if he ever did, if he touched me before that day, while I slept. Did I wake up with a bare chest once or twice? I cannot be sure. I felt so a few times. Maybe I disbelieved it. Was it just the one older brother or both? Maybe my sister knows. 

After that day, we barricaded our door every night and every time when we took naps until the day we each moved out. Stacks of old thick discarded books always stood behind the door like a line of soldiers. 

I don’t know if my sister told Mama before or after the conscious slumber, but I remember her sitting and saying, barricading our door was necessary.

~~~

The night he took my virginity, I went to sleep with a throbbing in my cunt. He forced himself on. He forced himself in. He wanted me, not just physically but as his wife -it was how he marked his territory. Mama’s presence, on the adjacent couch, didn’t help, it didn’t stop him from his actions. She fell asleep while on guard. 

The night he took my virginity, I knew I had to marry him. It only takes one time, they said in sex education, just one time and you could get pregnant. By the time I eloped with him, it had been more than once. Save face. Save face. Save face.

Suppose I had screamed that night. Suppose I kicked him in the shin, or where his penis swelled. Suppose my mother didn’t fall asleep. Suppose I was not attractive to him. I might still be single. I might be married to someone else. 

~~~

We don’t kiss or hold hands in public. In bed, I’m just a sack collecting semen. Orgasms occur once in a while, when I’ve been deprived long enough. When it happens, I am reminded of what isn’t supposed to happen.  

When done, we wipe ourselves with a soft cotton dress. 

A few months ago, I yawned while he was inside of me. He stopped and it didn’t matter. I don’t remember the last time we had sex. I know that it happened but the details escape me. It could have been a month ago or two months ago. Ninety percent of the time, I don’t experience an orgasm. Sex with him is sometimes as casual as tying my shoes. I know there could be more, it could be better. My first orgasm happened without anticipation years into our sexual relationship. 

He rolls over when done; his spine to me, his arms and legs away from me, his heart and mind somewhere else. Almost immediately he seems to sleep. I sometimes cried. I used to cuddle his back, touch his skin with the tips of my fingers and lean my cheek onto his shoulder when my face streaked with tears, hoping he’d turn around and comfort me in some way.

Sometimes when I climax, I listen to my body and try to understand how it happens, this way I can invoke it myself. I’m sure there are more ways than two to earn orgasms -yes, to me orgasms have to be earned. Like a prize. 

Random bouts of impotence have been a problem. Without permission, I seek Hmong herbal cures. Drink this tea I’d say handing him a coffee cup, it’s good for your blood. 

Maybe the fault belongs to me. I started an exercise regime. I set better health and more energy as a goal. I wanted to be me again, to have a career, a purpose, being more than just a student, being a woman. Not wearing make-up and gaining weight masked me, on purpose, to detour attention. Wearing a new dress, putting curls into my blonde-streaked hair, wearing gold eye shadow and lip gloss, I am me.

I look at myself in the mirror. Scars dot my belly where they made incisions to take out my abnormal left tube. In the shower, my scars disappear underneath the running water, where the water is comforting, where my hands are supposed to rub against my skin and body parts meant for sex. I am not a virgin, I’ve done it many times, to the same man, the only man, in the same way, in the same way, in the same way, in the same way. My fingers stop, my insides don’t. Desires. I couldn’t do it, I couldn’t climax alone in the shower again.

My long damp hair rests on my pillow next to me, in the dark. My hips, highest in elevation, beg attention, beg for male hands, beg for movement; I cover it with my blanket. I hold myself, embracing my torso like a person wearing a straitjacket in a mental ward. 

I understand one night stands, affairs, aliases, whores, sex addicts. No, I have no idea, except yearning.

~~~

“You want to fight! I’ll let you throw the first punch!” He paces around between our room and the hallway, coming out and going back into our room. I hear his breathing and continued pacing. I sit at the desk chair facing the wall looking away from him, my back towards him. I did not park the car the way he wanted. We were at the library so that our nephew can return borrowed items in their drop box depository. 

I look at the newspaper in front of me and try to focus on it. Instead, I think to myself, how old is he? He reminds me of the middle school students I worked with, those trying to instigate unnecessary reactions. I hear him punch the wall. I do not engage because the situation escalated over something so small. How does it matter that I did not park the car the way he wanted? Our objective was to return the items to the library. Because I chose to park how I saw best as the driver, it made him upset. I did not make the decision to park the car the way I did to spite him or to show him that I did not respect him or value his opinion. I was not trying to be insubordinate. Why does he want to fight me? Am I not his partner, the love of his life? I can see and understand that it could be a fun loving poke where it leads to an intimate encounter. Two people in each other’s space in want of close physical contact, even if rough to begin but ends up passionate and erotic, when touch is not just lust or an adrenaline rush because of being suppressed so long but touch because it is soul appropriate after iterations of waiting and preparing, countless deaths and rebirths both metaphorical and 3D physical, a soul-tie interaction where two souls are meant to intertwine in divine timing.

I do not engage.

~~~

I have needs and if we are not intimate I could get a prostitute to fulfill my needs. Let me know if you are okay with this. These are not his exact words but it is what he meant. Almost ten years together, and on the cusp of Valentine’s Day, this is our discussion. It is not a surprise that we have come to this. We sleep in separate rooms. It has been like this for years. While I am not surprised, I also do not say yes or no. My response is that I need to think about it. In July, we separate. In August, I pack his belongings for him to pick up. 

~~~

“You are my mom and my dad. I don’t feel like a miracle around him.” 

“Your dad did not experience what I experienced, all of the losses and trials with not being able to have a child. He only experienced a portion. For some reason, your dad’s ways of expression, thinking and remembering are distorted. I believe it has to do with TBI but he was not truly willing to embark on that journey of self help and self discovery. His thinking and beliefs are different from mine. We are opposites of each other. What little in common we have synced and brought us together. Our union was only meant to be as is, to bring about you and to teach us lessons. I do not know how much your dad learned but I learned a lot. You are also learning.

“What I say about your dad, those are my thoughts. You are entitled to your own thoughts, beliefs and interactions with him. He is your dad.

“Remember, my parents did their best according to what they thought but a lot of screwed up things happened. I made decisions that were not good, too. Part of being human is to make mistakes. But, from those mistakes, learn from them. Grow and evolve. We are meant to evolve. 

“You are a gift and you have gifts. You do not need others to validate you. You do not need anyone to complete you. Any shitty thing that happens to you does not define you. Stop being so distracted. Find your balance and take care of yourself. Radiate love. Follow your intuition.” 

___

*Some parts of Fragments, 6 are from my thesis. You can find my complete theses on the CSU Sacramento online library in the public portal domain titled AUB LUB NTUJ (DOG’S WORLD).