New Language
By: Hannah Mae
Tags: Survivor, Domestic Violence, Memoir, Creative Non Fiction, Creative Writing

Thomas and I get drunk one night around the fire pit in the heat of summer and dance under the Vermont sky. My hips sway as my bare feet press into the damp earth, bats dancing through the trees above our heads. The notes of Dreams echoing off the forested hillside next to our house. My blue dress is backless and the wind grazes my skin and along the side of my neck, my hair swirling around my tear-stained face. We have no neighbors; any headlights can be seen far off. Thomas reaches out for me and we make love in the grass under the almost-full moon. I dig my hands into the earth and drink in the night air.

I feel, for the first time, that I am free of you.

I can easily recall every outline, every freckle, the scar from the accident, the curvature of your nose- too much for classic good looks. The tilt of your lips, always in stark relief framing straight teeth and a quick laugh. How the tilt of your elbow slightly throws off your gait.

Your face is never fuzzy, never blurry.

Your exact features will be in my head, mirrored in quick glimpses in the grocery line, in the car next to me, in my husband, until the end of time

My brain is different now. The wiring is changed. My responses unconscious and

A flinch here

A double-take there

I have a six sense about:

The step brother

The in-law

The guy at the gas station.

Sometimes I worry that you will find the tiny village I live in, and I will see you at the Trading Post. You will recognize me despite my newly dark hair and beg for me to follow. Or, in my other version, you pull out the gun that was under your bed, and put it to my head. Instead of yours this time.

Your furious riptide, is still able to drag me under from two thousand miles away; the waves relentlessly battering at the cliffs and the salt stinging my face. Because I did not have the strength to go with grace, I messily fought and scrabbled for my freedom, lying, cheating, and deceiving my way out. I left a damaged man in my wake and no warning for the women who would come after me. Sometimes I wonder if I really am the monster, too. A coward who saved herself and didn’t look behind.

Maybe we were meant for each other after all.

But Thomas strokes my face now. His love making is soft. He will touch me as I lean back against him. He too gazes into my eyes and tells me he will never leave me. He too will whisper my name and tell me I’m the most beautiful woman he’s ever been with. That my breasts are the perfect handful and reverently trace the lines of my hips with his fingers.

I know it in my bones he will never hurt me.

There is no sharpness in our interactions. No danger like there was with you.

And this keeps me up at night, the panicked tattoo of my heart against my chest.

Wide awake I close my eyes to test myself:

Do I know his face as well as yours? Do I know the angle of his jaw and the width of his hands? The pitch in his voice when he tells me I am his and he is mine?

Who do I dream of at night? And talk to on my drive home?

Because our secret language flows forever through my lips; under my breath; whispering into my lover’s ears, screamed into the sky, shouted in my mind and stifled through my cries.

They say it’s easiest to learn new languages when you are young, and as I lie on my back I realize that these are the brightest stars I have ever seen.