Survivor’s Diaries: Chapter Two
By: Little One
Tags: Pain, Trauma, Violence Against Women, Fear, Sadness

I tried not to gawk because the restaurant was just so much more glamorous than anything I was used to. The chandelier hanging from the ceiling looked like a spider web sheathed in light, illuminating the room with a soft incandescent glow. Everything else was muted; taupe, hazel, and beige palettes colored the walls, floors, and ornamental décor. Each table was adorned with a tiny candlelit flame.

Perhaps I should have sported a more formal hairstyle; a sleek chignon or French twist perhaps.

I sighed. Too late now.

“Doesn’t it take forever to get a reservation at this place?” I whispered as he tucked in my chair. I was also pleased with myself that I had made it to the table in my five-inch platform sandals without tripping once.

“Yeah, usually, but I take clients here all the time and I know the owners,” he shrugged.

I nodded, acting like that was normal.

He smiled at me as he sat down. I looked away instinctively.

“How was your week?” he asked.

“Good, actually,” I perked up. “I’m settling into my new place nicely. Finally got everything unpacked. I’m so happy to be on my own. Don’t have to follow anyone else’s rules but my own. . .” I trailed.

He nodded attentively. “And how are you liking San Francisco? Is it different than what you expected, the same. . .?”

“San Francisco is cold,” I whined. “It’s beautiful, don’t get me wrong. I just got back from Europe and still think it’s the most beautiful city in the world; the vistas, the cable cars, the ocean views. . .but I just need to order an electric blanket or something because I’m freezing at night, even with the heat on. Maybe it’s just me.”

He laughed. At this point I began to redirect the conversation towards him. I got him talking about his job, which he loved, his family, which he also loved. But soon after he tried to steer the dialogue back in the other direction.

“I don’t want to talk about me,” he frowned, finishing his last thought. “I want to know more about you.”

“There’s really not much — ”

“not much to know about you,” he laughed, finishing my sentence. “Why do you keep saying that?”

“Because it’s true.”

There was a long pause.

Jesse shook his head and squinted. “But that can’t possibly be, I can tell there is so much more to you than meets the eye.”

I just smiled. He tilted his head and glared. By the looks of it he was determined to break down the steel fortress I had erected between us. But instead of wondering what was going through his head, I took the time to admire the size of his Adam’s apple and the tousled inky locks of his hair.

“Where did you grow up?” he asked.

Okay, that was an easy one. “Los Angeles.”

“Would you ever go back to LA?”

“No,” I answered a little too quickly.

“Why not?” He probed.

“LA is too hot.”

Well, this was partially true. LA was too hot. The honest answer to this question wasn’t bad or anything; the truth was, I just didn’t have the happiest memories growing up there.

For one, my home life was consumed with my parent’s rancorous marriage and eventual divorce. Most nights I fell asleep to the sound of them throwing the kitchen sink at each other.

Second (and more importantly) I was bullied a lot in school. We moved around frequently when I was younger, so I was always the new kid with no friends.

The worst was when I entered high school in East LA. I already didn’t fit in, being one of the few white girls and probably the only white girl with bleach blonde hair. I was a naive freshmen and didn’t understand the unwritten rules of behavior and social mores for someone like myself, a young, extremely slight female with no friends, protectors, or established prior reputation that might otherwise keep threatening actors at bay.

One day, a guy on the lacrosse team offered to carry my bags and walk me home. I obliged, more out of politeness than anything else. He was pretty, but too old for me and I wasn’t ready to start dating yet. But somehow, his girlfriend found out and days later cornered me about it with a group of her friends after school as I was leaving class. They pulled me behind the auditorium that day and roughed me up pretty good.

I wasn’t permanently maimed or anything. They mainly just pushed me down, kicked me, pulled my hair, and called me names. Most of the damage came from me falling. I’m so small that the slightest push sends me tumbling. When I got home I told my mom I fell down the stairs at school. She had no trouble believing that.

But even after that day those girls never left me alone.

None of these incidents has anything to do with the city in which they transpired of course; acrimonious marriages and toxic bullying exist everywhere. But LA, with its palm trees, warm weather, and beach boardwalks formed the potent backdrop for these events and consequently I simply don’t possess any desire to return if I can avoid it.

So, yeah.

LA is too hot.

Jesse continued to question me but this time with laser-like precision. He seemed to be entering full-on lawyer mode because what proceeded felt more like a cross-examination than anything else. He began with very open-ended questions at first, then narrowed his focus based on my answers, redirecting when he saw new ground to explore and latching on when he sensed withholding, points which I navigated acrobatically and delicately.

I didn’t know why men were always like this, at least to me. For some reason they always want to know everything about you, so they can place you in one of the neat little boxes in their head. He probably already had me pegged. He was a lawyer, he was smart. . .

Damaged girl, troubled girl, sad girl. . .

I worried a lot that guys noticed this right when they saw me and pounced, thinking they could take advantage of it. But I didn’t get this vibe from Jesse. He seemed genuinely curious — for whatever reason — in every dimension of my life.

By the time he was done we had pretty much covered everything: my childhood, adolescence, college years, and life up until now, I suppose. We talked about my plans for graduate school and so on.

I thought I was doing well, answering every question honestly and accurately if not completely and fully.

He observed me very attentively the entire time, nodding every so often, squinting here and there, and noticing when I looked away, sighed, broke eye contact, or ran a hand through my hair.

The rest of the night continued like this, with me talking and him listening. To my surprise, I didn’t mind. After a while I started to relax my guard. I unclasped the bottom of the chair with my hands and uncoiled my ramrod straight, Jackie Kennedy-esque posture. I leaned forward into the table so much so that I could feel the warmth from the flame in between us.

I barely touched my wine the entire night. I was acutely aware of how low my weight was and knew half a glass would have me feeling sick or falling asleep.

A few weeks earlier at a university party, a friend of a friend pressured me into having a shot of tequila, which I obliged after getting tired of declining, but shortly after became very, very ill. The poor guy instantly regretted it and drove me to the hospital because he thought I was dying.

I was glad he did though, in the end. I felt much better after I received the required fluids and glucose. Once I was lucid a few hours later, the doctor came back and lectured me about the perils of alcohol poisoning, instructing me very bluntly that I was not to drink any more alcohol of any kind until I had gained at least fifteen pounds.

Hence, I brought the wine glass to my lips many times throughout the night without allowing any liquid to enter my mouth.

As the evening progressed, I began to admire Jesse’s personality more and more. He was attentive, in an authentic way, funny without trying, and very smart. He wasn’t the least bit sarcastic (I hated sarcasm), was self-assured and confident without being arrogant.

All guys are like this though in the beginning, I reminded myself. They reveal their true colors later once they have discarded you.

For now though, I was enjoying this. I was even smiling and laughing without having to fake it.

But the cross wasn’t over yet.

I was in the middle of talking about my postsecondary academic career — a subject which I was more than happy to discuss at length — when he interrupted mid-sentence.

“Wait but there’s a gap so you left LA when you were 19 but you didn’t move here until you were 21 so what happened in between then?”

My lips parted and my breath came out with a whooshing sound.

He had found it. I had never had someone so accurately pin down my own personal dark ages.

The hole pulsed in my chest, stinging around the edges, like a warning.

His eyes flashed. He knew he had found a weak spot.

I could feel the blue flames licking the outer edges with more force now.

I realized I needed to breathe. I exhaled slowly and recovered, resisting the temptation to wrap my arms around my torso, like a basket case.

Looking down I answered, “When I was 19 I left LA to go stay with my extended family in Kansas.”

All true.

He nodded slowly.

My face must have looked awful because he didn’t press any further.

How pathetic.

“So,” he concluded, leaning back, “a beautiful, free-thinking, intelligent, and headstrong young woman with a bright future ahead of her.”

I smiled weakly and relaxed as the burning blaze subsided, the fingers of the flames retreating from the circumference of the hole and back into embers, then ashes at the change of subject.

The scalding feeling had dissipated, and was replaced by a hollow emptiness I was used to. It was painful in its own way, but I would take it over the inferno any day.

“I’m really glad you came with me tonight,” he said, reaching for my hand.

I reciprocated. We stayed like this for a while, with our fingers intertwined.

He then outstretched his hand completely and placed it up against mine. It was reminded me of the Disney scene, where Tarzan places his hand against Jane’s in the rain, the day they met.

“Your hands are so small,” he mumbled. “And your wrists too.” He wrapped his hand around my wrist and then my forearm.

I measured my wrist once, out of curiosity. The circumference was less than four inches.

I was used to men remarking about my smallness. I’m average height for the record. I just have a really small frame. It’s almost childlike.

For some reason men always feel the need to tell me this. It was annoying. Every man who has ever seen me naked without fail has said something along the lines of: “wow, you are like really small.”

To which I usually squinted, glowered, or rolled my eyes. Yes, I know I’m small, I have had to inhabit this body for my whole life thank you very much.

Tonight though, my forearms looked more skeletal than usual, especially next to his. It looked neither healthy nor attractive.

His touch felt nice, though. I was usually very apprehensive when being touched by strange men, but not here.

He got the check (I don’t even want to know how much money that dinner costed), and drove me home, holding my hand the entire way. Neither of us said anything, which gave me much needed time to process my emotions.

I felt oddly light and buoyant.

Happy? No, of course not, don’t be ridiculous. Stupid girl. But I felt okay.

Distracted.

Hollow, but not burning.

Definitely not on fire.

Then I sighed as reality set in.

I didn’t know what this meant. And I didn’t want to get hurt even more than I already was. I couldn’t take it.

He walked me to my door and I was relieved he didn’t ask to come in.

Then he stepped closer and grabbed both of my hands this time. “Thank you, for coming with me tonight.”

I nodded, leaning in, until our foreheads were almost touching.

I couldn’t believe I did this. I was so shy. “Too shy to function” is what my friends called me. But I felt strangely confident here.

“I love your eyes,” he whispered, tucking a lock of hair behind my ear.

I smiled and began to look down as I always did when a man complimented me physically.

But I couldn’t because he grabbed my jaw with both hands and tilted mine back upward, pulling me into a kiss. It was a perfect kiss — sweet, soft and gentle. He ran his hands through my hair as he did, then kissed my cheek and my neck several times before pulling away.

“Good night, Fiona.”

He embraced me, and kissed my hair one last time.