Deep End Dance
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“Stop talking to me, Justin.” “My sister foamed at the mouth on that terrible day,” Justin said, “killing our mom, destroying her very essence.”Every time I asked Justin to stop, he increased the pace of his story telling. He became louder, more aggressive - his only goal was to unload his burden. I sensed something bad would occur once he finished his quasi-lecture, so I decided I wouldn’t let him. I tried to push Justin off, and though his voice had started in a monotone, now it kept breaking, like he was going backwards, regressing through puberty.“Sophia was the best older sister ever—we did everything together. We played kick-the-can, tag, and Little League - she even stayed up with me when I got scared at night, and waited until I fell asleep before she did.”I tried to make eye contact with other clients as Justin rambled, but they snubbed me, “It’s only Justin being an asshole - I’ll look the other way until he splits.’”Does this guy bathe in vinegar? I wondered again. Perhaps he cleans his room constantly, scrubbing it with the solution. Did he bring his own gallon from home?“Justin,” I said. “Back the hell off.”“I looked up to Sophia, bro,” Justin said. “Then she was altered forever, a killer who brutally took the life of our mom and I knew she’d be locked up for eternity.”“I don’t want to hear any more,” I said.“Where was I again?” he responded, looking directly into my face, as if seeing it for the first time.“Not interested,” I answered loudly.“Too bad,” he went on. “You’re going to hear all of it.”“Why?” “Sophia killed the most important female in my entire life. Erased my soul, heart, and touchstone – Mom, Ma, Mama, Mommy was kaput, history, long gone. No more infant suckling, or stories of Curious George, Mike Mulligan’s Steam Shovel, Sesame Street, Electric Company, Barney, Elmo, Teletubbies, or Christmas mornings when she baked ginger snaps and stuffed our stockings with penny candy and toothbrushes. Think of all the therapy bills for our family going forward. It would be frigging astronomical.”I felt sweat dripping down my ass as he spoke, and I thought, I’m not sure why, but he needs me to submit. If he only knew what I saw in the hotel last Wednesday night, blood everywhere, terror in my eyes, he’d understand how familiar I am with submission. Every time Justin mentions sharps, I see my own carved skin, feel my punctured psyche. “There was grief and rage oozing from Sophia,” Justin said. “She slashed at me, but I decided I wasn’t going to be the latest atrocity on that night’s eleven o’clock news, so I kept running.”“Stop,” I said, backing away. “Don’t you get it?”“Get what?” he asked, trying to poke at my middle. “Your doughy exterior? Your wimpy walls of worry?”“When I hear your horror,” I said, “I relive my own.”As Justin goes on about the chef’s knife, the length of the blade and the depth of his mother’s wounds, the sutures on my gashed chest begin to throb. “Are you paying attention?” he asked, grabbing my T-shirt, his fingers grazing my wounds. I pushed his hand away. “What happens if you can’t finish this story?”