Rose
I’m not sorry that the first time Joe came in here, I lunged at him. I’m in a straitjacket now and I’m still not sorry.
He’s talking but I refuse to acknowledge him. If he didn’t want my violence, he shouldn’t have taken me from Abel.
If he doesn’t want my violence, he’ll get my silence instead.
“Please don’t make your time in here longer than it has to be,” he murmurs as if he cares and it infuriates me.
I turn and spit on him, not caring when some of it dribbles down my chin. “ You put me in here,” I start yelling as he tries to speak. “I don’t care, I don’t care. You want me to behave? Am I not reacting to your liking? Should I stop yelling? Should I be a good little possession and sit and look pretty?” More spit is flying from my mouth by the end, this time without aim.
Joe wipes his face with the sleeve of his feces-colored shirt before pulling his glasses away from his face and I want to spit on him again but I lean back against the wall instead, knowing that without my hands and arms, I’m at his mercy.
There’s a moment where he shakes his head as he cleans his glasses where I think he’s going to hit me, something he’s never done before. But that slight smirk speaks of a danger that I recognize. I see it in the mirror every day.
He speaks again, his words even.
“Do you think he’ll want you now that he’s seen the behavior you’re capable of? Focus on your?—”
“Would you like to know what it feels like to die?” I ask, finally succumbing to the language he knows best. While I’ve never threatened his life before, I guarantee any safety concerns will force him to exit. Which is precisely what I want.
“I didn’t want to have to do this,” he mutters in response.
Joe leaves the room, a small triumph in my eyes.
Part of me worries he’ll get the feeding tube again. Or more of that poison to silence me. Still, I shout, “I want out ! Do not talk to me about him! Don’t you dare!”
I look toward the window—too high for me to reach, too small for me to climb through, even if I could somehow get the bars off it.
I muse over the idea of somehow fitting through it and falling to my death.
The door opens again and shuts, and I scream, “Get out!”
But the door doesn’t open again, and I whip around, ready for more yelling.
When I see it’s Abel, I want to rush to him, but I falter instead, unsteady, unable to lift myself properly in the straitjacket.
And he catches me before I hit the floor.