Short Story: Not Like You Do

She woke up with a start. There didn’t seem to be a reasoning for her awakening but yet, she sat up in bed, wide awake. Her husband was lying next to her, his arm still tightly holding onto her waist and his foot crossed over hers. She looked down on him and stroked his cheek, not sure if she wanted to wake him or not. Letting out a tenative, ‘honey?’ he stirred and held her tighter, pulling her into his chest. She licked his nose lightly and his eyes fluttered open as he kissed her cheek. 'Honey?’ She asked again. He sat up, holding her into his lap. 'What’s up, sweetheart?’ She pondered for the right words to say then nuzzled his cheek before replying, 'I don’t know but I’m scared.’ He kissed her softly as he pet her stomache. Her eyes widened in realization and a small, 'no…’ escaped her lips. She ran to the bathroom and vomited as soon as her feet felt the bathroom tile. He pulled her hair up and rubbed her shoulders softly as she cried. He started cleaning up her face then floor as she took her pajamas off to inspect the cause of her worry. Her underwear was stained so dark it might have been black. She looked up in horror, her breathing exphasizing her inability to process what she was seeing as her head spun. Her husband reached for her as she passed out.

This bed wasn’t very comfortable. She moaned and stretched as her body fought waking but someone was holding her hand and whispering sweet nothings. They wanted her to wake up. Her eyes slowly opened to her husband’s concerned face so she gave a small smile and held her arms out to him so that he’d come closer. He wrapped his arms around her, joing her on the small bed as he kissed her softly. 'Hey, honey. Where are we?’ She looked around and it seemed like they were in a hospital wing. That didn’t make any sense… she was only 5 months pregnant. She looked into his eyes and noticed that he was on the brink of tears. He never cried. Fear seeped into her and she grabbed his arm in panic. 'Honey… what’s going on?’ He just pulled her into his lap and pet her hair softly, stating that it was going to be okay. Cramps overtook her. 'Please honey, please tell me that our baby is okay.’ Tears started coursing down her face as he didn’t respond. She cried into his shoulder, giving herself a headache as he whispered, 'I’m sorry.’ She couldn’t stop crying. She cried so much that she wouldn’t have been able to hear him say soft words of consolation. She had murdered their baby. How was she supposed to get over that?

The next few weeks were a blur. She spent most of the time in bed or on the couch, lying there with a hopeless look on her face. She only ate when he put something in her mouth and talked her through eating. She didn’t have any motivation to eat. She didn’t want to shower. He would carry her to the bath and bathe her just so she’d get clean. She didn’t resist but she never helped. She would only listen to him but sometimes the words didn’t register. Every time she fell asleep, she would awake screaming. The nightmares were ongoing and all he could do was watch and hold her tight. She eventually stopped crying but her depression seemed to unravel her. She lost weight, she wasn’t sleeping, wasn’t eating… if he left her alone to go to work or get groceries, she would just stare at the wall while he was out. He didn’t know how to reach her, he didn’t know how to bring her back. The woman that he loved.

He broke down finally. He screamed at her. It wasn’t just her that was hurting. They both had lost their child. Was she really so selfish that she put all the blame on herself? Couldn’t she see that he also felt guilty? He pleaded with her, begging not to lose his wife in addition to his child. She saw him for the first time in a very long time and the tears returned. They shared some soup and color came back into her face. He stroked her hair and kept reiterating that she was his girl. Things were not okay. But they would get better. Together.

A few months had passed and grief no longer ran their lives. But she couldn’t be in the same room as a friend who talked about her efforts to get pregnant. They didn’t understand why she didn’t want to hear about new contraceptive methods or what they were planning on naming their kids. They didn’t understand why it was so important to her when some of them had abortions and so many women go through this. Family only seemed to add insult by offering life style changes to prevent future occurances or mentioning that they had also 'been there’. She didn’t want to hear it.

And her poor husband… fear controlled their love making. To want to express love for each other with each other, to desire a second chance but terrified of a repeat or forgetting what they had lost by moving on… oftentimes alone time in their room was the most bitter. How long were they supposed to grieve the loss of their child that they had not yet known?

He took action one night and didn’t wait for her to say it was okay– he loved her and needed her and she was the same so he took her and loved her. His hands owned her flesh, his lips left reminders on her skin of his devotion. He let her cry, he let her tremble, he wasn’t going to let go or stop loving her. When they once again became one, she couldn’t remember why it had taken so long. He was her home, this is where she belonged. She was his and he filled her. No fear, no doubt. Looking at him, she knew it was all going to be okay. They kissed like they were kids again and after cuddling, they fell asleep in each other’s arms and there were no nightmares. They would no longer be defined by their loss.

The One About Sexual Assault

I hate to be blunt about this but I honestly don't know another way to go about this...

Why don't we treat sexual misconduct like a crime? It is a crime yet... we give it so many loopholes that it may as well not be.

When we become informed of someone having undergone that experience, we don't send them to the police to have the perpetrator stopped. Instead, we send the victims off to have conservations with 'experienced' individuals about what happened to them and next steps so that they can recover. Oftentimes, these people that the victims are sent to are not mandatory reporters-- they don't have to testify in a court of law and have no repercussions for not bringing this incident to light. And that's it. Case closed?

Police stations put out public reports about crime activity in their area so that people can make informed decisions about moving or picking a school to attend but when it is not required that they get accurate numbers about sexual incidents, all the statistics are null and void on the subject. We cannot accurately document something that the 'supporters' sweep under the rug because they are more concerned about the recovery of the psyche of the victim.

On that note, if someone was murdered, the brother of the murdered individual who witnessed it first hand still must report said murder and appear in court to make sure justice is granted. Their mental psyche is dealt with afterwards or separately but crimes must be reported and action must be taken. It doesn't matter who they talk to-- the situation must be addressed. Is this not a case of trauma at least as severe if not more so than rape or other forms of sexual misconduct? I don't understand why we as a society are so concerned about the victims that we do nothing to stop the perpetrators and prevent the numbers of victims from increasing.

And no, saying 'don't rape' doesn't count as doing anything. And convincing victims that it's not their fault doesn't count as doing anything.

Can we please just stop treating the after effects and instead target the source, the reason? So many of our boys are surrounded by toxic women and so many of our girls are hurt by toxic men. But all we do is reach out to victims and say, 'we support you, we were once there'.

I find it disgusting the way that we treat sexual misconduct in our country. Feminists: you're causing the rape culture that you claim to hate. Happy? I'm not.

Poetry: I am a Dock

A group of buses and bikes came in today. With happiness and childlike wonderment they explored then left. I said goodbye to them and they didn't seem to understand that if they didn't return then this would be a final parting. But I did.

A large group of planes are here currently. They love boasting their skills in the sky and I watch from where I lie and wonder the duration of their fuel, these comrades of mine. They ask me to explore the clouds and I politely decline as they go further away from where I lie, each will part soon.

Every now and then in comes a boat or a massive ship to my shore. Those days make me the happiest as the familial bonds of our complementary sets makes us realize that we form a home. I always feel safer when they come to stay and those partings are always the roughest. Lately the seas have been unsettled and angry and I watch the waves with nervous anticipation, hoping to see my ships come back as they always do.

But I am just one dock, that's all the town needed. Most of the time I silently stand alone, just waiting. I'm tired of buses asking me to see the towns where they come from. I'm tired of the planes pestering me to fly and see the other side of the clouds. I'm tired of waiting for my ships to come back so I can feel whole. I'm tired of being alone. But as a lone dock, who would understand me? The planes don't understand that I don't fly, the buses don't understand that I don't drive. And when a boat has a duty to part, it must. They already give me all the time that they have for their desires are parallel to mine which means that they intersect at infinity and what's more complete than that?

The waters strikes up on my planks like it does every day. But today I feel a little bit more soggy than normal, a little bit more like fish than usual, a little bit less well kept than I should. And as I look at the stars which flirt a dance with the top of the waves I wonder how long it will take for the sun to take away the pain.

Poetry: My Nightly Dream

She stood there among her coworkers when she suddenly sensed his presence. She looked up at there he stood, smiling straight at her as he walked closer. She dropped what she was holding and ran towards him, leaping into his arms as tears started to stain her face. He grabbed her legs and held her up as they kissed deeply and with much longing. One of his hands moved to her back and massaged her slowly as she tried to speak while kissing him. Small proclamations of love and how much they missed each other seeped through as their mouths battled to possess each other. Tears that were running down her face entered their kiss but they didn’t stop their reunion. He just held her tight and rubbed her back softly as she pressed herself tightly against him and kissed him. Their act of reunion seemed so typical amongst those in a long distance relationship but there was something different about this one. Even though (or maybe because of) the two were being rather physical with each other, there was no lust. Desire, yes. Obvious love, yes. There wasn’t anything carnal in their embrace. Rather, it was an extension of who they were together and how they felt. In that moment, not one witness would be able to argue that sex between them would be a sin. She let out a shudder as their faces parted, traces of saliva hanging from both their mouths as they rubbed their cheeks together softly and looked into each other’s eyes with pure emotion. He set her down and her legs stumbled a little as she grabbed at his arm, her body adjusting to supporting itself once more. He wrapped an arm about her waist, pulling her into his side and she moved accordingly, holding onto his chest while staring up at him. For a moment, one would have thought that they had indeed become one but upon blinking would have realized that they were still two separate bodies. She was a pretty short person but upon seeing her tightly secured into the side of her man, her coworkers realized for the first time perhaps just how small and fragile she really was. This driven and independent woman who had claimed a fierce desire to live the role of a simple housewife made so much more sense upon seeing her dependency in this moment. She was the subservient half to the man she let own her. He raised her face to his own again and she let out a small sigh. He kissed her nose as he quietly spoke soft reassurances to his woman. She nestled her head into his shoulder, closing her eyes as a small smile settled onto her face. He tightened his grip on her slightly before they walked together to give everyone a small greeting before they went up to her room. And no one could argue that she was the happiest girl on the earth.

Poetry: The Hand

The hand was slapped and it stung. The hand turned red and throbbed. A hand is a hand, it doesn't understand the reason. The only thing it understood was the pain. The hand dunked in ice and avoided that place. The place that it thought was familiar but had caused the slap.
The hand missed that place and noticed from afar all the things that went on there. Was it time to go back? Was it allowed to? If only reasons were clear, if only the place had braille for the hand to see and understand. But there were only scratches.
The hand went back, just briefly. Thoughts of sorting out the situation fell dead at the stop-- there was the place and too many memories flooded in that the hand shook and stress overwhelmed. This wasn't the way, this wasn't the time. What the hand wished to express came out in tatters and what it held in peace was dropped as it left.
The place sang a song then and emotions came out illegible. It could have been a knell or the sound of a new dawn... the hand could only feel the vibrations. Cautiously it moved, uncertain of the proper dance, waiting for its partner to lead but it seemed they were waiting for the same thing.
The song was coming to a close or maybe a bridge or something. A shift was made, subtle it went and the tense worsened. The hand lost grip on its partner and
The song was not longer legable. Impossible to tell if it still played and the silence was a new one, a new uncertainty to face.
How quickly a situation spirals into something so foreign.
What was a hand to do? It called out to the place, let us return. In acting naturally the dance can be reformed. The time is limited and altogether sporadic but what is loose is tossed like rice for a maid; willingly and in a loose fashion. There needs to be just one grain that lands in the hair for the situation to snare.
Another slap. Jumbled in the wind only some meaning got through: the hands effects were all wrong, all the blame is on you. Don't you know how to dance? Don't you know how to return? For not seeing the road, all you get is scorn. Don't you have eyes? Can't you see what has been written? The desire is peace and you caused guilt-stridden. The path has been torn and there is little to share, why give more when this is how you fair?
The hand fell, just wishing for an end. What grace could be given for one too stupid to understand?
The hand reached out, just one last chance. One last question, would you care for a dance?
A reply came late and it was barely heard-- I'll consider one last dance, I'll give the word.