how to carry the weight of unwanted words / for the girls who blame their own reflection
today i thought i would walk. it was beautiful weather considering winter is on the horizon. one of those days where the sun warmed your skin enough so you didnt need a jacket, rather you needed sunscreen. i thought i would walk home. my car was in the shop and i needed to get my steps in anyway. i informed my psychologist boldly – im walking home after our session. armed with my headphones, and her blessing, i decided it would be safe. i mapped out the most direct route and avoided busy streets with strips of shops whose patrons tended to spill out onto the pavement, their dogs lazing at their feet on the hot concrete. instead, i stuck to main roads with lots of traffic – i decided to feel safe. pop music blared in my ears, but it wasn’t loud enough. i can’t remember what song was playing when it happened. but i do remember the way the world began to move in slow motion, and how the street ahead of me seemed to stretch out like playdough. my steps were slow and heavy, as though i were walking in a dream. the autumn air rushed into my ears, but one sound pierced through the noise, making itself known. my breath was trapped in my chest and for a second i didnt dare breathe. no sudden moves. but it was too late, the nightmare was in full swing, and i was a perfect, complicit victim. there was no reaction. no retaliation. i even flashed an uncomfortable smile during the assault – everyone knows the best thing to do is play dead. the time stretched on; seconds felt like hours. i put one foot in front of the other robotically. inside my closed fists my fingernails dug into my palms. i squeezed. hard. and then – it was over. cars whizzed by. a dog’s bark echoed in the distance. the sun warmed my face, but it was already hot with shame. my neck refused to lift my head up for fear of locking eyes with any witnesses. the traffic was heavy enough that the cars had come to a rolling stop. despite wanting to shrivel up and cry, i kept going. because what else was i supposed to do? i imagined the commuters staring at me, whispering, pointing. blaming the shape of my body. judging my choice of clothes. i opened my hands. red, raw and they shook until i arrived home, but the illusion of safety wore off after a few minutes. inside the house i paced up and down as i recounted the events to my friends, but my voice came out strange, not sounding like mine. i joked that i must have looked good and quickly changed the subject. they couldnt see through the phone the colour drained from my face, couldnt hear my heartbeat. when the ones i confided in didnt dig deeper it was though something struck my heart. for them it was trivial. for me it sits stuck like a lump in my throat. its been a week and i dont talk about it anymore. but every time i leave the house i bring my headphones, and turn them all the way up.