I’m not done with you yet!

by Nellie Curtiss …

[This week’s post is a series of short-short stories pulled from my 1989 book entitled Mad Hags and Rags.]

Lady, I’m not done with you yet!

Don’t, don’t!

Here’s a hammer I found under the sink. I’ll bash your brains in!

THUD. THUD. CLANK.

Don’t. I’m not done with you yet! You’re not dead. I’ll hack you with this paring knife.

I cannot see. I cannot speak. I barely move and yet he’s not done with me yet. What else does he want to do? Does he want money, to get the VCR, the TV, the jewelry, the silver, the children? The Children! Oh, my god. Why blade on my throat. I feel the blood running from my ears. Why am I in the bathroom? Why am I not dressed and at work? Why aren’t I near the phone? Did he cut the line?

Here Lady, let me kick you a few times to make sure I’m done with you. Make sure you’re dead.

I mustn’t speak, ohhh. I mustn’t let on that I’m breathing, uhhh. The blood. I can’t see for all the blood. I feel the vibrations of his step. Is he done with me yet? I saw his face enough. He doesn’t have me yet. I hear him again.

Lady, I’m not done with you yet. I need a mallet instead of this hammer.

You sorry son-of-a-bitch!

Ah! More blood and Ah! I’m done.

You bastard! You may be done with me but I’ll bedamned if I let you get the best of me. I’m not with you yet. I’m not done with you. I’m not done with your memory, and I’ll live. I’ll live to tell my story. I’m not done with you yet.

**************************************

No! Don’t move! I’m not done with you yet!

But I feel done. I want to move. I want to move about the room to see where I am.

No! No! No! Again, I say, No! Stop it!

I’m of the earth, the rolling, changing planet. It’s my nature not to be static. I’m driven to see what you see. I can’t go another minute strapped to your mind, strapped to your time-frame and strapped to this gurney. Let me up. LET ME UP.

No, No, NO. Pieces of your head have fallen off, I must patch them. You’ll be alive soon enough. Let me scratch the surface of this break, add some slip, and smooth the edges again with soft clay. There.Now, I’ll do another. . . .You’re wiggling, stop it.

I know. Confound it, what does it matter that pieces of my green-ware hair have fallen off. What does it matter that I crack and talk back? Tell me. Let me hear you.

No! You must cooperate with me. I’m the creator, you’re the clay. Clay doesn’t talk back. Clay doesn’t move on its own. Clay is dead matter. Clay is ground stone, particle dust from sand pits, salt mines and river bottoms.

I tell you! I tell you! I must have my own voice. I must have my own movement. I must be. Let me be. I say let me be!

But, I’m not done with you yet.

**************************************

Where do you think you’re going young man? I’m not done with you yet.

To Eddy’s house. I’ll be back. I’ll be back in five minutes. Just five minutes.

No! I didn’t give you permission. You’re not through with your room yet.

I never get to play.

Yes you do, all the time.

No I don’t. You get to play in clay, but you don’t let ME play. Eddy’s only here for thirty minutes. Just let me go for five.

No. You’re not done yet.

I won’t ever get to see Eddy. You won’t let me because of these dumb CHORES!

Don’t you do that! Don’t you yank Peace’s leash and hurt her! She’s an old dog. Be gentle. . . . You’ll break my sculpture! BE CAREFUL!

I am, I am.

When you come back, clear the garbage out of your room. I want you to pick everything up off the floor.

[. . . . and later on . . .]

Come see what I’ve done now. Can I watch cartoons now?

What about this poster and look under here! You can’t just throw clothes under your bed or chunk your comic-books around like that. What have you hacked to death under there? You’re not done yet.

But I am. I am. I’ve done it like this before.

You’ve snuck pieces by me before, but the new rule is you can’t watch cartoons until you’re done. I’m serious.

I never get to do what I want to do.

Neither do I.

**************************************

You’ve trained him right.

I’m not done with him yet.

All the same, a woman’s hard pressed to find a man who’ll let her have her way with him.

Me? Have my way with him?

Yes, you. Whenever he feels guilty, he bargains with you. Gives you a new microwave, a new bedspread, or new jeans.

You’re forgetting what I’ve lost on account of it.

Is it really all that bad?

Is it really all that bad? Are you for real? You were there to pick up the pieces when he threw me into the wall. You were there that night when he took the hammer to me. You’ve listened. You’ve heard him badger me and my art in public. You’ve heard him call me ignorant, dumb, stupid.

You don’t have a broken nose.

Hardly. Just a broken ego, an unquenchable hunger for food and approval. But I’m not done with myself or with him yet.

You haven’t finished basic training?

Training? This is all out war. When will the son-of-a-bitch learn I’ve got rights too. I’m not meat to be pummeled and hacked to death. I’m not ham hocks to be quartered and strung up on the butcher’s wall.

What will you do to him?

Me? Nothing. He’ll do it to himself. I’m done. I’m through with him. I’m through trying to reason with him, I tried to let him know I’m human, I have worth. But he’s wrapped up in his King-of-the-Castle Syndrome. He thinks everything and everybody will come to his beck and call. If I don’t, he just takes out after me. But I’m done with him.

Are you sure it’s really all that bad? Marriages are forever. Aren’t you afraid God won’t love you anymore? Aren’t you scared you won’t be able to feed your children?

What’s worse? To wake up in bed with a man who bashed your head against the wall then raped you the night before, or to stand in line at a church pantry for food? What is worse? To go on believing in a god that allows man to beat, whip and belittle woman, or begin searching for our inner god who tells us horsewhipping is not even for horses anymore.

Still can’t you forgive him and help him. He’s done so much for you. Your studio.

The car. The children.

You should be feeling what I’m feeling. You should be filing your petition against your own husband. What was all the noise I heard last night? Did he throw you into the wall, too? Your eye make-up is dark today, is it bruises you’re hiding beneath the powder? All this forgiveness crap is just another ploy to avoid facing life. To let the men have the last word, to let the men manipulate us and piece us together the way they would have us.

I like being on a pedestal.

Huh!? Up where they can take potshots at you? We’re vulnerable on a pedestal, too vulnerable.

To be loved you have to be vulnerable.

To be loved you have to be slammed into the wall every time you’re sad or depressed? You have to shoulder the blame for his behavior, his feelings? Who shoulders your fears, your feelings? Who picks up your pieces?

You’re an artist! I’ll never be like you. I’ll never be direct; I’ll never leave him unless I die. That’s what I promised him . . .until death do us part.

Death comes. Regeneration too. You do what you want. I know I’m done with him, but I’m not done with myself yet.

— Nelda Curtiss is a retired college educator and long-time local columnist. Reach her at columnsbynellie.com or email her at columnsbynellie@gmail.com

Cutline for picture: “Pieces” is a red clay sculpture created in 1989 and it measures 7 feet by 4 feet.