Confluent Dichotomy - 1. Confluent Dichotomy

Choices – they shape our psyche as the accumulation either breaks us or makes us stronger. Life experiences – births, deaths, weddings, divorces, and other things: like the first time he came into my room at night and fucked me while I screamed into the pillow; or the time I slit my wrists in an attempt to make it stop. These things are written on my psyche and I’m not allowed to forget. He brings me gifts to ensure I do not. Nothing of value, people would wonder at that, but little things – trinkets – meaningless things to anyone but us: a new wrist watch, a trinket box, a prism, a shell necklace, a brass ring. I hold in my hands the newest payment for my silence – a journal with a real fountain pen.

Silence I can no longer give.

Silence I will no longer give.

I open my journal and write out the date with the pen, the smooth stroke of ink flowing over the page makes me smile. This is one I will want to remember. Below the date I write – freedom – then I pick up my school books and head toward the bus stop. Today is a B day. I have English, Computer Science, Chemistry, and Gym. We are doing presentations today in English. Mine is on Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde – it was assigned, but I couldn’t have picked a better topic. Honestly I couldn’t have. The whole idea for the presentation came to me as I lay on my belly with my ass impaled, his rank breath whispering dirty words in my ear. I mean… I had to think about something besides what was going on, why not an English assignment?

The bus comes. I get on, taking my regular seat in the front, right behind the driver. I have my memory stick on a lanyard around my neck. My entire presentation is on that stick. I can’t lose it. Not now. Not when my freedom depends on it. I try to ignore it so that when the usual suspects make their attempt to destroy my project they won’t succeed. I am not disappointed. Halfway down the hallway from my class I hear them coming. I walk a bit faster, trying not to call attention to myself, yet they sense me. I think they scent fear. The shove was no surprise, nor is the foot that tangles with mine to keep me from catching myself. I fall, face forward, books skittering ahead of me. Laughter. There is always laughter. It vibrates across my skin, another unwanted caress, as crimson heat flushes over me. I gain my knees, then my feet without help. Always without help. One of them has my notebook, but the memory stick is still tucked inside my shirt. He flips through it, looking for something.

“It’s not in here,” he grouses, throwing the notebook back on the floor before turning on me, “didn’t you do the assignment?”

I ignore him and make an attempt to gather my strewn belongings. A foot catches me in the ribs and I fall over on my side. Another catches me in the back. I will not cry. I. Will. Not. Cry. A teacher comes to my rescue. I feel the hot tears dripping off my chin as I kneel in the hallway gathering my books. She sends the onlookers away, but of course, no one has seen anything other than me falling of my own accord. Things like that happen a lot; well, more than a lot. I think the teacher knows that as she hands me a couple tissues and a hall pass to the nurse. I take them both, but I won’t go now. I have English and if I don’t do it today I will not be able to muster the courage to do it tomorrow.

Sitting in the third row of the second column from the windowed wall, I wait for him to call me up to the front. Mr. Stevens is a strange old bird. Up in the front of the room there are index cards with our names on them. As we come in, we pick up our card and place it in the fishbowl. Throughout a normal class, he will pull cards from the fishbowl to answer questions. He says it is fairer than asking for volunteers. For presentations, he pulls our names out one at a time and we go to the front. I requested some AV for my presentation, as did a few other students. If I turn my head, I can see the projector, with its attached laptop, in the back of the classroom. Freedom.

The bass-drum tick-tock in perfect rhythm with the sixty flawlessly spaced staccato ticks, another minute in which my soul is bound.

“Cromer?” Mr. Stevens says, his tone slightly agitated, “are you paying attention son?”

“Sir?” I look around, “um, yes Sir.”

The class snickers.

“You are up after Anthony. You did request the equipment, yes?”

“Yes Sir.”

“Then get it set up while we listen to what Anthony has to say.”

I nod again and stand up to begin walking to the back of the classroom. I look down to watch for anything that might trip me, but nothing does. This time.

The computer set up is very much like the one in the library where I ran a test of the presentation last week. The memory stick is plug-and-play, but the machine has to recognize that it is there. It takes a few minutes, but then the software opens and I see the big 3 on the screen. It is ready to go. I pause it and listen to Anthony compare Frankenstein to the golem tales in Jewish folklore. I didn’t get it. Finally he finishes and the class asks a few questions. Then it was my turn. I click on the icon that operates the projector and the number 3 shows up on the white board. I take a deep breath and press play: 3, 2, 1…

“Confluent Dichotomy – Where Man Meets Beast”

It is a great title. I thought of it myself. I am still smiling at the stunned silence of my classmates. This was the true sound of freedom. It is my choice. Mine. It feels good.