There Is No Warmth In Unwanted Touch
Prologue (From As It Comes)
By Cecelia Falls – Writer and Poet
There is no warmth in unwanted touch. Flesh doesn’t rise to meet flesh, to greet warmly with small hairs standing up, reaching out eagerly. Unwanted touch is cold and foreign, hard and abrasive like sandpaper, like bones, like death.
I am in the tub. I can see myself from the corner of the ceiling. The smallness of me. My color the only color in the big white room. My hair damp and tight and I am smiling. No, I am not. I am not smiling. But I should be. I love the water. But I am not smiling.
I already know to keep my legs closed tight—my thigh muscles flexed. I am not smiling. I am waiting for him. Waiting for him to bend down and fall to his knees. Waiting for his dry hand to touch my shoulders. Cold. I cannot see him. My head is down or up and eyes straight ahead. I cannot see him. I will not feel him pry my legs apart with his dry cold hand. It is easy for him—one hand. I feel his bones, dry and hard underwater. He is between my legs and then inside me and I cannot see him. I can only feel his bones. He is hurting me.
I hear his breathing. Small pants like a dog after a quick run. Like a dog waiting for a treat. I hear him. His fingers hurt, but I won’t feel him. His breath comes faster, so eager, like a dog. And then he stops, each breath slowing. My legs come together tighter, so tight and then there is nothing until I hear the door close.
I hear myself sing softly. I see my hands spread flat and open. I see them smack the water and then there is water everywhere and I am shouting and splashing and singing so loud. And then she comes in. She is exasperated, her breathing fast and shallow.
“Look at this mess you’ve made! Get out of that tub, now!”
She reaches for me. I feel her grab my arm, almost flinging me from the tub to the tile, white and cold. The towel wraps quickly around me but I can still feel her fingers digging hard into my arm even though she is now drying me, only mildly upset at the water everywhere.
I think she is jealous, misreading my display as childhood freedom, self-expression, fun. So she smiles at me.
“I can’t believe you made such a mess.”
I can feel her fingers in my arm though she has walked away and I stand alone, wrapped in the towel, the floor wet.
She returns with a mop.
“Go to your room”.
I do this. I put on the pajamas she has laid out for me on the bed. I get into the bed, rubbing my arm where I still feel her fingers. I hear her sigh loudly.
“There is always a new mess.”
She is more correct than she knows.
