They Dissapeared

The year they screened us for scoliosis, I removed my shirt in front of the entire gymnasium. Even the cheerleaders witnessed my bruises. I had been scratching myself in my sleep. Insects were entering through unseen cracks. There was a strange sensation in the air. Noises coming from the attic. My skin was becoming paler.

I was the first one chosen.

The gym coaches, with their bald heads and short shorts, surrounded me blowing their whistles. They made me keep my shirt over my head while they examined and discussed. They suspected foul play. They immediately called my father. They made him stand in the middle of the gym in front of everyone and shoot free-throws to prove his manhood. I didn't need to see, I heard the ball dribble and the breath intake. He couldn't even hit the rim.

The police arrived, handcuffed him, and led him out to their car while he screamed in the lobby. His screams resembled those of a woman.

For weeks after, I was infamous. Even the quiet students pushed me against the lockers, their eyes shining. The teachers ignored the situation. I lost several teeth. The wounds continued to worsen. I was sent home and given medication. I applied cream to my injuries. I was not allowed to sleep alone. My uncle stayed with me in the evenings. He sat in my mother's chair and watched TV. I told him to not sit there, as no one sat there after Mother. My father expected Mother to return any day. He wanted to keep her scent inside the aging leather until her return. My uncle disregarded my request. He ordered adult films on my father's cable bill, turned up the volume, and watched in his underwear while I stood there knowing I would be blamed.

Those women possessed a certain quality within them. Something damaged, ancient, and boundless, something lost.