He needed to know how mad I was. Though at this moment I do not know why I was. But I was. What I remember is the narrow stair case that went up to my room. If I ran too fast down it in socks I would slip, ass hitting every stair to the bottom. It was fun in that embarrassing, painful kind of way. You hoped no one saw and if they did you laughed, if they didn’t you cried. Because it hurt. But not that bad.
Anyhow, I had yelled my voice raw, laughed at him when he threw a framed picture at me and missed, spit at him, and slammed every door within reach. As I walked up the stairs I slammed my forearms against the walls, left step, slam, right step slam, left step, slam….
The pain made me feel alive, the holes in the walls, perfectly spaced and destructive, made me feel vindicated. He never came into my bedroom. That voodoo staircase was a wall that only friends and snuck-in boyfriends would climb. Once in that room I was free. I certainly wouldn’t call it a sanctuary but it had an element of safety that kept me sane. Except on this day the person I needed protection from was with me, inside me, it was me. My arms had already started to bruise and throb. I thrashed around, making sure that my dad knew my anger was no where near satiated. At some point I suppose that I grew tired. At some point I probably layed down in my bed. But what I remember most is what I did with the anger. I held it in my hands, I looked deeply at it, and I promised that I would let it live forever inside of me. I would let it out to play whenever it wanted. I would be it’s friend. And I am. It is inside of me still.