La Noche Oscura

Corinne O’Shaughnessy

Word Count 711

Walk down a dark empty street on your way to your Oaxaqueño apartment, oblivious to your surroundings. You’ve done this walk, albeit earlier in the day, many times. Your brain is busy with: Shit, will I ever memorize Spanish conjugations… Is there any oatmeal left? ... Why hasn’t S called me? ... I need a shower, but … no fucking hot water again…

Notice a dark shadow racing toward you from behind. Feel the shadow’s hands on each side of your waist at the exact second you register DANGER so that the registering and your spinning collide with the speeding shadow, and as you attempt to kick it away, one of the shadow’s hands grabs your leg, and you fall hard on your ass.

As you watch the no longer shadow, now would-be robber, turn and flee, Notice and wonder:

If he’s wearing a backpack, why does he want mine? … Why is he wearing a white T-shirt? A dark one would make more sense, no? … Oh, he doesn’t want my backpack, he wants what’s inside. He’d have been disappointed to discover nothing much.

Then think, ‘Thank you, young man, for running away.’ You know he’s young even though you never saw his face by the way he ran…’Seriously, young man. Thank you. This…this would not have gone down like this--in Washington Heights, or the Bronx, where I was living before.’

Thankful or not, you’re also angry. You scream, “Vete la mierda!” from deep in your belly. But the sounds feel too soft, so switch to “Fuck you! Fuck you!” The hard consonants bring some satisfaction. Keep screaming, “Fuck you!” even after he is gone, and you are still thinking how lucky you are he didn’t hurt you.  

Stand up slowly. Notice that you’re stunned, shaken even, though nothing really happened. Not like it could have.  

Pick up your scarf from the sidewalk and carry it in your hand because it is too dirty to wrap around your shoulders where it was…one? two? minutes before. You tug on the straps of your backpack to right its position.  

A few steps toward home, you see a couple standing in the middle of the street with their cell phones out. They probably recorded at least some of what happened. Were they part of what just happened? Or…?

They ask you, “Estás bien?”

Respond “Sí… creo que sí,” even though you’re not sure what being okay means now. Keep staring at their cell phones. Watch them watch you watching them. They tuck the phones into their pockets.

Inside your apartment, after locking the first gate behind you, then the second, then your apartment door, wonder, Was this a punishment?

Undress and realize you are a little hurt. Sitting to take your socks off hurts your ass, the hand that hit the ground to break the fall is swelling a bit, and there are scratch marks forming two child-like scribbles on your calf, the reddish/blackish blood semi-dried. Even though you will need to work at your computer standing up, and sit in Spanish class, shifting from one butt cheek to the other for weeks, and your hand will be wrapped in an ace bandage for a few days, the scratch marks are what bothers you most. 

They connect you to him. 

Though you hold him no malice because your life has been mostly full of good luck and his clearly mostly bad luck, you still are bothered that his DNA is entwined with yours. The dull throb of the scratch marks speaks to you while you try to fall asleep after your ice-cold shower. You know the scrubbing did not remove what his nails left under your skin, though his shower may have removed your skin from under his nails. This minute connection keeps your being unsettled. This angst over a minute connection when you know countless others have experienced profound unwanted connections makes you say ugly things to yourself. The two scratches will take a few weeks to disappear, but your ugly words thrown in your own face will continue. And continue. 

When the dried blood finally scabs off, and the scratch marks fade into an almost nothingness, you are free. From him. 

You will never be free from wishing others were also. Free.

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Corinne is a retired New York City public school literacy teacher. Her essays have been published in Oldster.substack.com, TwoHawksQuarterly.com, sadgirlsclublit.com, the manifeststation.com, and this journal, among others. Her short stories have been published in survivorlit.org and bookofmatcheslit.com which recently nominated her for a Best of the Net award. She has also participated in live readings with Read650.org. She divides her time between Mexico and The Bronx.