BACK
FISTFUL
elizabeth ellen
I was eight months pregnant with a black eye. More
importantly, I was late for work and my shirt still wasn’t
ironed. I didn’t have time for any of Jenny’s shit.
Where’d you get the black eye, Jenny said.
Where the hell you think I got it, genius, I said, spreading
a towel over the kitchen counter, plugging in the iron.
Jenny could be such a dumb whore sometimes; and by
“sometimes” I mean 99% of the time. She knew as well as
anyone I’d gotten the black eye from Trent. Wasn’t the first,
odds were, if I stayed, wouldn’t be the last. I was sixteen and
living in a two-bedroom, piece of shit apartment with six or
seven other fuck-up dropouts like Trent and Jenny and me.
We smoked pot and dropped acid and watched Sid and Nancy
and Clockwork Orange and Drugstore Cowboy all night, every
night. Black eyes were part of the folklore, like cutting your
wrist or not eating. When I moved in nine months earlier I
drove a baby blue Celica and didn’t do acid or smoke weed
and Paul and Domino suspected me of being a cop.
Are you a cop? Paul asked, cornering me one night in the
hall as I made my way from Trent’s bedroom to the bathroom
in a t-shirt and underwear and nothing else.
Funny, I said. Someone’s been watching Jump Street.
No, seriously, he said. You have to answer. If someone
asks you if you’re a cop and you are, you have to answer, you
have to say yes.
I’m not a cop, I said. Now can I take a piss?
A week later I made sure Paul was around when Trent and
I dropped. I sat between them on the couch and watched The
Song Remains the Same and carved Trent’s and my initials
into my arm with an xacto knife. The Celica had been a gift
from my grandmother. I never met my dad. The Celica was
supposed to make up for that. My mom said it was bullshit;
that we should be offended; that we should give the car back.
I didn’t see what we had to do with anything. I figured a car
was more reliable and could take me farther than any father
could anyway. Farther than my mom’s piece of shit Buick,
that was for sure.
I was done ironing my shirt. I reached into my purse and
fished out a cigarette.
You’re not seriously going to smoke that, are you? Jenny
said.
Let me ask you this, I said. How many abortions have you
had this week, Jenny?
Jenny didn’t say anything. It wasn’t that I was anti-
abortion or pro-life. I would have had an abortion, if I’d found
out sooner. Instead I was having a baby, my baby, and I
didn’t need Jenny, or any other dumb whore for that matter,
offering me parenting advice. I picked a lighter up off the
floor, inhaled.
What are you going to do with the baby when it gets here?
Jenny asked.
What kind of dumb fucking question is that? I said, lacing
up my boots. I’m going to wrap it in a plastic bag and stick it
in a dumpster, what do you think I’m going to do with it?
I mean you’re not going to raise it here, are you? In this
place? Might as well be the set of Trainspotting, for chrissake.
I’ll figure something out. I’ll figure it all out and get back
to you, okay? In the meantime, I’m late for work. So enjoy
blowing Domino or Paul or whoever-the-fuck you’re blowing
today and I’ll see you later, I said, dropping my cigarette butt
into a leftover bowl of Lucky Charms and walking out the
door. That Jenny, she could be such a dumb fucking whore
sometimes, and by “sometimes” I mean all the goddamn time.
When I got home from work Trent was already there,
which meant he was already drunk, which meant we were
going to have another fight. There were nine or ten other
deadhead burnouts watching The Wall on my Mom’s old TV,
flicking their ashes onto the carpet. Jenny was sitting
between Domino and Trent on the couch. I walked past them
to our bedroom. I started taking off my clothes. I was down
to my bra and underwear, lighting a cigarette, when Trent
walked in.
Light me one of those, he said, sitting beside me on the
edge of the bed, shutting the door with the toe of his boot.
I studied his face as I handed him the cigarette. I could
tell he was drunk; I was trying to decide what else he was on
top of it.
Little late, aren’t you? He said, running his finger under
the elastic of my underwear.
Late for what? I said. What the hell am I late for now?
Late, that’s all, he said, dropping his cigarette onto a dirty
plate and pulling at my underwear with both hands.
I lay back on the bed and smoked my cigarette while he
pushed his face between my thighs, inspecting me with his
tongue, looking, I imagined, for someone else’s DNA:
evidence. I hadn’t fucked anyone but him since we’d gotten
together, but that didn’t matter. Perception equaled truth and
Trent perceived I was a whore so I was.
Turn over, he said. I want to fuck you from behind.
I turned over, got up on my hands and knees. There was a
mirror on the headboard. As he fucked me I stared into it,
stared at my black eye and the asshole who’d given it to me.
His face was puffy and red, his black hair matted and
drenched in sweat. He didn’t look much like the boy I’d fallen
in love with. He looked like one of my mom’s asshole ex-
boyfriends, one of the ones who beat her and told her she
had a spoiled, little bitch for a kid. I didn’t look much like
myself either. My stomach was elongated and swollen, my
tits veiny, the areolas that centered them darkened and
textured. I looked like something out of a goddamn National
Geographic magazine; like a strung out, pregnant Courtney
Love smoking a cigarette in the pages of Vanity Fair.
What’s the matter with you? He asked, finding my eyes in
the mirror. You don’t like fucking me anymore?
I looked at him without saying anything.
He pulled out and pushed me down onto my fat stomach.
He took his dick in his hand and worked it until he came into
the small of my back, down my ass. He zipped his pants and
picked his cigarette up off the plate.
You know, there’s plenty of girls who want to fuck me, he
said.
I’m sure there are, I said, wiping my back with a towel
from the floor. Jenny, for one.
I don’t know why I’m wasting my time with you, he said,
opening the door. You’re incapable of appreciation.
Probably, I said. Probably you’re right. I don’t appreciate.
I was stepping into a pair of sweats when he slammed the
door. I would have locked it but the lock had been broken in a
previous fight. I picked a shirt up off the floor and pulled it
down over my head. I curled myself into a ball on the bed and
closed my eyes. Comfortably Numb bled through the wall. I’d
seen The Wall so many times the scenes were burned into my
mind. It was Trent’s favorite film. He wanted to form a band
and change his name to Pink. Only problem was he didn’t
play any instruments and neither did any of his friends. Only
problem was he was a goddamn lazy, no-talent asshole.
When I woke up it was three in the morning and I was
wide awake. I sat up in bed and lit a cigarette and thought
over the situation. The situation was grim. I stood up and
looked in the mirror. I looked like shit. I had on black sweats
and a Siouxie and the Banshees t-shirt that didn’t quite cover
my stomach. I got out my makeup bag and started to work on
my eyes. I wanted to blacken them both; make it so you
barely noticed the area where Trent’s fist had connected. I
figured it was better to look like shit intentionally. I lit
another cigarette and opened the door.
The living room looked like it always looked at three in the
morning: beer cans and ashtrays and bodies. Trent was
facedown on the couch; Jenny behind him, mouth agape,
fingers in mouth. She had a habit of sucking her middle two
fingers, them and anything else she could fit. It was her main
reason for being here, that and the fact that her mom had
bagged herself a pharmacist. Whenever drugs ran low, we
made a midday raid on her house: took whatever we found in
the medicine cabinets, ripped off pages of prescription sheets.
Hey, Shannon, what the hell happened to your eye?
I turned around. Matty Shafer was palming a pack of Reds
and eyeing me from the rocking chair. It’d been his
apartment first, but he hadn’t been around much lately. Not
since he’d turned eighteen. Rumor had it he’d gone to prison
or joined the Army. Either way, same fucking thing. Half a
dozen of one, six of another.
What the hell you think happened to it? I said.
That asshole? Matty asked, nudging his jaw Trent’s
direction.
Doesn’t fucking matter, I said. Where’ve you been?
Taking care of some things, he said, which I took to mean
he didn’t want to tell me so I lit another cigarette and bit my
bottom lip.
Looks like you’ve got yourself with child, he said.
Very observant, I said.
What’s pretty boy over there think about that?
Pretty boy doesn’t think very much about anything. You
know that.
Listen, let’s do a shot together. What do you say?
You know, that sounds great, Matty, but as you yourself
pointed out, I’m sort of with child here. So, probably wouldn’t
be the best idea.
Says the pregnant chick smoking a cigarette.
Look, I’m fine with it being a little underweight. I’m not
fine with it being retarded.
One drink does not fetal alcohol syndrome make.
I didn’t say anything for a while. I watched the movie and
thought it over. I hadn’t had a drink in weeks. I was having a
shit night, a shit week, a shit life.
I turned back around. Matty had a shot glass on the table
ready and waiting. I bypassed it, went straight for the bottle.
I upended it, felt the dark liquor inside run down the back of
my throat, burn my insides. I swallowed some more and felt
the warmth wash over my body like a lukewarm bath or
bottle of Nyquil.
That was some shot, Matty said, holding the glass to his
lips.
Don’t be a pussy, I said. Throw it back.
I was already feeling the alcohol. I was feeling it in places
I hadn’t felt anything in awhile.
I pulled a cigarette from Matty’s pack and watched him
swallow: his face scrunched up and his eyes closed.
You swallow like a girl, I said.
That’s true, he said.
Give me a light, I said.
Matty held his lighter up to my mouth and I cupped my
hands around the flame. He’d had a thing for me in the past.
Everyone said it. That was another reason they said he’d left.
I’d been too fucked up over Trent back then to care. But I
wasn’t too fucked up anymore. I was beginning to care.
Five minutes later we were in the bathroom with the door
locked and the shower running. There was an empty bottle on
the counter; a cigarette burning in the soap dish, another
extinguished in the sink. Matty was pulling my shirt over my
head. My sweatpants were already on the floor. I leaned back
on my elbows; caught my breath. Matty bent over me,
searching out my mouth. I closed my eyes. My stomach was
in the way. It felt mammoth and grotesque; like something
out of a carnival sideshow, like I should apologize.
Look, I’m sorry about this, I said, nodding toward my
abdomen.
No, no. Don’t be, Matty said, palming the sides.
I like it, he said.
The fuck you do, I said.
No, really, he said.
You don’t have to lie, I said.
I’m not lying, he said.
It’d been a long time since Trent and I had fucked head
on. We’d been doing it doggy-style since my second
trimester. It felt like he was trying to tell me something and
the something he was trying to tell me was that I was a fat
pig. He hadn’t touched my tits in weeks. They were full and
tender and the second Matty took them in his mouth I was
ready to come.
I came here tonight to fuck you, Matty said, my nipples
wet and erect from his mouth.
You didn’t know I was pregnant? I said.
I’d heard, he said.
He wetted a finger and slid it inside me. I leaned further
back into the mirror; spread my legs wider.
What are you waiting for? I said.
I want to take you with me when I leave, he said.
Okay, I said, pushing myself down onto his hand. Fuck me
and let’s go.
I didn’t have much to pack; some clothes, my cigarettes
and makeup. I shoved everything in a duffle bag and walked
out into the living room.
Ready? Matty said.
Natural Born Killers was still playing, but it was near the
end and the end sucked. I was disappointed Trent wasn’t
awake for my big exit. I had rage somewhere inside of me,
cushioning his bastard kid.
Wait, I said. I was down on my hands and knees beside
the couch. Trent kept his drugs stashed on a cookie sheet
somewhere underneath. I felt around with my hands until I
found it and upended the contents into my bag. Pill vials and
Ziploc baggies rushed past me. We’d take inventory later. I
hadn’t told Matty yet but I planned on selling them, the drugs
and my car, once we got wherever it was we were going.
We’d need a place to stay, diapers, and a crib. I put the
cookie sheet back where I found it and reached higher up.
Trent never let me touch his gun. It was heavier than I
expected.
Are we going to need that? Matty said.
You never know, I said. Better to have it and not need it
than need it and not have it.
I guess, he said.
He sounded unconvinced. I wrapped the gun in a towel
and shoved it in the bag with the drugs and my makeup. I
wasn’t interested in convincing anyone of anything anymore.
I figured one man was as good as another, a car as good as a
father, a womb full of rage as good as a baby for keeping you
warm at night. I sat down on the arm of the couch and laced
up my boots. I took a last drag off my cigarette and ground it
into the carpet.
It was a split-second decision, like the one Trent made
every time his hand curled into a fist, like the one my mom
made when she threw my shit in a bag and told me to get out.
Matty was waiting at the door. I was standing in front of the
couch. Something was holding me there; I wasn’t ready to
leave.
One more thing, I said.
I reared back my combat boot and let it go in Trent’s face.
I both heard and felt the connection. The sound was terrific:
steel on bone, even better than in the movies. I half expected
a Rolling Stones’ song to begin playing. Give Me Shelter or
You Can’t Always Get What You Want. One of the ones
Scorsese had a hard-on for. Something De Niro could really
kick ass to. I pulled back my boot again. There was a trickle
of blood on the toe. It wasn’t enough. I gave Trent’s face
three rapid fire kicks, one right after the other, until his eyes
and face opened up and his moaning grew louder, loud
enough to be heard over the sound of my violence.
I stopped for a second. Looked around the room. The
deadheads were waking up, but no one said or did shit; just
stared. Goddamn hippies. They were such a disappointment.
By this time the blood and adrenaline were coursing through
my body, gang rape style. I wanted to take them all. Jenny
was up on her elbows, inching her way down the couch. I
didn’t know whether to fist her or slice her throat. I knew the
second I left town she’d be down on her knees, Trent’s dick
in her mouth.
I took a quick inventory of the room. There were a couple
of candles on the table. I reached for one of them. When I
turned back around Jenny was on her feet, staring at the door
like she had some place to go. I told you she could be a dumb
whore sometimes.
Where the fuck you think you’re going, I said.
I pulled the gun out of the bag. Aimed it toward the couch.
Take off your underwear, I said, opening my mouth, deep-
throating the candle.
I held the gun in my left hand and spread Jenny’s legs
with my right. I pushed her knees up by her hips. She was
wide open now; spread eagle for all to see. A little, white
string hung from her pussy.
Look everyone, I said. Our little Jenny’s becoming a
woman.
No one said anything. Big surprise. I ran my hand up
under Jenny’s shirt. She wasn’t wearing a bra. She was the
youngest one here. Barely fifteen. Fresh meat. Flat as a
pancake. I fingered one of her titties; gave it a little twist.
Sidewindered my finger back down her abdomen, tugged on
the string. A big, bloody tampon slid out; fell on the floor. I
licked my finger and slid it inside Jenny. Trent had wanted
this; had begged me to let him watch.
I moved the gun toward Trent. His eyes were open but he
wasn’t moving. His face was split open like Jenny’s pussy;
blood streamed from every orifice.
What are you waiting on, Trent? Take out your dick.
Trent didn’t move. The show went on anyway. I had three
fingers inside Jenny. I pulled them out, bloody and wet.
Wiped them on her thighs. Rubbed them over her lips. I
picked up the candle, wetted it in my mouth, slid it into her
cunt. I pulled the candle out and pushed it back in. I ran the
nose of the gun up her body, trailed it over her tits, across
her lips, over to her ear, down her neck. I wrangled the
candle out and used the palm of my hand to shove it back in.
I understood what attracted men to women:
sex/murder/rape. I understood finally what Trent felt when
he bent me over the bed and slammed into me from behind.
Why he liked it even better when I fought; when my body
turned against him; when we wanted him out. For the first
time in my life I felt powerful, the way my mother’s
boyfriends felt when they pushed her into a
wall/bookcase/door. The way my mom felt when she sat on
top of me, her hands wrapped around my neck. It was a good
feeling. I didn’t want it to end.
(c) 2008 by Elizabeth Ellen