LJ Idol Week 4 - The Axe Forgets, The Tree Remembers
After nearly 30 years, I returned to my hometown to undergo rehabilitation from a longer illness.
Not out of choice, but because that was where my insurance sent me.
I felt too weak at first to even consider where I was. If I had, it would only have depressed me more. Unpleasant memories connected me to my school years there, to the people, and the place.
When I slowly started to recover, my physiotherapist entered me into a walking group of fellow patients in similar shape.
We had to absolve a round of the nearby park in the morning and one in the late afternoon, sometimes interrupted by light stretching exercises, sometimes not.
The illness had left me with no muscles to support my body, and even with two sticks to support me, after a few minutes, every step I took caused me excruciating pain. Soon my legs began to tremble, and I felt sweaty and dizzy.
But I slogged on, I wanted to be self-sufficient again as soon as I could.
Sometimes, we were assigned a walking buddy, to assist each other with some exercise or simply to encourage those who tended to lag, to keep in step with the others instead.
I always tried to avoid these pairings, hoping in an odd number of walkers so I could enjoy silence and peace.
Sometimes I succeeded, sometimes I did not, but in general I managed to avoid idle talk with people that did not interest me at all.
Slowly, my stamina improved, and I progressed to a single stick. Some days, I even enjoyed the walks.
Spring had well advanced by now, with bright shades of green and flowers all around.
Then, one Monday morning, a new woman joined the group.
She was heavily overweight, more than I had ever been, and her face looked unhealthy, with a yellowish teint. Walking was visibly hard for her, and she soon found herself at the tail of the informal group.
The physiotherapist looked at me, silently, and moved her head towards the new arrival.
I knew what that meant. Others had been “ordered” to stay at my side just a few weeks earlier like that, to be sure I did not fall too much behind or to be of assistance if I was too weak to continue.
It was the first time for me to be on the stronger side of a pair, and while I did not enjoy the charge, in some secret way, I felt proud for being considered reliable and healthy enough for it.
So, I slowed down and adapted to the halting pace of the new walker. I had not gotten a close look at her before, but now I did, and immediately was hit with a jolt of recognition. Uncertain at first, but not for long. And unpleasant, for sure.
I just nodded at her and continued to keep at her side, waiting when she stopped to draw fast, panting breaths.
These interruptions became more and more frequent, and a rasping cough unmistakably indicated damage done by many years of heavy nicotine consumption.
At a certain point, she began to grumble, about this stupid occupational therapy and how she did not see the sense in walking around like inmates of a prison.
When I heard her voice, strident and unpleasant, any doubt I might have had, immediately went away.
Dragging herself along at my side was my childhood nemesis, the worst bully of not just the neighbourhood, but the whole quarter.
While she panted and trotted on, my brain filled with the insults she used to sling at me every day, when I dared to show up on the playground.
“The fat weirdo is here!” she would shout. “Go away, crazy idiot, nobody wants you!” and worse.
The pushes and the kicks. The sand thrown into my face. My bag emptied into a puddle. Torn shirts, defaced books, stolen lunch money.
Whenever she’d get hold of me, and a few other children that did not fit in, she’d use her whole arsenal of disgust and spite and would never fail to cause pain, physical and emotional alike.
We tried to complain to our parents but were told to “grow up and tough it out”.
Sometimes, exasperated, I kicked back - I was not a meek child at all - but every little hit I managed to land inevitably later resulted in ambushes when I least expected, often together with other thugs she knew.
So, I simply tried to avoid her and in time, she found other, smaller, and weaker victims.
I had not heard from or about her for all the years I had been away.
But she had taken residence in my mind, often turning up in my nightmares, where, over and over again, she would put me into her signature sleeper hold until I’d nearly pass out from lack of air.
While I was lost in this ugly remembrance, the woman’s breath had grown even more ragged, and a heavy sheet of sweat covered her whole face, dropping from her stringy hair.
We had fallen much behind the rest of the group by now and at this point would have to return to the clinic on our own.
Trying to disguise her increasing need for breaks, she initiated a listless conversation, asking about what had brought me here.
I answered truly, adding that I had grown up just a few minutes from where we stood now.
Surprised, she looked at me and said, “so did I! Maybe we have even met before!”
I just shrugged. “Maybe. I was an overweight, red-haired girl that liked to be on her own.”
I was the only redhead in the neighbourhood back then, and that was one of the things she so took exception with, continuing to taunt me about the supposed hideousness of orange pelted girls.
I don’t know how I expected her to react, maybe with a slight hint of shame, with the disgust in her eyes I remembered so well, or with gruff denial or belittlement of past bullying behaviour.
What I had not foreseen was her blank stare, her evident failure to remember.
Her empty eyes were not disguising, the heavy folds of skin in her face did not move for even an inch.
There was no doubt at all that she simply had no recollection. That the daily acts of cruelty, very specifically aimed at myself, her preferred victim for many years, had not left any trace in her mind, probably buried among so many other, similar, ones.
I refused to accept this, at first. I told her my name, the years when we both frequented the playground and the nearby elementary school.
She just shook her head and said she only remembered her best friends from that time - two other bullies, though less cruel and insistent than her.
At that point, we were crossing a small bridge over a little brook and when she stopped again and leaned heavily on the wooden railing, it cracked and broke down under her weight.
Not able to keep her balance, she stumbled down, right into the creek.
And there she ended up like a stranded whale, not in any danger of drowning, as the water was barely ankle high, but heavily challenged to get out on her own, as the rivulet ran in a U-shaped cement groove reaching up to her chest.
She had not hurt herself, I immediately made certain of that. No, she had simply toppled onto her solid butt and was now sitting in an uncomfortably folded position, from which she seemed unable, or unwilling, to get up.
Her face was red and angry, with herself, or with me, I did not know. She swore loudly and then shouted, “do something, what are you standing around like that, goggling at me?”
Her voice was so very much that of the bully still tormenting my dreams that I felt like gripped by a cold hand.
I really wanted to turn around, run away and then call the clinic for help. To her, that would mean at least ten minutes sitting in the cold water, awkward and unpleasant for sure, not to mention the humiliation.
But certainly, less awful than the things she used to put me through on a regular basis.
I honestly cannot remember if only seconds went by, or more, while I was oh so tempted to shout down right back at her. Telling her to maybe think about what she had done to me so many years ago, and then leave her to stew for a while until I’d send somebody to drag her out.
I will not deny the allure of these revengeful thoughts. For a while, I might have been on the brink of acting on them.
But then, I realised that in doing so, I would connect myself to her in an much stronger, more unholy way.
People like her, they really are dead and dull inside, and will never remember the pain they cause.
Some of their targets end up numbed as well and then go on to inflict damage to the next link in the chain, not even deigning their victims a moment of recollection.
I decided to not become a part of this chain. Not because I held any aspiration to sainthood, I just felt deeply certain that I would only hurt myself doing otherwise.
So, I took my walking stick and reached out with it to my former fiend, gripping a healthy young tree with the other hand, to keep myself anchored.
Slowly, laboriously, we managed to first get her up onto her feet and then out of the water.
Then for a while we sat down, silently, on a bench beside the stream, until she felt able to walk again, back to the clinic, leaning heavily onto my stick.
We avoided each other after that, never mentioning the incident again.
She never thanked me for my help, nor had I expected that from her.
My true reward was the absence, from that moment, of any nightmare about her.
Not out of choice, but because that was where my insurance sent me.
I felt too weak at first to even consider where I was. If I had, it would only have depressed me more. Unpleasant memories connected me to my school years there, to the people, and the place.
When I slowly started to recover, my physiotherapist entered me into a walking group of fellow patients in similar shape.
We had to absolve a round of the nearby park in the morning and one in the late afternoon, sometimes interrupted by light stretching exercises, sometimes not.
The illness had left me with no muscles to support my body, and even with two sticks to support me, after a few minutes, every step I took caused me excruciating pain. Soon my legs began to tremble, and I felt sweaty and dizzy.
But I slogged on, I wanted to be self-sufficient again as soon as I could.
Sometimes, we were assigned a walking buddy, to assist each other with some exercise or simply to encourage those who tended to lag, to keep in step with the others instead.
I always tried to avoid these pairings, hoping in an odd number of walkers so I could enjoy silence and peace.
Sometimes I succeeded, sometimes I did not, but in general I managed to avoid idle talk with people that did not interest me at all.
Slowly, my stamina improved, and I progressed to a single stick. Some days, I even enjoyed the walks.
Spring had well advanced by now, with bright shades of green and flowers all around.
Then, one Monday morning, a new woman joined the group.
She was heavily overweight, more than I had ever been, and her face looked unhealthy, with a yellowish teint. Walking was visibly hard for her, and she soon found herself at the tail of the informal group.
The physiotherapist looked at me, silently, and moved her head towards the new arrival.
I knew what that meant. Others had been “ordered” to stay at my side just a few weeks earlier like that, to be sure I did not fall too much behind or to be of assistance if I was too weak to continue.
It was the first time for me to be on the stronger side of a pair, and while I did not enjoy the charge, in some secret way, I felt proud for being considered reliable and healthy enough for it.
So, I slowed down and adapted to the halting pace of the new walker. I had not gotten a close look at her before, but now I did, and immediately was hit with a jolt of recognition. Uncertain at first, but not for long. And unpleasant, for sure.
I just nodded at her and continued to keep at her side, waiting when she stopped to draw fast, panting breaths.
These interruptions became more and more frequent, and a rasping cough unmistakably indicated damage done by many years of heavy nicotine consumption.
At a certain point, she began to grumble, about this stupid occupational therapy and how she did not see the sense in walking around like inmates of a prison.
When I heard her voice, strident and unpleasant, any doubt I might have had, immediately went away.
Dragging herself along at my side was my childhood nemesis, the worst bully of not just the neighbourhood, but the whole quarter.
While she panted and trotted on, my brain filled with the insults she used to sling at me every day, when I dared to show up on the playground.
“The fat weirdo is here!” she would shout. “Go away, crazy idiot, nobody wants you!” and worse.
The pushes and the kicks. The sand thrown into my face. My bag emptied into a puddle. Torn shirts, defaced books, stolen lunch money.
Whenever she’d get hold of me, and a few other children that did not fit in, she’d use her whole arsenal of disgust and spite and would never fail to cause pain, physical and emotional alike.
We tried to complain to our parents but were told to “grow up and tough it out”.
Sometimes, exasperated, I kicked back - I was not a meek child at all - but every little hit I managed to land inevitably later resulted in ambushes when I least expected, often together with other thugs she knew.
So, I simply tried to avoid her and in time, she found other, smaller, and weaker victims.
I had not heard from or about her for all the years I had been away.
But she had taken residence in my mind, often turning up in my nightmares, where, over and over again, she would put me into her signature sleeper hold until I’d nearly pass out from lack of air.
While I was lost in this ugly remembrance, the woman’s breath had grown even more ragged, and a heavy sheet of sweat covered her whole face, dropping from her stringy hair.
We had fallen much behind the rest of the group by now and at this point would have to return to the clinic on our own.
Trying to disguise her increasing need for breaks, she initiated a listless conversation, asking about what had brought me here.
I answered truly, adding that I had grown up just a few minutes from where we stood now.
Surprised, she looked at me and said, “so did I! Maybe we have even met before!”
I just shrugged. “Maybe. I was an overweight, red-haired girl that liked to be on her own.”
I was the only redhead in the neighbourhood back then, and that was one of the things she so took exception with, continuing to taunt me about the supposed hideousness of orange pelted girls.
I don’t know how I expected her to react, maybe with a slight hint of shame, with the disgust in her eyes I remembered so well, or with gruff denial or belittlement of past bullying behaviour.
What I had not foreseen was her blank stare, her evident failure to remember.
Her empty eyes were not disguising, the heavy folds of skin in her face did not move for even an inch.
There was no doubt at all that she simply had no recollection. That the daily acts of cruelty, very specifically aimed at myself, her preferred victim for many years, had not left any trace in her mind, probably buried among so many other, similar, ones.
I refused to accept this, at first. I told her my name, the years when we both frequented the playground and the nearby elementary school.
She just shook her head and said she only remembered her best friends from that time - two other bullies, though less cruel and insistent than her.
At that point, we were crossing a small bridge over a little brook and when she stopped again and leaned heavily on the wooden railing, it cracked and broke down under her weight.
Not able to keep her balance, she stumbled down, right into the creek.
And there she ended up like a stranded whale, not in any danger of drowning, as the water was barely ankle high, but heavily challenged to get out on her own, as the rivulet ran in a U-shaped cement groove reaching up to her chest.
She had not hurt herself, I immediately made certain of that. No, she had simply toppled onto her solid butt and was now sitting in an uncomfortably folded position, from which she seemed unable, or unwilling, to get up.
Her face was red and angry, with herself, or with me, I did not know. She swore loudly and then shouted, “do something, what are you standing around like that, goggling at me?”
Her voice was so very much that of the bully still tormenting my dreams that I felt like gripped by a cold hand.
I really wanted to turn around, run away and then call the clinic for help. To her, that would mean at least ten minutes sitting in the cold water, awkward and unpleasant for sure, not to mention the humiliation.
But certainly, less awful than the things she used to put me through on a regular basis.
I honestly cannot remember if only seconds went by, or more, while I was oh so tempted to shout down right back at her. Telling her to maybe think about what she had done to me so many years ago, and then leave her to stew for a while until I’d send somebody to drag her out.
I will not deny the allure of these revengeful thoughts. For a while, I might have been on the brink of acting on them.
But then, I realised that in doing so, I would connect myself to her in an much stronger, more unholy way.
People like her, they really are dead and dull inside, and will never remember the pain they cause.
Some of their targets end up numbed as well and then go on to inflict damage to the next link in the chain, not even deigning their victims a moment of recollection.
I decided to not become a part of this chain. Not because I held any aspiration to sainthood, I just felt deeply certain that I would only hurt myself doing otherwise.
So, I took my walking stick and reached out with it to my former fiend, gripping a healthy young tree with the other hand, to keep myself anchored.
Slowly, laboriously, we managed to first get her up onto her feet and then out of the water.
Then for a while we sat down, silently, on a bench beside the stream, until she felt able to walk again, back to the clinic, leaning heavily onto my stick.
We avoided each other after that, never mentioning the incident again.
She never thanked me for my help, nor had I expected that from her.
My true reward was the absence, from that moment, of any nightmare about her.