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Daddy hurt—no—taught me. I could dig into his wrists. Then the soft flesh of his thighs. I could paralyze his neck and his side. Perhaps, if I were bored, I should choose no man at all.
You’re both weak.
Lesson four. There was no hope for us.
Kill the muthafucka instead.
My sister and I practiced what we’d do to the man who’d try to get us. We maimed invisible men in our rooms. We garroted attackers with shoelaces. Our Bibles became bludgeons of a different nature. We were always in a room full of weapons against an attacker who never moved. Who was never someone we knew. We reacted to the space in front of us and won.
We get it. We’re not stupid!
My sister kept a steak knife in her backpack for protection. It cut up its insides and shredded loose receipts. Later, a pink can of mace dangled from her keychain. She practiced holding it so as not to blind herself. Don’t be a victim! punctuated the air as she practiced stabbing men that might leap from the bushes as she walked home from work at night. I cheered her on, shouted to Daddy that this would be me too. Away from their gazing eyes, I stumbled out of nightclubs. Weave matted to my head, breath stinking of Long Island. I blundered into dark alleys daring the
world