Blackbird

Run, run fast through the field of winter hay, dry and tangled, sky blue and wind cool, summer heat broken. Tumble to the ground and feel the earth cradle you in its hollows. Fragrant grass halos you head and you lie with arms spread like a crucifix. Chest heaving, filled with autumn air. No clouds, just an ocean above you. Watch. Watch for the speck, off to the side, and then circling, swelling, tighter, closer, its wings catching the wind, gliding closer, until you see it’s feathers, black and ragged, and its beak and its sinister eye. Muscles tighten, tremble with anticipation, and the Black Bird comes to investigate this sacrifice laid before him. Closer, stay still. Closer, lure him in. And when you feel like you can reach out and touch him, leap up, laughing, and wave him away.

We all know the joys of hypomania, the creativity, the energy, the fullness of life. Wearing high heels and short skirts. Laughing eyes. Always with a smile. Feeling beautiful and invincible. Willing to take risks, after all, the greater the risk, the greater the gain.

He was a good guy. Everyone said so. Successful, member of the right country club, pleasant to be around. Everyone said so. Every person in the office.

I was a receptionist. I was supposed to make clients feel welcome, offer them coffee or a soft drink, laugh at their jokes, stall them with chit chat. It was a natural progression to flirtation. He had an office in the building, and visited frequently. It was fun, nothing more, nothing less. Then he gave me his home number, told me where he lived. I was delightfully surprised.

I took a class at night. Every Tuesday night, for four hours. One night the teacher left an hour early. An extra hour before anyone would expect me home. I would pass minutes from his apartment. It wasn’t a difficult decision to make. I would surprise him, visit for the extra hour. I never gave a thought about the fact that I was going into the apartment of a man I had only met at work in an office, knowing nothing except what other people told me. The greater the risk, the greater the gain. And I was invincible.

He was on the phone when I arrived, and told whoever that he would get back with them. The phone rang again, while we were sitting on the couch, and he ignored it. I wondered if he would kiss me.

Something strange was happening. His face was changing, his eyes turning hard.

"I know what you really came for," he rasped.

I spent the next thirty minutes or so being forced into oral sex. I couldn’t even fight, weak against someone larger, stronger. I cried. He didn’t care. He was considerate enough not to leave bruises in places that couldn’t be hidden.

Pinned to the floor, I came to the conclusion that he was going to kill me. My parents would wait for me to come home, and I never would. Someone would find my body in a ditch, bloated and rotting. The last bit of strength came through. I pulled away long enough to tell him if he were going to kill me, he might as well do it. Because I didn’t care anymore. Just kill me.

It stopped him. He let me up, told me to leave. My lips were split, my tongue torn. My face was swollen on one side. Little fingerprint bruises. My wrists ached.

My mother noticed. I told her I had fallen. And I had. I continued to fall, as I saw him the next day at work, offered him his favorite soft drink. I felt my brain shut down that night, and the next morning, I told my boss I had to go to the doctor.

The noises were loud, the scratch of a pencil, the chatter of the receptionist, even the other patients. I felt a great ball of fury rise up in side of me, and, when I saw my psychiatrist I told him I was full of rage, out of control. I told him I felt like the therapist was mocking me. I pushed her away from me they put me in an empty office. I exploded, a shrieking ball of fury. He told the therapist to call my parents but I refused to go with them, kicking and screaming, don’t touch me, get away from me, don’t touch me. Never kick a psychiatrist. They have incredible pull with the probate judges.

When the deputies came, the older one gently asked me to come with them. He told me people would think I was his daughter, not to worry. I wanted to tell him I wasn’t an idiot, but I couldn’t talk.

I couldn’t talk when the judge, a very nice man, asked me what was wrong. I couldn’t talk when the intake nurse started asking me questions. Frustrated, he searched for answers on the court papers. I wasn’t trying to be difficult. I just couldn’t get the words from my head to my mouth.

The next day I was normal. I could talk. I sat in front of two medical students who showed more enthusiasm than any of the seasoned professional. They took turns asking the standard questions.

"What happened to bring you here?"

The Black Bird got me, I thought. I didn’t leap up and chase him away fast enough. Instead of luring him to me, he lured me to him and carried me away in his claws.

They looked at me expectantly. "What happened," they asked again.

"I don’t know."

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