I’ve two minor black eyes, a cracking headache, I am dazed, aching and slightly nauseated. The boy spent last night sitting on the edge of my bed watching me as I fell asleep. He wouldn’t leave my side. I found him curled up at the foot of my bed like a puppy this morning, with the window seat throw over him.
The delivery guy came to bring me masks, a lap desk for the bed so I can write, since I don’t have a desk and chair, and a little USB light so I can see to work at night. He also had heavy stuff for my upstairs neighbor. The doorbells/buzzers don’t work, so delivery people can’t let ring to be let in. I ran downstairs, as the man was getting irate out there, wanting to be done and gone. I zoomed down the stairs, forgetting my damn mask, but thinking it would be ok, since all I had to do was open a door and give him plenty of space, and besides he was stamping and aggressively pressing the nonworking bell and pacing like a loon. I got freaked out and pressured. Ran downstairs, let him in, backed off, pulling my teeshirt over my face as an impromptu mask. He dumped some parcels down by the inner door, I bent down to check the name on them, as I bent down he pushed and slammed the door. On my head. Hard. I got knocked out. The world went black for a few seconds, when it focused back in again, I realized my arm was hurt too. My head hurt, I felt nauseated and confused. I tried to stand up but couldn’t. “That was my HEAD, dude!” I said quietly. He was giving me some shit about delivering the parcels and what was I doing there and all this masculine bullshit about why he was not in the wrong. I was in his way. He was doing his job. He didn’t mean to. He was mad and pissed off at waiting and slammed the door. I don’t doubt he didn’t mean to hurt me, he didn’t think “I am going to slam a door on that person’s head”. He just slammed it in an ‘I am a big boy and the world is not moving fast enough for me’ kinda way. Posturing. Making himself feel better. Stress relief on my head. I feel like I am going to puke.
I pulled myself up. One foot in front of the other, and went into automatic mode, dragging my dazed ass upright and off the floor. Staggering up the stairs when I finally found my feet enough to move, I started to laugh. Men don’t want me to survive them do they? I can be in my own home, trying to get my package of face masks and my little desk and some man still manages to knock me out in my own home. They won’t kill me. I am going to live to spite them, and get the prettiest most intelligent interesting girlfriend they could never dream of making happy, and not need their jar opening help, nor their temper tantrums or their aggression nor their war on me and my good kind Boy.
I lurched in, and babbled about what happened to a Boy who stood with tears falling down his face, as he grabbed my shoulders and sat me down. “You had better tell someone I am hurt, just in case, Buddero.” He finds it so hard to talk on phones, he has not much confidence and sometimes can’t get words out. Thanks to adult men who hurt him and scared him. Thanks Billy. Thanks Pig. The look on his face was sheer frustration. He looked helpless. Hopeless. Ashamed. Lost. “Are you bleeding?” He asked, before he tried to tell me why I should go to a hospital and got glassy eyed when I told him I was not catching fucking delta if I could help it and I had had worse.
“Yeah, ma…but you shouldn’t have!” He raised his voice slightly.
At least I got my face masks and a little lap desk to write on and didn’t keep the Big Man waiting too long. Not fast enough, clearly. Inadequate little mother-head-banger.