A journey

I walked across the hotel lobby, stepping confidently through the throng of people waiting to check in for the holidays. I walked the way my mother taught me: tall, proud, unflinching. The men I passed raped me with their eyes, their girlfriends glared, and the hate that fell on me was as hot as the desire. It was fine. I was used to it.

The employees all greeted me by name, perfect smiles painted on their faces, illustrating their artificial respect. They knew. One false move and I could bring my daddy’s iron fist down on them. I walked past the elevators just before the elevator-man was about to close them and whisk a group of tourists up to whatever floor they were sleeping on.

“Going up, miss?” the elevator-man asked, that same salesperson-look on his face, although he had known me since I was barely old enough to walk.

I smiled, mimicking his look. “I think I’ll take the stairs.” I didn’t thank him for the offer. He didn’t expect me to. He had, after all, known me since I was barely old enough to walk.

I opened the door to Stairwell #4, the one that went all the way up to the roof. Hopefully, I wouldn’t pass any people, but just in case, I kept my iron façade on, my eyes cold, my back perfectly straight.

I stood at the foot of the stairs and reviewed the list of reasons why I was doing this, the list that had been sixteen years, countless scars, and one night in the making:

1) So I wouldn’t have to put up with this “proper lady” shit anymore.

2) So—I admitted it, albeit grudgingly—Daddy would maybe bother to remember that he even had a daughter.

3) So I wouldn’t have to deal with my classmates, who had treated me like some rich snob from the get-go, never actually giving me a chance to prove that I wasn’t.

4) So I wouldn’t have to cry myself to sleep anymore (instead, other people would cry themselves to sleep, but I didn’t dwell on this too much).

5) But mostly, so I would forget all the bad stuff.

I realized that forgetting the bad stuff also meant forgetting the good stuff, but I thought that the bad outweighed the good about ten times over. I wanted to forget every glare, every whisper, every unwanted touch, every uninvited pain, every forced operation.

I walked up the stairs, counting as I went, and each step was a moment.

One.

An endless barrage of lessons and tutoring, learning piano, ballet, calligraphy, algebra, speech techniques, etiquette.

Two.

The beginning of my isolation as soon as I entered elementary school, the beginning of being “different” according to my peers, “better” according to my father.

Three.

Puberty, when boys began to notice that my face had super-model potential, and a little later when they realized my body had playboy magazine potential.

Four.

Five.

Six.

Seven.

Sadness after sadness, tears falling into tears, each a drop in an ever-expanding ocean of sorrow and disappointment, all leading to moment nine hundred sixty-seven. The moment my world ended. The moment the last vestiges of my hope were crushed to nothing on my bathroom floor, pulverized into a fine, unrecognizable powder without any prospect of salvation.

And that wasn’t the end.

There was still moment nine hundred seventy-nine, when a little red plus sign convinced me that my life could never ever be happy, even if I lived for millions—billions—trillions—of years.

Moment nine hundred eighty-three, walking into the clinic, heart contracting at the sight of condoms on the counter, soul screaming but receiving not a single sign of affection or concern from the woman next to me who was—biologically anyway—my mother, the woman who treated this like one of the everyday irregularities designed specifically to make her life difficult.

More tears—it would seem tear ducts could not dry up. More sadness—I was so tired of sadness—until I was convinced there was nothing good in my life.

Except…

…a patch of sunshine on a cloudy day…

…a sincere “hello” from the boy across the street…

…a flower growing up from the pavement…

…a whispered “I love you” when Daddy thought I was asleep…

…a smile from one of the upperclassmen…

Suddenly, there were no more stairs to walk up. I looked up at the door, which said, “Roof: Not an Exit.” And maybe…maybe it wasn’t. For the longest time, I thought it would be. Had I been wrong? Some small part of me whispered—softly, but confidently—“Yes.”

I reached out, and opened the door to the sunshine of the summer afternoon.