Andrea Dworkin - Mercy

go to his place, he would take me there to make sure I got there

safe, and would I wait for him there— he knew I might not

want to and it was a lot to ask, but would I? And I said I was

sorry about his sister and I would go there and I would wait for

him. He took me there and he kissed me and he showed me

with courtesy to the little bed where we slept that was all made

up like a sofa in what was sort o f a living room, with the

paintings all around, and he showed me where some books

were, and he thanked me, and I said I would wait, and I was so

sorry. I waited many hours. Sometimes I walked around.

Sometimes I sat. There wasn’t enough light to read really. I

looked at the paintings. Then Eldridge came in and he touched

me on m y face and I pulled aw ay and said no and said I was

waiting for Arthur and his sister was dying o f cancer and he

was at the hospital and she was dying now, dying now, and he

said yes but I’m his friend what’s w rong with me I’m as good

as he is I’m as good; and he limped but he was tall and strong

and angry and he forced me down on the bed and he hit me flat

out with his fist in m y face and I fought him and he raped me

and pushed me and he hit me and he was in me, sitting on top

o f me, upright, m y skirt was up over m y face and he was

punching me; and after I was bleeding on m y lips and down

m y legs and I couldn’t m ove and I could hear Arthur coming

and Eldridge said, I’m his best friend and I’ll tell him you

wanted it, and he said, I’m his best friend and yo u ’ll kill him if

you tell him, and he said, he’ll kill you if you tell him because

he can’t stand any more. I straightened up the bed fast because

I could have been sleeping on it so it didn’t have to be perfect

and I straightened up m y clothes and I tried to get the blood o ff

m y face by rubbing it on m y sleeve and I sat on the edge o f the

bed with m y hands folded, waiting, and the lights were out,

and I didn’t know if Arthur would see anything on m y face,

pain or bruises or cuts, and I didn’t know what Arthur would

believe; and he said his sister had died; and he sat down next to

me and he cried; and I held him; and he asked me if everything

was all right; and I said yes; and he asked me if anything was

wrong and I said no; and he asked me if Eldridge had bothered

me and I said no; and he wanted to make love so we made love

in the dark and the pain o f him in me was like some hot,

pointed branding iron in me, an agony o f pain on pain, and I

asked God to stop the pain, I had forgotten God but I

remembered Him now and I supplicated Him with Arthur in

me asking Him to stop the pain; and the light started coming

up, so slow, and it fell, so slow, on Arthur’s grief-stricken,

tear-stained black face, a face o f aging grace and relentless

dignity, a handsome face with remorse and sorrow in it for

what he had seen and known and done, the remorse and

sorrow that is part o f any decent life, more sorrow, more

trouble than white men had, trouble because o f color and then

the burden o f regular human pain— an older sister, Caroline,

dies; and I turned my face away because I was afraid he would

see bruises or cuts where I was hit or I was afraid he could see I

was raped and I didn’t know how to explain because I had

already lied so it couldn’t be true now later and tears were

coming down my face and he touched the tears and he asked if

I was crying because I loved him and was sad for his sister and I

said yes. He slept then and I went away. I didn’t come back.

There’s this girl I loved but she disappeared a long time ago.

When we were children we played in the rubble in the street, in

the broken cement, on broken glass and with sticks and bricks

and garbage, city garbage, we made up mysteries for ourselves and enacted stories, we made great adventures in

condemned houses, deserted garages, empty, scary warehouses, we broke into cars and churches, we trembled and

held hands, w e’d wrestle and w e’d fight, we were tender and

we were fierce; and then in alleys we would kiss each other a

hundred million times. Arthur was m y lover in m y heart, a

city lover, near to her. It made me lonely, what wasn’t rape; I

disappeared from him and grief washed over me pulling me

near to her. She’d died when someone did something, no one

would say what; but she was wild and strong, a man did

something and she took pills, a beautiful girl all the adults said;

it makes you lonely, what isn’t rape. He slept, and I left; lonely

twice; for both. Y ou can love som ebody once and som ebody,

a little, once. Then it ends and yo u ’re a sad, lonely girl, though

you don’t think about it much. After, the light would come,

slow; he’d be kissing m y hands.

F O U R

In February 1965

(Age 18)

I live in a funny kind o f silence, I have all my life, a kind o f

invisible bubble. On the streets I am quiet and there is quiet all

around and no one gets through, nothing, except for the wind

sometimes bellowing in my head an awful noise o f cold

weeping. I don’t look quiet but I am quiet. People don’t see

much so they don’t see how still I am. I see the people talking,

all the people o f every kind, throwing words at everything,

throwing words at each other, throwing words at time, sitting

over coffee throwing words, peaceful or shouting, smiling or

in pain, throwing words at anything they see, anything that

walks up to them or anything that gets in their w ay or trying

to be friendly throwing words at someone who doesn’t know

them. I don’t have words to throw back. When I feel

something no right words come or no one would know what

they mean. It would be like throwing a ball that could never be

caught. They act like words are cheap and easy as if they can

just be replaced after they are used up and as if they make

things all right. if I am caught in a situation so I have to, I say

something, I say I am shy and I smile, but it’s not true, I am not

shy, I ju st don’t have these great numbers o f dozens o f words,

it’s so blank inside, so empty, no words, no sound at all, a

terrible nothing. I don’t know things. I don’t know where the

people come from when the light starts coming through the

sky. I don’t know where the cars come from, always starting

about an hour after the first trash can is pushed over by boys