Andrea Dworkin - Mercy

it didn’t have anything to do with me; it didn’t; I was terrified

by the magnitude o f it, like the w ay yo u ’re frightened o f a big

storm with thunder that cracks the earth open and lightning

that looks like the sk y’s exploding, you feel small and helpless

and the drama o f it renders you passive, waiting for it to be

over, hoping it w o n ’t hurt you by accident. The first time his

frenzy landed on me— landed on me, a shower o f his fists

pummeling me— I just didn’t believe it. It w asn’t something

he would really do; not to me; me. It was some awful mistake;

a mistake. I didn’t clean the refrigerator. I had never seen

anyone clean one before— I mean, I never had, however stupid

I am I hadn’t— and I didn’t see w hy I should do it and I didn’t

want to do it and he told me to do it and I said no and he went

mad, it was some seizure, something happened to him,

something got inside him and took him over, and he beat me

nearly to death, it’s a saying but I think it’s true, it means that

some part o f you that is truly you does die, and I crawled into a

corner, I crawled on the floor down low so he w ouldn’t kick

me, I crawled, and I was sick in the corner but I didn’t m ove,

and he was sorry, and he helped me, he washed m y face and he

put me in bed and he covered me up and he let me sleep and it

ju st w asn’t something you could imagine happening again. O r

I didn't do the laundry right. I didn’t separate the clothes right.

I washed his favorite T-shirt in with the colored clothes and

some colors ran in it and he held it up and he berated me for

how stupid I was and how I did this to hurt him on purpose

because it was his favorite T-shirt and I was trying to placate

him so I was trying to smile and be very nice and I said it was

ju st a mistake and I was sorry and he said you always have

some fucking smart answer and he hit me until I was wet stuff

on the floor. Everything just keeps happening. Y ou do the

laundry, you think you are free, you get waked up by

someone on you fucking you or he ties you up and you get a

pain in your side and then you go to the movies and time slows

down so that a day is almost never over, it never exactly ends,

nothing exactly ever stops or starts, I’d sit in the movie

wondering what would happen if I just stood up and started

begging for help, I wanted to, I wanted to just stand up and say

help me; help me; he’s hurting me; he, this one here, he hurt

me so bad just before; help me; take me somewhere; help me;

take me somewhere safe; and I knew they’d laugh, he’d make

them laugh, some jokes about women or how crazy I was and

the stoned assholes would just laugh and he’d keep me there

through the movie and then life would just go on; then or

later, that night or tomorrow, he would hurt me so bad; like

Himmler. There’s normal life going on all around you and

you have your own ordinary days and it is true that they are

ordinary because doing the laundry is ordinary and being

fucked by your husband is ordinary and if you are unhappy

that is ordinary too, as everyone will tell you i f you ask for

help. Old ladies in the neighborhood will pat your hand and

say yes, dear, but someday they get sick and die. Y ou can’t

remember if there was a prior time and you get so nervous and

so worried and you just keep trying to do everything better,

the cleaning, bed, whatever he wants, you concentrate on

doing it good, the w ay he likes it, and you just squeeze your

mind into a certain shape so you can concentrate on not

making mistakes and some days you can’t and you talk back or

are slow or say something sarcastic and you will be hurt. Did

you provoke it, did you want it, or are you just a fucking

human being w h o ’s tired o f the little king? If you tell anyone

or ask for help they blame you for it. Everyon e’s got a reason

it’s your fault. I didn’t clean the refrigerator, I did mess up the

laundry, I wasn’t in the right, I’m supposed to do those things,

I’m the wife after all, whoever heard o f one who didn’t know

how to do those things, he has rights too; I’m supposed to

make him happy. And I let him tie me up so it’s on me what

happened and if I say I didn’t like it people just say it’s a lie, you

can’t face it, you can’t face how you liked it; and I can’t explain

that I’m not like them, I’m not someone virginal in the world

like them, I been facing what I liked since I was bom and being

tied up isn’t what they think, the words they use like

“ sadomasochism” or “ bondage, ” three-dollar words for

getting a trick to come, and they get all excited just to say them

because they read about them in books and they are all

philosophers from the books and I hate them, I hate the

middle-class goons who have so much to say but never spent

one fucking day trying to stay alive. And when you are a

fucking piece o f ground meat, hamburger he left on the floor,

and he fucks you or he fucking leaves you there for dead,

whichever is his pleasure that day, it’s what you wanted, what

you are, what’s inside o f you, like you planned it all along, like

yo u ’re General Westmoreland or something instead o f messed

up, bleeding trash, and i f yo u ’re running aw ay they send you

back for more, and they don’t give you money to help you,

and they tell you that you like it; fucking middle-class

hypocrite farts. I have a list. I remember you ones. Y o u try to

pull the w ool over someone else’s eyes about how smart you

are and what humanitarians you all are on the side o f

w hoever’s hurting. Nelson Mandela provoked it. What do

you think about that, assholes? We all o f us got the consolation

that nobody remembers the worst things. T h ey’re gone; brain

just burns them away. And there’s no words for the worst

things so ain’t no one going to tell you the worst things; they

can’t. Y ou can pick up any book and know for sure the worst

things ain’t in it. It’s almost funny reading Holocaust literature. The person’s trying so hard to be calm and rational, controlled, clear, not to exaggerate, never to exaggerate, to

remember ordinary details so that the story will have a

narrative line that will make sense to you; you— whoever the

fuck you are. The person’s trying so hard to create a twenty-

four-hour day. The person picks words carefully, sculpts