Andrea Dworkin - Mercy

is dripping down and the leg’s opening more and it hurts, it

hurts very much— if you spread your arms out full, that much,

or even more maybe. If it was a knife you could put the skin

back together and there wouldn’t be so many diseases, knives

are cleaner, this w on’t go back together, it’s ripped, it’s too

torn, it’s dirty, some special dirt, it’s named after him, this

dirt, it’s called Paulie , I named it after him; and I leave the keys

like he told me inside the door in the hall on the floor, it’s

unlocked now, the door’s open, I walk out and it’s deserted,

cold, bare, bare city streets, calm, no wind, a perfect, pure,

clean cold, cold enough to kill the germs on m y leg, it’ll freeze

them and they’ll die, I think it must be the case, if you can kill

them through heat, sterilization, you must be able to kill them

through cold, I think the damaged tissue’s already freezing and

the germs are dying or they will and it’s good there’s no wind

because if anything moves my leg screams, the skin screams,

it’s like a flashfire ignited up my leg, a napalm exploding on

me; and he’s sleeping upstairs, he’s in bed, he didn’t get out o f

bed, he’s asleep, he was back asleep almost before I left, he

seemed to be waiting for me to kiss him goodbye or good

morning or hello, I said I’ll call and he relaxed back into bed, I

stared, I made m yself move, I moved fast, quiet, which is w hy

they teach you to walk with a book on your head, you walk

quiet, with poise, you have a straight back, you take firm,

quiet steps, and I wish someone would go up now while he’s

asleep and kill him or rob him, I wish I could put a sign on the

door— it’s open, kill him, rob him, I think there’s some

chance, it’s a bad neighborhood, maybe som ebody’ll find

him. I’m dirty; all m y clothes are torn and fucked up as if they

were urinated on or wrapped in a ball and used to wipe

someone’s ass. I call Jill from a pay phone. He raped me, I say.

H e’s not the milk o f human kindness she says and hangs up; is

raped me worse than cheated on you? I got some change, some

quarters, some dimes, m y favorite, half dollars, they’re pretty

like silver, I like them. She knew it was bad; raped me. The

earth’s round but the streets are flat. There’s rain forests but

the streets are cold. I can’t really say I understand. It’s ten a. m.

I’m tw enty-six years old. I got a wound on m y leg, a nasty

sore, dirty fucking sore from a rabid dog, slobbering m angy

cur, an old bag lady’s sore, ugly fucking sore; maybe the

A . S . P . C . A . ’d come and get him. I could use a drink. I got to

sleep before there’s night, it comes fast in winter, you lose

track. It’s ten a. m .; and soon it will be ten-o-five; soon. Y ou

have to count fast, keep counting, to keep track. U g ly,

fucking, stupid bitch, got to sleep, can’t lie down. There’s

fleas.

N I N E

In October 1973

(Age 27)

There’s a basketball court next to where I live, not a court

exactly, a hoop high up, and broken cement, rocks, broken

glass; there’s boys that play, the game ain’t ballet like on

television, it’s malice, they smash the ball like they’re smashing heads and you don’t want to distract them, you want their

eyes on the ball, always on the ball, you want them playing

ball; so you get small and quiet walking by, you don’t let

nothing rattle or shake, you just blend, into the sidewalk, into

the air, get gray like the fence, it’s wire, shaky, partly walling

the place in, you walk quiet and soft and hope your heart don’t

beat too loud; and there’s a parking lot for cops right next to

the basketball, not the official vehicles but the cars they come

to work in, the banged up C hevys and Fords they drive in

from the suburbs because most o f them don’t live here no

more but still, even though they got more money than they

make you don’t see nothing smart and sleek, there’s just this

old metal, bulky, heavy, discolored. The young cops are tight

and you don’t want to see them spring loose, their muscles are

all screwed together real tight and their lips are tight, sewed

tight, and they stand straight and tight and they look ahead,

not around, their pupils are tight in the dead center o f their

eyes staring straight ahead; and the older ones wear cheap

sports jackets too big for them, gray, brown, sort o f plaid,

nearly tweed, wrinkled, and their shoulders sag, and they are

morose men, and their cars can barely hold them, their legs fall

out loose and disorganized and then they move their bodies

around to be in the same direction as the legs that fell down,

they m ove the trunks o f their bodies from behind the steering

wheels against gravity and disregarding common sense and

the air moves out o f the way, sluggish and slow, displaced by

their hanging bellies, and they are tired men, and they see

everything, they have eyes that circle the globe, insect eyes

and third eyes, they see in front and behind and on each side,

their eyes spin without m oving, and they see you no matter

how blank and quiet you are, they see you sneaking by, and

they wonder w hy you are sneaking and what you have to hide,

they note that you are trash, they have the view that anything

female on this street is a piece o f gash, an open wound inviting

you in for a few pennies, and that you especially who are

walking by them now have committed innumerable evils for

which you must pay and you want to argue except for the fact

that they are not far from wrong, it is not an argument you can

win, and that makes you angrier against them and fearful, and

you try to disappear but they see you, they always see you; and

you learn not to think they are fools; they will get around to

you; today, tom orrow, someday soon; and they see the boys

playing basketball and they want to smash them, smash their

fucking heads in, but they’re too old to smash them and they

can’t use their guns, not yet, not now; even the young cops

couldn’t smash them fair, they’re too rigid, too slow up

against the driving rage o f the boys with the ball; so you see

them noting it, noting that they got a grudge, and the cars are

parked on gravel and broken glass and rocks and they should

have better and they know it but they don’t and they w o n ’t

and later they get to use the guns, somewhere, the city’s full o f