When I woke up in the hospital no one was around, no one to tell me what I did or why. No one would know anyway. Would they? Did it happen the way it was suppose to or did something go wrong.

It’s quiet, to quiet for a hospital. Because this isn’t a hospital, it’s a ward. And it’s nighttime. The dim halogen bulbs in the ceiling run horizontally, long tubs behind dirty plexiglass holding the remains of what looked like hundreds of bugs, going towards the warm light, finding anyway to get close without thinking of the way back. They hum and flicker, reminding me of Sunday school. Something metal hits the floor and it comes back. The memory, the fear, and the satisfaction floods back in.

The knife was to my throat. Instinct kicks in. Fight, flight…or fawn?

Fight: push back against that knife pressed up against your throat and feel an instant trickle of blood run down your neck between your breast …fuck that was the wrong choice, you try to wiggle away. But no, you don’t walk away.

Flight: Is it too late, is there time to run? Can you softly and slowly push against? You try to gently move backwards, always thinking can you get away without a fight? The knife slides slowly againt your throat, gently as your wiggle and you don’t walk away.

Fawn: Yes, you know he can cut your throat. You know you can’t run, you know you can’t fight. You know you don’t want it but you pretend you do. You give in and drop your guard so they drop theirs. And you walk away.

Then you come back.