Free Nothing but Your Skin by Cathy Ytak Page A

running down your cheek, your face is gray. My body is gray, too, like stone.
    Suddenly I’m in so much pain that I want to howl. Howl like I howled when I was a baby, like I howled when I was a kid, like I howl every time someone comes near me and I’m not sure if it’s to hurt me or to comfort me. Howling is worse than talking, it makes everything more confused, and the dogs won’t like it. But I’m going to howl because there’s no place for words, for explanations, and because I don’t know how to cry.
    I let my head fall back toward the starry sky, toward the moon that’s almost full, long enough to take a gulp of frozen air and let it drop all the way down to my heart. This is for you, Matt. It’s my gift. It’s filled with me and you, multiplied by ten. The dogs growl, sniff me, then lay their snouts on the ground, whimpering. My mom has her head buried in her hands; the men are frozen. Now they’ll all know that I’m the one who howls at night, in the valley. Or maybe they knew that already.
    I’m not breathing anymore. I’m drawing out the strength and the softness from your eyes as they stare into mine. I howl again for your lips and your hands, for the blood flowing down your cheek and the blood that just flowed from my body, just a few drops, pink. I howl, most of all, so I’ll never forget.
    When I come back to myself, there’s nothing but silence on the frozen lake. I see a man push you roughly into his car while my parents wrap a coat around my exhausted body. Before the car doors close, my eyes meet yours, one last time. You’re crying. Tears slide down your cheeks, turning red from the blood of your cut. The dogs stay back, far behind me. I can see on the ice that they’ve peed out of fear.

    Since then, Matt, the hours go by slowly, matching my own slowness. All I have left is the memory of what there was, before. I hurt my vocal cords when I howled. The doctor said it will be weeks or maybe months until I can talk again. I don’t care. I caught a cold, too; I’m in bed, I don’t want to get out. My mother brings me something to eat a few times a day, and herbal tea, and orange juice. She doesn’t look at me; her eyes shift away and look at the blanket so they won’t meet mine. My father never comes into my room. I hear his heavy steps in the hallway. They don’t speak to me, not even to scold me or ask me questions. They called the gynecologist. She was a tall, skinny woman with frozen hands. When she put them on my skin, they felt like ice cubes. She wanted to check something, and I didn’t want her to. She spoke to me gently so I would trust her, but since that night, I don’t trust anyone. She wanted to know what happened between you and me. She put on a clear plastic glove, then slid her hand between my open thighs.
    She said, “Excuse me, I always have cold hands, but it won’t take long.” I didn’t like what she was doing to me. But she was quick, and she didn’t hurt me. She pulled out her glove and on the tip there was a bit of red. “You’re not a virgin anymore, are you?” I made a sign to her to lower her ear to my mouth. I murmured in a hoarse wisp of a voice, “No, I have my period.”
    And it’s true, because it’s the full moon and my period always comes on the full moon. So I didn’t really answer her question. She didn’t ask again, she was sure that she had the answer on her fingertips. I’m not a virgin anymore and I have my period. Yes, that’s right.
    I huddled up under my covers and pretended to sleep. Then I fell asleep for real, and then the psychologist came. He asked me questions, too. He asked if you forced me, and I said no by shaking my head. No, no, no.
    â€œSo, you consented?”
    I didn’t understand what that meant. Consenting means I said yes to you. But that wasn’t right, because you were the one