** Two-Stroke **

Sweat dripped down her spine and seeped into the denim fibers of her jeans. She shuddered, reached up to wipe the dampness away from her forehead with her shirtsleeve – her bangs plastered in a tangled mess across her brow.

A tiny thermometer above the door taunted her – 96 degrees inside the cramped kitchenette despite two ceiling fans and an assortment of bargain brand window coolers mounted in true jury-rigged fashion. Least the flies are enjoying it – she moaned, stamping her foot in protest to their gathering.

Son of a b- her wrist screamed as she wrestled with the lid of a jar closed man-tight, crouched down low and swearing under her breath. Who in the he- the stink of warm mayonnaise infiltrated the small space; her eyes filled with tears. Or sweat. Probably both. Oh dear fucking god that’s nasty.

Gritting her teeth, she slapped a few pieces of thinly sliced turkey atop the stale bread and garnished the sandwich with lemon juice, a hefty spoon-full of Nutella…  and katsup.

No… I was wrong. Now it’s nasty… she smirked, taking a step back to behold the concoction she had been instructed to make. She shook her head, sighed, wrapped the crap in a paper napkin and plopped it down atop the smiling face of a fork scratched Snow White.

Lunch in one hand and a princess beach towel in the other, she made her way out to the community pool, squinting against the summer sun.

“Okay Missfit… time out!” She called, settling into the patio set.

The child splashed her way to the steps and emerged dripping wet – her bird-legs too long for her five year old body, arms flailing, eyes wide and sapphire filled.

“Did you put my Nella on it?” she grinned, removing plastic floaties and tossing them aside.

“Yes-ma’am… just like your mom said…” She fought against gagging and uncapped a miniature bottle of water.

A pool-side thermometer read 105 degrees. The hottest day thus far. Three days ago we get rain. And now we get hell. She settled deeper into the plastic chair, tipped her head back and closed her eyes. If I could be anywhere right now…

“Why do you have those?”

Her eyes fluttered – blurring a far-off landscape, grounding her back to the here and now.

“What’s that?”

“All those earrings. Why do you have them?”

The child bit into her sandwich, katsup smeared across her cheek, Nutella clumped in her blond pony-tail. Chewed wrecklessly. Legs swinging back and forth beneath the table.

“Oh… my earrings?”  She reached up instinctively, tracing her fingers from the top of her ear to the bottom as if discovering them for the first time.

“Why do you have so many?” The voice was tiny. Questioning.

Her mouth twitched, caught off guard. She shrugged, “I just like them, I guess.”

“Well…” she stopped chewing, cheeks protruding – face pensive – “didn’t they hurt?”

She touched her ear again, counting… one… two… three… four… five… si-

That was the one. She was seventeen, when she talked her girlfriend into ramming a safety pin through the top of her ear.

“Just hold the ice here… like this,” she explained, demonstrating, “I’m gonna heat the pin up with your lighter –  lemme see it… thanks – and then just stick it through where I marked. Just do it fast… and whatever the fuck you do, don’t stop…”

Her girlfriend froze up half-way through, screaming and waving her hands like a mad-man – “Ohmygod there’s blood… there’s blood… ohmygod I can’t do it!” Between giggles and tears, she had reached up and pushed the safety pin the rest of the way through herself, swearing and shaking and promising some sort of equally painful retaliation she knew she’d never deliver.

“Ohmygod you’re a freak!” giggled her friend, plastered against the wall with her hands covering her eyes.

She pressed a paper towel beneath the pin and slumped down against the kitchen cabinets.

“Yeah, well… you fucking suck. If I end up with a deformed ear it’s totally your fault… asshole…” she tossed the bloodied mess at her friend, who shrieked and exploded with the heeby-jeebies. Reached for another.

She couldn’t have known it then.

Three weeks later and it’d be Thanksgiving. As tradition, she’d drive back from college to her hometown. They did it every year, her family – packed up the motor home, straped in the dirtbikes, headed out to the desert. Her favorite time of year.

It was a Sunday – they had stayed out by the camp fire the night before until the early morning, crawling into their beds as the sun peeked out from behind the barren mountains in the distance. Startled out of a restless sleep, she awoke to the familiar sound of a coffee cup shattering against a hollow wall – eyes blurry, body stiff and suffocating beneath layers of imitation-down comforters.

“You fucking bitch… you fucking piece of shit bitch!”

Her father – there at her side. She could feel him – the frenzied tension of his rage…

She reached beneath her bed, the motor home’s converted kitchen table, for her glasses. What the fuck is go- fuck… she came up empty handed. Fucking bathroom…

“I fucking hate you – I’m not staying here with you!” it was her sister. Her blurry figure standing defiantly near the cab – hand reaching for the front door.

Outside their friends were laughing – she tensed against the sound of a backfiring two-stroke engine somewhere by her window.

“Fuck you! Get the fuck out of my face – you disrespectful cunt!”

Out of the corner of her eye, she caught it – the balling of fists, the shifting of weight to his front foot –

Time to move – she shoved the blankets aside and struggled to force motion down and into her legs as her sister threw open the door to make a run for it.

Bright light burst through the small space as she whirled around – her hands reaching for the edge of the tabletop –

She hadn’t expected it, really – the force of his hand cracking against the side of her head, the sound of a two stroke engine backfiring inside her skull, her body slamming back against the wall – sinking deep into a hazy state of half-awake, half-dead –
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“You fucking bitches – all of you are fucking cunt-ass pieces of shit! Get the fuck out of my sight – I fucking hate ALL of you – you lazy, disrespectful piece of shit!”

He was leaning over her now – his finger jabbing into her arm – hot breath clawing at the whites of her eyes.

She reached up to where it was – the fiery ringing where her head used to be  – and when she pulled away her hand was covered in blood.

What the fu- she felt again – more blood – ran her hand along her ear where the safety pin had gone in – pressed against the instant swelling – what the fu-

Blood trickled down her forearm, gathered at her elbow, dripped onto her bare legs tucked up beneath her…

“What the FUCK!” she screamed.

She doesn’t remember much after that. Her sister had driven up the day before, having spent Thanksgiving day with her boyfriend’s family up in Big Bear. They’d somehow gathered up their things in the midst of war, grabbed the keys to her little truck, and left.

"What the fuck happened to your ear?" her sister had demanded.

"I don’t fucking know – just go – and whatever you do, don’t fucking stop…"

"But what the fu-"

"Just Go!"

She’d spend the next nine years nursing that particular earring on that particular deformed ear – every few months it would flare up, the aftermath of a traumatic beginning – hell bent on coming out the victor against her father in a battle only she knew had ever begun. Eventually, one late July evening, it would get so bad that she’d have to take it out for good. It would be the first time she had ever felt truly defeated.

She never would find out what had started the fight.

“Helloooo…. Auntie….” the child sung, sandwich squished between her small fingers, “I said, didn’t they hurt?”

She blinked, cleared her throat, smiled at the little girl who was so full of innocence and curiosity.

Shook her head.

“They did, for a long time…. But not anymore.” Her finger fell into the small gap where the safety pin had gone in – where the scar tissue had taken its place – and then dropped to her lap with the weight of memory.

“Well… I don’t think they would hurt me. Bubba pokes me all the time and I don’t scream. And then he gets mad because I’m stronger,” she shrugged, as if the matter was inconsequential. Irrefutable. Simple.

She glanced at the pool, scanning the surface for Bubba – "Hey Missfit," he yelled, "hurry up we’re going to play racing games!"

“Oh, Auntie," she squirmed, "I’m done now. Can I go back in the water?”

And so it was – simple.

The child leaped from her chair, her naked feet slapping against the pavement as she gathered her floaties and took to the steps.

"Okay cousin, " she could hear Bubba explaining the rules, "just hold the edge here… like this," he reached his arm over her head and grabbed hold of the concrete ledge – she copied him on his right, "okay, lemme see – okay, good – so when I say ‘on your mark, get set, go!’ we have to swim as fast as we can to the other side by that mark. Just do it fast -" her eyes opened wider with excitement at his instruction, "and whatever you do, don’t stop. Okay? Are you ready?" she nodded, "On your mark…. get set…."

Just go.