A/N: Beta'd by alice laughed. This was written for a book report. I took excerpts from the book Echo by Francesca Lia Block. All character's associated with the novel are her's and not mine. I have rights though ti Michael and Raven.
But ever since I was a little girl I captured the neighborhood boys and made them sit in the basement and watch me. I dressed up in silk scarves and stolen underwear and played songs whose beat I could feel deep between my legs. While I danced a strange thing occurred. I would have visions of what happened to the boys. I saw boys being beaten, boys being shamed, boys crying, boys beating so they wouldn't cry. When the dance was over I would kiss the boys…
His name was Michael. The first time I saw him he was running down the sidewalk, feet pounding the pavement. Each step slammed into the concrete with force, causing the muscles to ripple along his calves, thighs, quads…
His stark blue eyes were wide and innocent. His features were finely drawn and shaped, thin lips that were only as full as their shape would allow. Ringlets of mocha – brown hair framed his face, reminiscent of Michelangelo's angels that graced the sky that was the Sistine chapel.
Raven was the last boy in the basement. He was aptly named with his sleek, raven-black hair and sharp, angular, crook'd nose. His limbs were too thin, with sharp bones that looked like they hurt, or maybe they were about to poke out of his skin
He could not bear to look me in the eyes. He didn't want to accept what we both had seen in the basement. Someone's fists pounding into his beloved mother's flesh. Couldn't bear it. His fists flying into the punching bags, than the concrete walls, than another's flesh.
I placed the cassette in the stereo player. It had a throbbing beat and breathy vocals. It seemed to enhance your senses, lifting you up to whatever wings the singer was always talking about. I slightly adjusted the scarves I had stolen from my mother's gauzy outfits, the lingerie my father bought my mother but she never wore. Michael sat on the couch, slightly perplexed, but nonetheless intrigued by the little slip of a girl who pulled him away from his run.
I first felt the beat deep within my legs as I always did. I didn't dance, not yet. I felt it coursing through my body, pumping through my veins with my blood. It was my blood. I allowed the music to finally overtake before I began to dance. My hips began to sway, first as they always did. But not one dance was ever the same. They always differed. Depending on the boy. Depending on the vision.
As my limbs began to extend and shake, I glanced a look over at Michael before I let myself see his past, his present, his pain.
Pain
Tears
A hand
A cry
Whimper
Shouts
Breaking glass
A slap
A father watching his son as he plays with the other boys on the playground. Dad is silent the ride home in the car. The playground was a treat after a long day at school and at work. They get home, that's when Dad starts yelling. It comes from nowhere, the shouting. He was always quiet, placid with everyone. He screams and screams and screams and it doesn't seem like it's going to stop. Like the fireworks on the 4th, the finale just keeps going and the noise doesn't seem to ever stop. You close your eyes and it's worse because the ground trembles with the loudness of the noise and it scares you even more. He keeps talking about how he's never played with anyone else, just those boys. Mama tries to console Dad, telling him that "at this age girls have 'cooties.' He'll grow out of it.'" But Dad won't listen and begins throwing things from the cabinets: glass plates, cups, vases… He just stands there wondering why Dad is so upset. He turns to ask him and is rewarded by a harsh slap from Dad. The force throws him to the ground. And while Mama and I are stunned into silence Dad keeps yelling and yelling and yelling. I don't feel the pain, but it registers that Dad's yelling about me. The tears come to my eyes and I run out the door. I run and run and run.
I don't stop.
He comes home only when he has to, but Dad finds him in his room. When he hears the bang opening the door, he crouches against the closet door hoping Dad won't come in this time. He does, but it doesn't sting. It rarely stings anymore because running is always there waiting.
When he goes running, sometimes he sees the girl with blue-green hair. She reminds him of a Greek myth, or a lost mermaid, unwillingly plucked out of the forgiving sea. He sees her watching and she makes him forget that he doesn't know who is because of his father's screaming. Whether his father's screaming spouts truth or ugly lies.
He never knows what to feel or who to like. She makes him forget his mother's silence or pity-looks. He feels like himself for once when she watches. She lets him tune everyone but himself out. He just is, not defined by anything except for the pace he runs.
We are back in the basement. I feel the salt-tracks of tears down my face and I expect to see the same from my Michelangelo-Angel. But I don't. His head is back, neck extended, and a smirk of a smile on his lips. His legs are spread out in front of him, so that he is lying back now. His chest rises and falls, shaking with silent laughter.
I walk over to him, on his place on the couch, now clad only in a swatch of silver gauze. I kneel down beside where he was now laying. I press the back of my hand against his cheek, and his eyes remained closed. His mouth opens, just slightly and I kiss the corner of his mouth.
I find a tear caught there.
