Moral Self-Injury, part 1
revelation 3:16: because you are lukewarm — neither hot nor cold — I am about to spit you out of my mouth.
trigger warnings: child abuse (emotional/neglect), religious trauma, medical trauma, blood, alcoholism, body shaming, illness, menarche-related distress, self-harm ideation.
Part I: Nosebleeds
Scarlet was so named because her mother had to have an emergency, open-heart surgery a week before giving birth to her.
Twenty-two years ago, when Scarlet’s grandmother gave birth to Scarlet’s mother, they discovered she had a congenital heart defect. The same defect necessitated the open heart surgery and would be the cause of her death less than thirty years after becoming Scarlet’s mother.
The severity of the situation was life-threatening. Either Scarlet or her mother might die, if they didn’t conduct the surgery. Under such pressure, she followed the doctor’s orders, and they opened up a pregnant woman’s heart on the operating table. Once their gloves and precision instruments were inside, they rearranged her, then stitched her closed, all while monitoring any signs of emergency labor.
The procedure lasted less than an hour, and soon, Scarlet’s mother awoke in her cigarette-smoke filled, pastel pink hospital room, with a thick, freshly stitched line down the center of her chest. It zig-zagged, in a slight wave, then ended just above her navel. There was barely a space of soft skin between the end of the dark stitches and the bump rising from her belly.
When she gave birth to Scarlet, six days after the operation, her mother thought of all the new scars she was receiving, and in honor of all the openings, closings, suturing, and healing, Scarlet seemed the only name fitting.
Scarlet’s mother couldn’t have known — and likely wouldn’t have wanted to know, even if she could have known — all the blood Scarlet’s life was dedicated to spilling. If her mother looked back on her pregnancy: all the accidental scratches, cuts, bruises; the experimental blood medications, the heart pains, the unexplainable bleeding… It wouldn’t have made any sense for it to stop just because Scarlet was now outside of her, alive and breathing.
Scarlet’s first few years on earth were more or less normal, at least in regards to any bloodletting. Nothing was evident until her fourth year, when the chronic nosebleeds began, in kindergarten. By then, Scarlet had already been taken away from her mother and was living alone with her father.
Her father was a devout Catholic, a machinist, and in his free time, he drove a taxi. As was his religious duty, he enrolled Scarlet in Catholic school, where Scarlet learned early on how the body was always under threat, indebted, and incessantly provoking evil.
Scarlet hated going to church, but there was never any choice. During the week, mass was held thrice. Then, her dad dragged her back again on Sunday mornings, even, and especially, when he was hungover. Every day smelled like vodka, holy water, cigarettes, and olabinum. It made Scarlet sick.
Saturday was the single day of respite from religious teaching, and Scarlet only put up a fight of resistance when her dad was sober. When she felt safe and able, she’d scream, kick, cry, and do everything possible to avoid having to go to mass. This, according to her father, was an early warning of her natural sinfulness.
During the week, she’d throw the same kind of tantrums — kicking and screaming to avoid getting dressed — crying and hiding in the sheets to avoid leaving her bed. She’d throw her hairbrush across the room and spill her milk across the table. There was nothing she didn’t try to prevent being hauled off to school.
In public, Scarlet was an odd little girl, always in her own world, never very interested in playing with others — unless they forced her. She was more preoccupied with being very good all the time — to make up for her inner monstrosity — which meant absolute obedience to everyone — except her dad, with whom her private behavior could only be described as “unequivocally evil.” He reminded her of this, repeatedly. He’d regularly recite the poem, usually while playing with Scarlet’s hair,
”There was a little girl,
who had a little curl,
right in the middle of her forehead.
When she was good,
she was very good, indeed,
but when she was bad,
she was horrid.”
Like the Hail Mary, this, too, became one of Scarlet’s most recited prayers.
It was during this year that Scarlet’s nosebleeds first appeared. In school, of all places, in the middle of mass, one Wednesday morning. At first, Scarlet didn’t know what to do; she simply cried until one of the nuns arrived to hush and scold her for making a fuss, only to spot the blood on her face and red stains dotting her uniform.
Not wanting to interrupt the sermon, the nuns seized her out of the cathedral and whisked her away to the bathroom. Locking the door, they began fretting over stopping the blood, but there was just so much of it. It was pouring from both nostrils at once, and the more panicked they became, the more terrified Scarlet felt, the heavier the blood would gush out.
The paramedics would have to be called.
The frenzy and sheer amount of blood petrified Scarlet, who was propped up like a rag-doll against the sink, held up by one of the nuns, while the others pulled her hair back, unbuttoned her chemise, squeezed her nose, tried to straighten out her neck, reposition her skull to stop the blood from coming out of her mouth, and to stop her from gagging and coughing the blood up.
Scarlet was surrounded by nuns when the firemen finally arrived. Upon their entrance, the women instantly shifted their behavior. From controlling Scarlet’s body to surrendering to the paramedics and firemen, they were almost kittenish when they stepped near and recounted the situation.“We couldn’t stop the blood flow. We’re at a loss of what to do… Thanks so much for coming to help us… You must know what to do…”
Scarlet stood — well, she was hung over the side of the sink — in silence, watching the blood drip and swirl down the drain. Absolutely quiet and absolutely horrified, the fear only made the blood gush worse, so Scarlet tried her best to be very, very good, and not make a single sound or movement.
Manipulating her body the way children play with doll limbs, the paramedics situated Scarlet into a better position. Rather than hanging over the sink, they made her sit, with her eyesight upward. “Pretend you’re looking up at Jesus,” they cheerfully advised. “But what about all the blood she’s swallowing?” asked one of the sisters.
The paramedics explained it was a small price to pay to stop the nosebleeds quickly. Then, they went on to lay out some basic rules: There might be large blood clots. Don’t worry if she has to swallow them, or if they make her nauseated. She may need to spit them out or throw them up. It would be wise to keep a garbage pail nearby. Her mouth will likely become full of blood while the nosebleed drains down her throat, so we advise Scarlet to be a good little girl and bring a toothbrush to school.
If she ever vomits blood, call us.
If the nosebleed lasts longer than 45 minutes, call us.
Just remember to keep her head back.
That should be all.
With the rules in place, the troupe of paramedics left the school, but not before giving the nuns a big round of encouraging goodbye salutes.
As they left, Scarlet sat, silently dazed, wincing, swallowing blood, when, finally, the nuns returned to pinching her nose and patting her hair down.
The nosebleeds didn’t stop after that. They simply became routine, the more frequently they occurred. Scarlet could be praying, drawing, playing, and the blood would start to fall. The nosebleeds happened so regularly, blood stained her dolls, coloring books, clothes, even her wooden desk at school. There was nothing she could do, except try to be evermore calm and still.
Since the nosebleeds became an everyday part of Scarlet’s life, the nuns set up a special corner for her in the kitchen, where she could sit next to the garbage bins and spit up blood, whenever she needed.
When Scarlet tasted blood, she’d run for her corner, then pinch her nose bridge, look up at the ceiling, and pray to Christ, her Lord and savior.
She knew she was evil, and worse still, every time her nose bled, she interrupted the class and made a terrible commotion. Her classmates would stare. Storytime would come to an end. Her drawings would be ruined.
Not even bible study could stop the blood from coming. It didn’t matter how obedient she was, or if she was being very, very good, and not causing a single problem for anyone. The nosebleeds would start and she’d cause a disruption. She disturbed everyone’s harmony and concentration, just by being. Her nosebleeds served as a constant reminder of the natural pollution of her body.
At least she paid for it by bleeding, she soon began believing.
Just as Christ bled for us.
One morning, Scarlet had a nosebleed that lasted for over an hour. With so much blood loss and panic, Scarlet had momentarily lost consciousness. The nuns had no choice but to call the paramedics. It was Scarlet’s worst nosebleed to date, and the paramedics, for all their equipment, ice packs, and strange repositioning, couldn’t get the blood to stop pouring from her face.
She cried and screamed awfully, terrifying the other children, which only increased the ire of the sisters and the severity of the hemorrhage. Blood was absolutely everywhere. All anyone could see was red. The adults, holding Scarlet over the sink, agreed that this time, she needed to be taken to the emergency clinic.
Covering her nose, while the blood continued to flow, the paramedics wrapped Scarlet in a white cotton linen, laid her out on the stretcher, then wheeled her into the ambulance.
Her classmates gathered to regard the scene through the foggy school windows.
Inside the ambulance, the paramedics took her vitals, explained where they were taking her, and continued to try to stop the nosebleed, though all to no avail.
It was soon coming up to nearly two hours of continuous bleeding.
On the road, the paramedics tried to call her dad, but the secretary explained that he was currently unavailable, though she’d certainly leave a message, and asked if they would try to call back again.
Mercifully, at the emergency clinic, the doctor was patient and kind, even if Scarlet was recalcitrant and paralyzed by fear. She neither moved, unless maneuvered by the nurses, nor spoke, unless she was directly commanded.
The room was huge, sterile, and metallic, which only added to her fright.
While Scarlet laid motionless in the hospital bed, holding ice to her face, the doctor tried to comfort her by telling how she had a daughter about Scarlet’s age, and reassured her that there was nothing to worry about, since the hospital dealt with blood, all the time.
The medical team later explained to Scarlet that they needed to take various images of her nose, jaw, ears, and throat to see what might be the cause of the nosebleeds. Then, they gave her a round of questioning. Did she have headaches? Seizures? Fevers? How often did she faint? How often did she have nosebleeds? Did she have any siblings? Any health problems in the family?
Scarlet barely knew what many of the words meant, and since her father wasn’t there, no one could provide a good answer. A school aide accompanied her, but she knew nothing either. They tried calling Scarlet’s grandmother, whose voicemail machine answered. They called her aunt, who didn’t respond. When finally they reached out to Scarlet’s mom, they found the number was disconnected. She had no other emergency contact or information listed.
While waiting for an adult to arrive and sign the insurance liability papers, the hospital ran the images and concluded all Scarlet needed was a nose cauterization.
She had large blood vessels, high up inside of her nose, which were all very thin and had burst. If Scarlet blew her nose or sniffed, she’d likely cause a nosebleed. If she bumped her nose or touched her face a certain way, she’d cause a nosebleed. If the air was too dry, she’d bleed. If she was anxious or upset, those were also triggers.
The images showed how the vessels were so thin, they could almost be considered a deviated septum, though it wasn’t exactly the case. The whole left side of her interior nasal cavity was pocketed with thin and broken blood vessels. They’d have to seal up the whole thing. The cauterization would be like stitching up an injury, the doctor reassured, smiling sweetly.
When Scarlet’s dad finally arrived at the hospital, he was in a panic. He couldn’t get out of work fast enough. He was terribly sorry. “Is everything okay?” he repeatedly asked everybody. He signed the paperwork without thinking. He thanked the nurses. He apologized profusely. After making his amends, he sat down next to Scarlet and took hold of her hand. He thanked God. He thanked the school aide, who he reminded was now free to leave. He thanked the nurses. He smelled like vodka, and, as he looked at Scarlet, he began to cry in front of the medical team.
Scarlet couldn’t quite think, but she felt ashamed and guilty, and when the doctor announced they’d be able to cauterize her nose, Scarlet, instead, secretly prayed for another nosebleed. The blood would purify everyone by making her the problem. It would distract from her dad’s embarrassment. The blood would wash it all away. If only she would start to bleed again, they could worry over her and flee their anxious shame. Her suffering was a currency. It could buy relief. Otherwise, she just remained there, horrid, compounding and adding to the pain.
The nosebleed didn’t start, but the cauterization did, and it felt like being at her dad’s machine shop. The smell of burnt hair and skin lingered in Scarlet’s nose for days afterward.
The doctor advised a humidifier, set to maximum, for the next few weeks. They gave her a spray and told her to expect a few nosebleeds, but clarified — they shouldn’t be as recurrent or as extreme.
As the blood vessels welded shut, the nurses unplugged the IV, unattached Scarlet from the heart monitoring machine, then sent her home with her father. Together, they walked out of the emergency clinic, hand in hand.
Arriving at the car, when Scarlet opened the door, she found the floor beneath her seat littered with single shot bottles of vodka — her dad’s favorite. She dropped her backpack in the heap of liquor bottles and put on her seatbelt, while her father got into the driver’s seat and unscrewed a new bottle. He swallowed it like medicine, then tossed the empty bottle on the floor beneath her. Wearily, he patted her leg, sighed hopelessly, and slid the keys into the ignition.
“Glad that’s over with,” was all he managed to say to her.
Part II: Evaluation
Scarlet’s nose gradually healed, and by the time she was a student in primary school, the nosebleeds were both less frequent and less severe. To the great humiliation of her father, however, he could no longer afford her good Catholic education.
Between sending Scarlet to catechesis, preparing her for her first communion, and spending on the other routine expenses, private school tuition was out of the question. The whole family looked down upon Scarlet and her father for this impotence. It was indisputable evidence of their profound moral, economic, and social failures. Her cousins all went to Catholic school. They were each named after saints, too. None of her cousins lived alone with their fathers. None of her cousins lived in apartments. In fact, they all lived in quaint little houses. They were all “100% white,” too. Unlike Scarlet, who was not “fully white” — though to anyone else, she appeared as — because her mother, who Scarlet hadn’t seen since she was three, was not. Scarlet’s paternal extended family was relentless. Whether it was her drawings, the way she dressed, the way she spoke, her height, her skin color — nothing she did was good enough for them.
Her father decided to enroll her at the public elementary school under a false address. He used his mother’s address instead of their real one. This meant, rather than attending the neighborhood school, which was only a fifteen-minute walk away, Scarlet had to be driven twenty-five minutes across town, and none of her classmates lived anywhere nearby. As a small grace, the morning commute sometimes easily fit in with her dad’s taxi driving schedule.
The main advantage to using the false address was that Scarlet’s grandmother lived across the street and worked for the before-and-after-school care programs. To allow Scarlet’s father to work long hours, Scarlet could spend the mornings and evenings with her grandmother, since her grandmother was the only person both readily and cheaply available to them.
Since there was no mass, getting Scarlet to school was much easier. Frequently, she was managed by a babysitter in the morning, who she didn’t dare put up a fight with. This poor woman had no teeth, she didn’t wear dentures, and she suffered severe eczema. She’d sit on the couch and knit all morning — her dried skin sloughing off her like tiny scales — so much so, she eventually created a miniature nest around the spot she sat on the couch. Scarlet’s father cleaned it every Saturday morning, only to let it resurrect, yet again, the week after.
When the woman was there, Scarlet kept silent. She felt the woman watching her. They barely ever exchanged a single word. Scarlet was too ashamed even to watch cartoons in front of her. Instead, she would put the news on and silently look out the window until it was time to leave. Scarlet was so repulsed by the toothless lip-rolling and floating skin-scales that on the days the woman drove Scarlet to school, she prayed for a nosebleed to relieve the remorse of her evil feelings.
On lucky days, when her dad was able to drive her, he’d bring candies or other sweets to show his affection. He might curse at the traffic, speed and blow the horn at other drivers, whistle out the window at pretty women he’d see on the avenue, but at least Scarlet spent some time with him, however momentarily, before another long day of competition and isolation.
The school knew all about her nosebleeds, and Scarlet had become a cool professional in stopping them. She also grew accustomed to calming everyone down whenever the blood appeared. Usually, she’d quickly isolate herself to avoid drawing any attention. At first sight or taste of blood, she’d excuse herself, sit somewhere quiet, stare at the ceiling, swallow the blood until her face was empty, then she’d calmly rinse her mouth and return to her classroom. It wasn’t a big deal anymore. She didn’t bother to see the nurses, and she was rarely ever scared. In fact, when people fretted over her nosebleeds, she came to absolutely loathe them.
No longer did she hemorrhage blood — she graduated to invisibly expressing it. Discreetly, she could blood-let without causing any social injury. There were no paramedics to be called, no classroom interruptions, no classmates curiously staring. The nosebleeds were purely for her own misdeeds, a private penance for her hateful wickedness. They became her deserved, solitary exile and punishment, and she was grateful for every last one.
Making her way through each grade, with fainter and fainter nosebleeds to mark the days, Scarlet grew accustomed to the sacrilegious world outside of the insular, ritualistic one she shared with her father.
They still attended Sunday mass, though infrequently, since CCD, and other after-school religious teachings took up more and more of Scarlet’s schedule.
Her father still recited the Little Horrid Girl poem while braiding or brushing her hair at night. He sent her to dance classes, where her aunt was a teacher, and Scarlet learned even more about the currency of her body.
Her father would her up drunk, sometimes one or two hours late, knowing her aunt would have to deal with her. She painted and drew pictures of alcohol bottles with the words, “Please Stop,” and taped them up around the apartment — inside cupboards, behind doors — where she knew her dad would see them before getting drunk.
She went to school.
She stayed with her grandmother afterward.
The more Scarlet was out in the world, the more wretchedness and sin she accumulated by being close to others, and with fewer nosebleeds to expel it, she hoarded and distilled it for later and, hopefully, greater purgation.
Part III: Comparison
Scarlet spent most of her time outside of school with her grandmother, Mary. She was the living matriarch of Scarlet’s paternal family, whose husband, Scarlet’s grandfather, had died the summer Scarlet was born.
Mary was a proud woman. She was proud of her property, first; her genes, second; and her religion, third. Her favorite son was Daniel, the eldest boy, and second of her six children — though he never had any children of his own. Her eldest child was a daughter, who also shared the same name, Mary.
Mary, the grandmother, owned a vast, historic property in the town and another massive piece of farmland in Iowa. Her house, she humbly boasted, could almost be considered a museum. She owned many relics of the past: coal ovens, clocks, old post boxes, cameras from the mid-1800s, crystal chandeliers, ivory boxes, jewellery, wedding dresses, and other antique costumes. She was deeply involved in the community, the heritage foundation, her church, the public school system, and, of course, the historical society.
Despite Mary’s outward generosity, Scarlet never expected much from her. On the contrary, Scarlet learned to perform gratitude for even her nastiest remarks.
It was difficult for Scarlet to comprehend the experience with her grandmother, which Scarlet could only secretly, and shamefully, understand as an imitation of a fairy tale.
On the surface, her grandmother looked after children, volunteered at churches, and donated to public institutions. What Scarlet saw in her was closer in appearance to a wicked witch, but like any fairy tale, no one believed the wickedness Scarlet claimed to have witnessed. In fact, the more Scarlet cried about her grandmother’s treatment, the more evil Scarlet appeared to them.
Scarlet’s cousin, Christine, was her grandmother’s favorite. Christine lived just one house down from their grandmother, and Christine spent more time with her than Scarlet did.
When she and Scarlet spent time together at their grandmother’s house after school, Mary would encourage Scarlet to celebrate Christine’s many achievements: her drawings, her good grades, her impeccable recitation of the Saints. Mary often pointed out Christine’s angelically light hair, her smallness, and her pale, porcelain skin. She contrasted Christine’s pristine appearance with Scarlet’s height, Scarlet’s “huskiness,” her “tanness,” and her unrly, dark and curly hair.
Scarlet and Christine would draw pictures together and sometimes attempt to play as equals, but Mary would never let her favorite be reduced to such filth. She’d hold up Christine’s drawings and point out the tastefulness of the colors Christine had chosen; how pretty were the sun and little house she had so delicately sketched out. For Scarlet, Mary gave a patronizing laugh and pitied her sorely lacking efforts.
Oftentimes, out of sheer generosity of spirit, Mary would take each child’s drawing and place them, side by side, for a more thorough comparison.
After one of these many critique sessions, when Scarlet’s father finally arrived, and while everyone was distracted by his entrance, Scarlet seized the moment to steal and hide Christine’s beautiful drawing.
Mary, who’d hung the drawing up on the refrigerator, flew into a fit and accused Scarlet of theft, envy, and of causing another problem for the family, and especially, another problem for her poor father, who was already struggling, and this was how she decided to greet him?
Scarlet feigned innocence. Her father, cousin, and grandmother grew bitterly disappointed. “We were just looking at the drawings, and Scarlet is so jealous. She’s such an envious little girl,” Mary explained. “I was only pointing out the creativity of the two girls. And Christine’s drawing was so darling, you’d have to see it for yourself to understand. If only Scarlet would return it, but she probably tore it to shreds… I was only trying to help the poor dear improve her skills. She’s so sensitive, always taking things so personally. Making trouble out of nothing, and begging for attention. The ingratitude is appalling.”
When it became too much to bear and Scarlet couldn’t contain the guilt any longer, she confessed her crime and returned the drawing, with her sincerest apologies and genuine tears. Her grandmother was greatly pleased, and Christine radiated triumphantly. The drawing really was quite charming.
Dragging Scarlet outside the house, her father lit a cigarette and scolded her until she stopped her tear-making. Her crying was manipulative. It generated more shame and was further evidence of her selfishness. The more she cried, the less sincere was her apology. The only way to be truly forgiven was total silent acceptance. Like Christ, and his burden of his cross.
Before leaving her grandmother’s house that night, Scarlet was made to apologize to Christine repeatedly, until Mary found the apology sufficiently honest.
In the car ride home, Scarlet’s father had no words to comfort her.
The consequences were all her own to bear.
Christmastime was the worst.
Two weeks locked alone in the apartment, without anyone to visit. Scarlet’s father would be drunk. Passed out. With the factory closed and low demand for taxi services, he had nothing else to do.
The only reasons they left the apartment was either to go to church for repentance or to the liquor store for replenishment. Other than that, Scarlet was mostly left alone. The single event she looked forward to was her family’s Christmas party, but this, too, gradually soured into another ritual of impurity and a performance of masking her rottenness.
Year after year, Scarlet’s excitement for Christmas endured greater and greater attrition, until all that was left was fear. Greedy, vain, and materialistic, Scarlet was always secretly wishing to receive the same attention and sorts of gifts her cousins were given, especially the jewelry and pretty things Christine so often received. Though it was slow and painful, Scarlet eventually, though barely, came to accept the disappointment and humiliation — all caused by her incurable envy, her bottomless greed, and her despotic ingratitude for the things she actually was given. Gifts were a privilege. Given in honor of Christ. They were to be earned through virtue and humility. Not freely handed out to reward ugliness and vice.
After Christmas mass, Scarlet would cry and kick the floor of the car on the way to her grandmother’s house, screaming and pleading with her father to please, please, please not make her go. She knew her theatrics were punishable offenses, but the fear and panic were overwhelming. Her father screamed until she fell silent. She’d give him a heart attack if she didn’t get her act together. Did she want that?
If you asked Scarlet’s family, they’d probably have said, yes.
In response to this accusation of death and violence, Scarlet sealed herself shut completely and became very, very good, indeed. She’d be grateful and smile in all the pictures, always holding it together and giving it her all to not shed a single tear. She always tried her best, even if she often failed.
When Scarlet reached fourth grade, her nosebleeds almost completely disappeared, though a new illness took its place. During the three years before menarche, Scarlet had over thirty unexplainable urinary tract infections. She barely remembers the time between fourth and sixth grade, but she remembers that before she bled like a woman, she was wearing pads to stop the leaking.
The episodes, like her nosebleeds, also started at school. Her lower abdomen would burn with pain. She felt she had to pee all the time, but nothing arrived, though she was always hurting and constantly felt a deep, deep pressure inside.
The school called her father, and she was made to visit many doctors and specialists, though no cause could be identified. They assumed it was a hygiene issue. Just another infection. Even her father came to regard her with a certain level of disgust and blame. As if Scarlet was purposefully causing them.
For those three years, Scarlet would run to her grandmother’s house after school, just to sit near the toilet in agony and embarrassment. She knew she wasn’t a baby. Most of the time, there wasn’t any urine, but the other children still made fun of her for it. Even her grandmother, once in a while, would be just a tiny bit too slow to unlock her door, and Scarlet would have an accident in front of Christine, even with a pad in place.
There was no explaining it. Only some of the doctors and nurses seemed to understand what she was going through. They’d give her medication to stop the infection and try to ease the pain. In reaction, she developed many allergies, frequently breaking out in hives, her skin all ablaze in bright red. A small mercy was that whenever she was prescribed her favorite antibiotic, it made her puke all shiny and iridescent, like an oil spill on pavement. On the other hand, even vomiting was another unpredictable, disgusting mess that disrupted everyone’s peace and quiet.
The infections were much more humiliating than the nosebleeds. They were purely gross. No one talked about Christ peeing on himself. There wasn’t any redemption in Scarlet’s daily pain. She couldn’t even come up with a story to make something useful out of it. These years were meant only to reinforce years the same shame.
Scarlet couldn’t tell anymore when the pain was merely a symptom or if it signaled something legitimate. Either way, it always hurt so much, and she couldn’t contain it.
After so much confusion and betrayal, she lost all trust in her body. There was no way to understand what it needed, meant, or wanted. Instead, the fixed truth she clung to was the knowledge that as long as her body existed, she was damned.
Part IV: Insolvency
This year would leave Scarlet’s dad without a decent job. It was a double stroke of misfortune. First, her dad suffered a strange accident while cooking dinner one evening. He was busy butchering a chicken when the chef’s knife slid straight between his fingers and into his hand. It pierced through, between the index finger and the thumb, and there, it stayed. The blade was lodged more than halfway in. There was no blood, and not a single sound emanated from him. Scarlet was busy quietly drawing when it happened.
Her dad was wise enough not to remove the knife without proper precautions, and, in order to save money, he calmly ordered Scarlet to get in the car and told her not to panic, but they’d have to drive to the hospital immediately. He held his hand up and showed her the knife that was stuck in it. It was already grotesquely swelling, greenish and huge. It looked like a leather baseball mitten.
Stunned, Scarlet kept her mouth shut and obediently followed his command. He didn’t take the injury too seriously, or, at least, he didn’t show it if he did. He treated the situation so casually, he even laughed when he lit up a cigarette with his left hand, driving using his knees instead. He wanted Scarlet not to worry about him and to make her smile through the fear.
The doctors congratulated him on not removing the knife, as this inaction had very likely saved his life. The knife had missed not one but two arteries, both by mere centimeters. If he had pulled the knife out, there was no doubt he would’ve cut open an artery and died, right then and there, from a blood hemorrhage.
His survival was a divine miracle — a literal saving grace from on high. The prayers weren’t for nothing, after all. Now, he knew that, unlike this godforsaken world, God wasn’t running a scam.
Though he kept his hand and all his fingers, he was unable to return to the machine shop for a few months while he recovered.
To compensate for partially paid leave, a few weeks after the accident, he turned to full-time taxi driving, which he could still do, even with the bandaging. He admitted to Scarlet how the injury significantly increased his amount of tips. She wasn’t at all surprised by this, but her father wanted to convince her that he was an honest man. Without any prompting, he went on to assure her that he wasn’t planning to wear the bandage longer than what was medically necessary.
God showed him a revelation of the inalienable value of equal exchange.
He wasn’t about to disrespect it.
By autumn, he was ready to return to the factory, though to his surprise, very soon after, the owners held an all-personnel assembly. There, the directors announced that, by the end of the next quarter, the entire factory would be shut down. They had filed for bankruptcy. Scarlet’s father learned from his bosses, and the articles in the newspapers, that the manufacturing jobs, all across the country, were being “sent overseas,” like it was the military or something.
In the interim, he took to drinking more heavily.
“No need for a mind,” he slurred at Scarlet one night. There was no reason to stop drinking anymore. No calculation the next morning. He was free.
Besides alcohol, Scarlet’s dad was incredibly fond of mechanical things. Though he had to return the objects to the factory the next day, he would often bring home steel pipes he manufactured, just to show Scarlet his techniques. He described aerodynamics and taught her the basic mechanics of air circulation and water propulsion. He had a collection of screws and nails that he fabricated, to which he regularly added. A few times, he even brought home sheets of metal, which he folded up into shapes of flowers, but these always had to be returned to the shop the next day. The only object he had the nerve to keep was a steel boat propeller.
He loved propellers, impellers, and axial fans the most. Fabricating the curves of their blades was how he learned to recreate the shape of flower petals in metal.
Towards the end of his time at the factory, he lamented all the plastic being molded, instead of respectable metal, but he reminded both himself and Scarlet that complaints were debts meant to be paid with gratitude.
V: Menarche
The summer after her father lost his job, Scarlet was sent to stay with his brother, who lived out in the desert, near the southern border. He had two kids, both older than Scarlet, but his daughter Margaret was ecstatic to have her stay with them.
Due to all the sweets her father had so often given her, Scarlet was noticeably fat, and had been for quite a while. Thankfully, when she arrived in the desert, her cousin came to the rescue. She got Scarlet running every morning, then horseback riding in the afternoons.
Margaret was planning to enlist in the military, and she knew the best ways to get fit and lose weight fast. She supplied Scarlet with half-frozen water bottles — good for burning calories — and taught her a basic guide to nutrition.
Her family didn’t spend any time together whatsoever, so Margaret had complete control over what Scarlet did, ate, and how she lived. It was like having a little sister, Margaret giddily confessed to her.
For Scarlet’s part, she was mostly content, if not equally uncomfortable. She felt less like a little sister and more like a pet dog, which she realized wasn’t really that bad at all. Though she loved the desert — its arid silence suited her — it seemed like a deep betrayal to have left her father, even if, secretly, she was happy to be elsewhere. She felt guilty for it, but like everything else, her guilt was mixed with pleasure.
She went along with everything she was told — and Margaret was an exceptional Catholic — a better Catholic than Scarlet would ever be. Being supervised by such virtuousness usually alleviated any discomfort Scarlet may have felt.
It was also the first time Scarlet had ever lived with another girl.
With Margaret, Scarlet learned about shaving her legs, how to wear bras, and about the existence of various types of underwear. Margaret was shocked when Scarlet told her how she had shaved her own face, after once noticing two mustache hairs. Scarlet justified herself by explaining she only knew how to imitate whatever she saw her father do. Though Margaret was sheltered in her own way — she had gone to Catholic school all the way through to graduation — she did nothing but give Scarlet the most reliable and useful sisterly guidance, and never truly shamed her.
Margaret tried to talk to Scarlet about normal things, like crushes and boyfriends. Back home, Scarlet had crushes, though she tried her best to keep them secret. She signed up for instant messaging accounts and created fake usernames like “ILoveJohn92731.” From there, she’d message John and tell him how he was so, so sexy, and she’d ask if he had a crush on anyone. She tried to keep herself out of it, even if she longed for him to admit that it was she he had a crush on. They never once did. In fact, at school, Scarlet was a “laughingstock” — a term one boy had insulted her with, which she didn’t know the definition of, but which caused her to develop a crush on him all the same. Scarlet, however, didn’t tell Margaret any of this. When asked, she simply listed some celebrities she found sexy.
Margaret, in contrast, had a boyfriend, and she was struggling with his pressure to have sex with him. As a good Catholic, she couldn’t go through with it. Margaret knew she wanted to save herself for marriage, but Scarlet thought having sex was a great idea. Even Margaret admitted that by saying so, it was probably the devil speaking through her.
Three months into Scarlet’s stay, she and Margaret were out on one of their regular horseback rides through the desert, when suddenly, Scarlet felt intolerably dizzy and faint. She spoke up and told Margaret she wasn’t feeling very well, and Margaret read the signs accurately. She trotted the pair to the nearest neighbor, who was housed forty minutes away.
Through the desert, Scarlet’s vision blurred, and she could barely hold herself up properly, let alone control the reins. She was more or less slumped over the horse when Margaret took over and guided both animals to their destination. Margaret had no reservations about walking up, ringing the doorbell, and asking the unknown neighbors for water. It was clear to anyone who lived in the desert that Scarlet was experiencing acute heat exhaustion.
Even in the delirium, which subsided with cool water and time spent in the shade, Scarlet admired how skillfully Margaret engaged with other people, and in that awareness, Scarlet closed in on herself to compress her own embarrassment. The solitary action at Scarlet’s disposal was to express her gratitude for the stranger’s kindness and to thank Margaret until it became obnoxious. Then she’d have to apologize for everything, even more annoyingly.
When they returned to Margaret’s house, both girls were better spirits. More or less happily, Scarlet descended from her horse, when to her dismay, she spotted blood dripping down the side of the saddle. A pool of it was also on top of the seat, where she had just been sitting. Scarlet was so ignorant, she thought it meant she had lost her virginity to the horse, and immediately burst into tears at the realization. Without removing the saddle or the reins, Scarlet ran into the house to conceal herself.
Spiraling in Margaret’s bedroom, she was at a loss. While on the bed, she noticed even more blood on the sheets, on her clothes, and she fled into the bathroom to try to figure out what was happening to her. She found blood inside her thighs and was absolutely convinced the animal had violated her — just the type of thing that would happen to the evil whore she knew herself to be inside. Hastily, she rummaged through the cabinets until she found pads, ones like she had to use when she would have her infections. Just like with urine, they’d be a bandage to stop the leaking.
As Scarlet cleaned herself up, Margaret knocked on the door and whispered to ask if everything was alright. She was a little concerned, she said. She noticed blood on the saddle and how Scarlet had left so fast, and she wanted to know if she had hurt herself.
When Scarlet replied and told her where else she found blood, Margaret calmed her down by pointing out that she had just gotten her period and did not lose her virginity, as she had mistakenly assumed. She giggled behind the door and comforted her, “Everything is perfectly alright.”
Scarlet’s response to this was a renewed sense of primal panic.
What she had learned in CCD, before her first communion, and in her various after-school classes, all flooded back into her awareness. Frightened, she asked Margaret about “the curse” and “the impurity of carnal vices” — of which menstruation was meant to be a monthly reminder. Scarlet wept bitterly, her wickedness coming awfully close to surfacing. She descended further, confessing that now she had the eternal stain of condemning her own children to the damnation of material existence. She risked their very souls, should she ever fall pregnant. She was even more guilty and filthier than she’d ever been before.
Margaret had a more moderate view and tried to dismiss what seemed like Scarlet’s hysterical and outdated fears. She pointed out the sacredness of existence, the divine gift of life, and clarified that the body was a temple for the Holy Spirit, and how we had the beautiful opportunity to reproduce more souls to worship Christ.
This, however, did not help in the slightest, because Scarlet began to argue and recite her lessons. She repeated mere sentences, some of them entirely out of context. She began chanting about, the innate worthlessness and profanity of the flesh, how she had to destroy the body to free the soul. She claimed that the body was already dead, because of sin, and how she had to make the flesh a purgatory for the soul.
The more she repeated these lines, the faster she flew into a frenzy, and eventually, in the overwhelm, she started pulling at her hair, screaming and crying. Margaret quickly intervened by covering her hands over Scarlet’s ears and embraced her in a hug so tight, Scarlet could barely move.
Margaret was such a good person.
Bound in her arms, Scarlet’s anger gradually simmered into a mix of gratitude and self-pitying, indulgent envy. No matter the goodness she received, her inner horridness was unwavering. Poisoning everything.
Embracing Scarlet, Margaret recommended they forget the silly theological discussion and instead simply pray together in silence. Relaxing further, at the mere mention of silence, Scarlet was more than happy to follow the suggestion. She wiped her tears and apologized for her outburst, admitting that she was just super scared, but it was okay, because she was more grateful than frightened that Margaret was there. The truth was that Scarlet was extraordinarily, almost overwhelmingly thankful that God — in all his divine wisdom — had chosen to start her period while she was under the surveillance of someone like Margaret, who genuinely cared.
As they held hands in silent prayer, Scarlet couldn’t help but cry, while reciting internally her endless thanks to God — his mercy, his wisdom — and for her cousin, who was so considerate, patient, and truly amazing.
She prayed that Margaret would have the best life ever on this hellish earth — with a caveat of recognition that she didn’t mean to make any demands on God, and she didn’t mean to bargain with him, either. She only meant to express her eternal indebtedness and equally eternal gratitude for Margaret’s kindness.
The next day, Scarlet’s father rang on the telephone. He announced to her how everyone had heard the news. Margaret even called their grandmother, and both she and Christine were concerned for her.
Scarlet went pale when she heard his words. All that trust in Margaret, and now, even Christine knew. She fell quiet for a long moment, until her dad asked if she was still there. She cried a few tears, then braced herself for the show. She responded that yes, she was there, but she needed to help Margaret with some gardening. Assuring her father that everything was good there, she told him she loved him, then hung up.
Mechanically, she turned around and walked into Margaret’s bedroom, where she collapsed on the floor and laid there in a ball until dark settled.
This is an autobiographical fiction (my mom didn’t have open heart surgery — )
trying to unthread aspects of my own development.
It was inspired by a recent attendance to Catholic mass,
where I realized how my childhood illnesses and early Catholic insularity
warped into whatever worldview and identity I carry today.
This “work” is my own investigation into what made me what I am —
if only to see if I can identify the problem, then, maybe, I can change for the better.
I’ll continue to speak.
If predators use my vulnerability against me,
that says nothing about me, and everything about them.
. . . to be continued in phase ii . . .