Blood from an artery doesn’t look like blood at all. It looks much more like paint. Not the fancy oil kind, either — the bright acrylic stuff you used in elementary school. So much so that when you turn around and see him, your first thought is that someone’s dumped a bucket of red paint all over him, as if he got caught by PETA wearing mink. By the time it occurs to you that it’s blood, it’s all over the ground, covering the two meters that lay between you. And by that point, he’s already started to move past you, stumbling, chasing the man who stabbed him. When he catches up to him, he swings his arms, strong then feebly as blood spurts out of his neck. He falls to his knees in slow motion. A crowd forms in the time it takes the ambulance to arrive, some helping, most staring in morbid curiosity. The ground around him becomes littered in towels tie-dyed in blood, fetched from the restaurant in front where people have continued to eat as if seeing someone get stabbed was nothing more than that night’s entertainment. He’s still being loaded into the ambulance as the security guard hoses down the last of his blood.
Afterwards, when friends ask how you’re feeling, you realize you don’t feel scared. Shocked, maybe. And what shocks you the most is that you had no idea what was going on right behind you. Because really, when was the last time you weren’t perfectly aware of your surroundings?
It started when you were a child. A baby, even. Your mother couldn’t get you to put on weight because you were more interested in watching your siblings than breastfeeding. Their world seemed more interesting than yours. So you searched for any way to join it, copying mannerisms and behaviors, going as far as adopting a bastardized version of your sister’s speech impediment. The adoration was mutual. The youngest child, a youngest cousin, when you looked at the world endless eyes stared back at you. Having an audience was always a given.
Then again, not everyone looks at you the way you look at them. You couldn’t have been more than six or seven the first time you realized that. An uncle’s friend? A stranger? You don’t necessarily remember who he was, but you remember what he said. Don’t make eye contact when you’re sucking on that popsicle. You let it melt all over your hands, staining them dark red. His meaning may not have been clear to you but his sentiment was.
It was more exciting as a teenager. You still remember the feeling when you first caught that boy’s interest, both laughing until you cried that day in the school hallway. The flip side of that coin, of course, came later, when the only time he looked at you was when he was drunk. But you still did anything to have his attention back, going wherever he invited you on Saturday night. You wanted to be cool and you felt love or whatever love could feel like to a sixteen year old. He didn’t feel the same, though, because if he did he probably wouldn’t have pulled your dress down in front of his friends, their eyes flitting between embarrassment and interest as you covered your chest and did your best impression of laughing it off. It was more of a yank, though, wasn’t it? Because afterwards that strap was hanging by a thread and you could never bring yourself to sew it back on. The dress was too pink, too girly anyway and you never really liked the way it looked.
What came next? Your friend’s hands down your pyjamas as you slept. A stranger lifting up your skirt on a busy street. Gropes, unembodied erections pressed against your back at concerts. All instances that at some point may have been momentous now have all been watered down over time. It wouldn’t be worthwhile to list them all. Your story is one almost everyone has heard before, only with a different protagonist.
And now, you’re not jaded, but you are vigilant. Even in the daytime you’re on edge, never forgetting the danger of a passing look or remark. Headphones on, eyes ahead. You envy the way boyfriends, past and present, are able to lose themselves so completely in public. Skateboarding, playing basketball, creating private worlds in the middle of thousands of people, seemingly unaware of the eyes of others.
You loathe attention yet you still long for it. It’s bittersweet. These days, its absence feels more like an insult than a reprieve. More and more, you find yourself dissecting the way strangers treat you. Do they notice the wrinkles on your cheeks? Can they see you’re already past your prime? You’re scared of what you might be reduced to in the coming years. Your mother jokes about what it’s like to be an older woman. Like being invisible. Nobody turns when you walk through the door. Testosterone commands respect and youth commands interest and without it you command nothing.
Some life lessons are just facts. No one thinks they’re going to grow up until they do. But it’s not all bad. You like yourself more than you ever did. You’re settled in yourself, in your body, in your career. With interests that you let yourself explore, new hobbies and skills and a circle of friends and family that regularly make you feel sick with love. Getting older is a blessing you were never able to imagine before. No matter what, you’re grateful for this person you’ve become.
But every once in a while, certain songs or smells can capture a feeling you forgot you ever had. It’s a movie that really does it for you. A booze-fueled coming of age about a group of girls on vacation, partying and hooking up and experiencing all the excitement and anxiety of youth. It’s nostalgic. But more than that, it’s unsettling. Uncanny. A maternal instinct gets ignited, one you didn’t know you had. You hold your breath, your chest tightening with every dangerous decision they make. You get the impression you know what’s going to happen. Of course you do. You’ve seen it before.
She’s drunk and he’s cute but suddenly it’s all wrong and it shouldn’t be too late but it is because when she says no he either doesn’t hear or doesn’t care but it’s probably the latter and you watch her lying there, your heart beating out of your chest and your stomach turning and you want to cover your eyes but it wouldn’t matter because if you turned away you’d still see it and it’s unbearable, so unbearable that this movie feels more like a memory and the worst part is you just can’t understand why does it feel so much harder to see something happen to someone else than have it happen to you?
