Scarred by UV Rays
Author’s Note: This one is a bit darker. I keep seeing the news about Activision/Blizzard and their assault claims, and it makes me sick, which leads me to a trigger warning: Mentions of assault (it is vague). If this is a trigger for you, I do not suggest reading. This is an age-old story, with a hopeful ending. This is a shorter post, I fear if I went any longer I would trigger myself.
Children are ruined by their childhood. We learn to ignore the logical adult and run through poison oak, jump off trees, and soak up the sun without sunscreen. One day I woke up with scars, blisters from the sun scorching my skin.
I lock away my youth and breathe in taxes, bran, and a 9-5 that I had no desire in applying for. I measure my words and mix in a slash of intelligence to shield myself from pretentious ire. I laugh at misogynistic jokes to get a promotion, I cry in the bathroom on my paid break, and tape the corners of my mouth wipe. I scream into a pillow before I start yoga and meal-prep. I fold my laundry as tears slip out all the frustration from work. I sleep and wake pretending that the routine will changew, that my boss won’t make Molly from my cubicle threaten to quit. I’m not ready when it is my turn to be accosted, to have parts of myself that were hidden stolen away by men in suits, to forget who I am. I go back the next day and have meetings with those same men, and my hands only shake twice when they joke about the other women and men.
I submit a harassment report to HR, they try to help. I walk around the office with a scarlet report taped to my forehead, marking me as a “tattle-tail who can’t take a joke”. I am shunned and revered by the others in my office, we all need the money so they remain silent. The suited men come up to me and joke that I wanted it or else I wouldn’t still work here. They print out crude pictures and leave them on my desk, too smart to email them to me. After a few months, it lessens. I wake up and cry before I make myself a tea for work. I wear sweaters over my pantsuits and carry mace in my pocket. I jump at every noise of the printer, person walking by, person who raises their voice. I pretend that my weight loss is from exercise and not lack of making meals.
I feel alone, until Derek comes forward with his own report. I see the same scars on his face that mar my own. I embrace him into my solitude. Soon most of the office joins us, but the boss still doesn’t believe us.
I remember being young and feeling the sun on my face and hoping that it would be the only hurt I would feel. The soft warmth brushing across my face. I remember the relief I found from running into the water, how fast my legs took me away from the heat. I glance around at the sunken faces and run. I run like I have a destination other than moving myself away from the hurt. Other feet run beside me, soon the sound ripples into a stampede. I shoulder the door and breathe in the warmth. We stand there, faces tilted toward the sun, where our cheeks flake and burn.
