Accusations

Accusations

C. Smith

Accusations filled the air. She stood before me pointing her finger directly at my chest like a sword ready to pierce my heart. She claimed I formed judgments without accurate information balking with a clenched rage, "You condemned me. You have no understanding of my life. I see it in your looks and gestures. I hear it in the tone of your voice." The barrage of statements lasted for what seemed an eternity and yet I can't even recall the details. All I remember was my fury.

I began my own litany of accusations. "You were this.., and you did that..." I attacked each time she paused for a breath of the acidic air that filled the room. She was absolutely right I did not have an understanding of her life, but she had no right to judge me. Was this not what she so admittedly opposed? Judge, who was I to judge? I inadvertently showed my frustration when her life began to creep into mine, causing anxiety and distress. Backed into a corner, I hurled words like a boxer's left jab with an occasional right punch, hitting her squarely in the gut. I wanted to hurt her and I was bound and determined to show her how very wrong she was. Finally, I had control, or did I?

My strident words echoed and suddenly my jabs hit me squarely on the jaw. The cutting pain of guilt overwhelmed me. Tears welled in my eyes as I began to shake uncontrollably. My vile thoughts and actions were furiously reverberating in my mind. With silent desperation I screamed STOP. I was incarcerated and I knew with absolute certainty that I had to escape. I had said too much and caused a deplorable amount of pain. I recoiled feeling tattered. I ached from the hate filled diatribe. Apologies were exchanged, but not genuinely accepted.

Though the fervent bellowing was over, it hung heavy in the air. I filled the awkward moments with small talks and chitchats of little value and substance. I avoided any lingering instances that might provoke from me a suspicious look or gesture. I avoided any discussion that involved details. She would not detect a tone in my voice. During these initial days, I believed naively that all of this would protect me from any further accusations.

Again the guilt began to poke at me. I felt I needed to do something, anything. Another bout? Pretending? Starting over? Was that even a possibility? I had no idea where to go. Frozen, I feared that there was no place to move, so a frail and repetitious ballet commenced. I no longer sought to be in her face, throwing punches, but I desperately sought to be civil, dancing awkwardly around her.

The weeks and then months passed and without consciousness my wounds began to form calluses. I felt little regard for her, paying minimal attention to her thoughts and ideas, simply nodding and smiling politely at her commentary. I eagerly placed the blame on her shoulders, thoughtlessly stating, "She is completely irrational and impossible to be with." I searched for confirmation and found a tremendous amount of support for my proclamations among my family and friends.

I felt victorious and remained pridefully still in my awkward dance. This stillness captured me and slowly began to collapse. The niceties were perpetuated. Until I unexpectedly caught glimpse of a look, a gesture, or perhaps it was a tone in her voice. Again the details of my fury evade me; I just knew this time my actions had to be unlike any other I had shown before. I did not want to react with anger. I wanted to act.

With what I believed at the time was an act of care and tact I excused myself from the gawking audience that filled the room. Surely, this time I would have control. I would not exchange a jab or right punch, and yet the silence would encase me. Baffled, I found I was not free from the accusations. They were merely left unspoken.

I was held pirouetting as a fragile ballerina above a music box. Was it possible this diplomacy caused even more anguish, than our verbal assault? The opportunity for a second bout to put an end to the inept dance vanished. The pretending would no longer exist and starting over was simply not plausible. So, with certainty, our frail and repetitious ballet took on an unvarying, yet bizarre, rhythm as the suspended accusations dangled in the air.