And Now For Something Completely Different
Here's something most of you don't know about me. When I was 21 years old I was spending a lovely autumn day by myself in Boston when I was stabbed three times in a mugging incident. I obviously survived the encounter, although just barely I'm told. Three men surrounded me - in front of the Ritz Carlton Hotel, no less - and more or less dragged me into a long alley that had a recessed portion about half way, furnishing a point of privacy. Two of the men held my arms while the other - a blonde man younger than me -- held a knife to my throat and began emptying my pockets. I said nothing at first, but then I tremulously asked if I could at least keep my wallet, with my license and photos. The police believed my talking probably spooked the mugger - in any event, he suddenly lunged at me and stuck me twice in the abdomen and once in the groin (not pretty), and then the three ran off, with less than $20 in cash and a few children's books I had purchased for my then three year old nephew. I half stumbled, half crawled to the opposite side of the alley and went into a candy store for assistance, whereupon one of the two high-school aged girls behind the counter began screaming hysterically (in fairness, there really was a lot of blood). After I recovered, I spent hours pouring through mug shots, an utterly disturbing and abhorrent task, but ultimately my three assailants were never caught.
I carry only one really ugly scar from that event; it is, however, a scar that breathes and vibrates at times, often aching with a seemingly supernatural knowledge. The scar knows intimately of the knife, of the sweating, frightened hand that bore it. Mostly though I remember the eyes of my stabber - not deadly and calculated and evil, but heartbreakingly infantile, confused, lost. I honestly believe my abdominal scar pulsates whenever my attacker recalls that moment, trembling under its enormity. Guarded. Haunted. Awash.
I carry only one really ugly scar from that event; it is, however, a scar that breathes and vibrates at times, often aching with a seemingly supernatural knowledge. The scar knows intimately of the knife, of the sweating, frightened hand that bore it. Mostly though I remember the eyes of my stabber - not deadly and calculated and evil, but heartbreakingly infantile, confused, lost. I honestly believe my abdominal scar pulsates whenever my attacker recalls that moment, trembling under its enormity. Guarded. Haunted. Awash.