Unbroken by Cynthia Bruckman

Unbroken

It’s just the two of us, kneeling on the floor.  The “care package”
from our friend sits opened between us, a centerpiece.

He says that it will be good, that I’ll like it.  He unwraps
a little black rock wrapped in foil.

Inside the box, are a few joints in a film canister,
and a pack of American

Spirits.  He lights a joint, sucks in on a long inhale.
Then he tilts his head, smiling, leans in for a kiss,

I move my mouth slowly to meet his.
I open it to take in the smoke with his tongue.  A bond,

like a knot, coils us together.  A shot
glass of tequila to wash it down.  His eyes

are looking right through me.  There is no furniture in his apartment,
small as a hospital room.  Outside, the leash on a dog tied

to the chain link fence strangles his bark.  The moon
is full and shines through the slits of the metallic blinds.

I like him, and I want him to like me.  A lump in my throat
sits like hardened bone.  But will I die for him?  No.

He repeats it will be good, that I’ll like it.  Tells me
roll up your sleeve.  I can do this I say to myself.

He says slurp, slurp, virgin veins,
as he pats the blue bulges on my arm.

It’s better than sex he says, moving his hand
inside my pants.  As he slides his fingers down,

he whispers something in my ear, like love,
or one, not sure which.  A shudder shakes through me.

Now my belly is warm.  The room spins,
and before I know it, he is cooking the rock on a spoon,

his black trench coat spilled on the floor around him,
his sleeves rolled up, his thin arms so white, so pale,

his dyed black hair in ringlets around his shoulders,
steadying the flame like a Wizard

or a Warlock.  Give me your arm he says.
It is a ritual he is performing now.

A faint smell of vinegar fills the air.  He rolls
a cotton ball on the spoon, asks me to hold it

as the syringe slowly pulls back, swallows what’s in the puffy ball.
Are you scared? he says with a smile, and I am, but I’m quiet,

so he says I’ll go first, and he ties his arm with a rubber strap.
His veins stand out like ropes. Tap, tap, tap.  Tiny bubbles float

up the plastic tube, then disappear.  My heart
feels like a runaway train, barreling down the tracks.

I watch as his vein jumps when the needle pushes in.
If I have to call for help, there is no phone here, there are no neighbors.

The night is quiet, the dog is quiet.  He is breathing deeply, smiling,
resting his head on my lap.  His eyes are two black stones, shining.

I hold him like this for a long time.  There is no world outside, only
he and I.  The moonlight comes through the window in strips of white.

I might die tonight I think to myself.  The light feels cold, his eyes
feel cold, I wonder if he is real.  I can’t leave him like this, so still.

I don’t know where I am.  South Side?  He sits up, kneeling, facing me.
It’s your turn now he says.  I let him take my arm.  He holds it, gently,

as if it were a baby who he is comforting in the dead of night.
My breath is shallow in my chest, my hands are cold, and white.

I don’t want to die.  Not now.  Not here.  There are no cabs to call.
I like this boy, and I want him to like me.  But I am only eighteen.

The gutted building across the street stares back at me.
A train cries out somewhere very far away.  I see my mother’s face.

I grab my bag, and stick a smoke between my lips. I conjure
cool, I muster strength. Take me home I say.

​

Bio: Cynthia Bruckman is the author of Endangered Species (Wind River Press, 2005).  Her plays have been produced in Seattle, San Francisco, and New York.  She is a dual American-Canadian citizen, currently living on Vancouver Island, British Columbia.

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