The Woman With Snakes in Her Hair

Biting the Hand

There is a baby staring at me. He's sitting across from me in his stroller, his mother furiously typing away on her phone, distracted by the images and conversations on the screen. A pudgy thing, reddened cheeks, fat arms, a slightly protruding belly. His eyes are wide, filled with a hungry curiosity. His mouth hangs open, spittle dangling from the corner as a playful smile threatens to appear and I fear a hearty giggle is on its way. Staring at this pitiful creature, I find myself confronted by the horrible yet mildly tempting thought to snap his neck. 

...

My emotions as of late have been on a dangerous roller coaster ride driven by bouts of immense melancholy or intense violence. Arachne says its my body's way of reacting to my trauma. Everyone experiences trauma differently and choses to respond to it in a variety of ways. She says trauma either turns to you kind or cruel. You either seek to prevent further pain or choose to inflict it on others. 

Such deeply personal conversations are the foundation of our little weekly meetings. Our version of AA so-to-speak-- we call it Athena's Abused-- where we attempt to work through our issues. I know victim-blaming is the exact opposite of what these meetings are supposed to be about but it's hard to hold my tongue when the boastful bitch had it coming to her. Outright stating you're better than any one of the gods is the quickest way to piss them off. Poor girl only made it worse for herself by knitting an entire tapestry showing the many ways we've been fucked over (literally and figuratively) by these guys just to prove her point. Furious that her siblings' depraved acts were on public display, Athena bashed the girl's head in and tore apart her artwork. Arachne's embarrassment only further worsened with an unsuccessful attempt at suicide by hanging. Now she and I share a similar pain in the neck.

Since the incident, Arachne has mostly kept to herself like I have. Her head injury tends to leave her with bouts of memory loss and sometimes triggers severe mood swings. Small, delicate thing that she is, she has quite a deadly bite when she's angry. To distract herself, she runs a little crafting studio from her home, selling hand-woven pieces on Etsy for a generous price. A truly artistic talent- the ability to turn pain into something beautiful.

...

He's still staring at me with those wide, unblinking eyes. That smile dancing across his round face. I quickly look around to see if anyone is watching. Thankfully there aren't too many people in this train car and anyone close by are either lost in conversation or blissfully dosing off. Well, here goes nothing.

I contract my jaw, attempting to form a reasonably pleasant smile and offer a little wave. At first the child becomes rigid with shock, like I've popped a balloon and his reaction is delayed. For a moment, both of us just continue to hold each other's gaze. Then a grimace takes hold of his face and suddenly he begins to cry, loud and unrelenting in its discomfort, much to the annoyance of his mother. 

Well fuck you too, I guess.  

I slump in my seat, hand pressed to my temple, suddenly embarrassed by the sliver of humanity I've chosen put on display.

This is what happens when I try to play nice.