I took her out on a walk today.
She wore my clothes which were too big for her, but it was okay.
They covered the cuts and the bruises and the prominent rib cage.
Keep your head up, but don't make eye contact with anyone, I tell her when we go out.
If you keep your head down, there must be something wrong.
If you make eye contact, there must be something wrong.
Just keep a straight face, or look at me, not anyone else.
Because they don't know your story like I do, they never will.
Even if the newspaper prints out the interviews I will sell to them in two months, even if your face is all over the news, don't make eye contact.
Because you can't fight off the rumors, you can't answer them, because they weren't asked to answer.
They were just to be confirmed or denied, but you can't change another person's thoughts.
If they think it is true, if they think you are the victim, you are the victim.
If they think you are the attacker, you are the attacker.
Her stony face, following my orders, because she is now a lost child so used to obedience, bothered me greatly.
She pointed a gun at me yesterday, but failed, feeling hopeless; all she knows how to do is follow the people who are against her orders.
I am not against her, but what I do will be against her, I know I am ripping her sense of privacy apart and showing the world.
Only because everyone wanted to know what happened during those times this certain person was absent from the existence.
Absent from the downward river we call the mainstream.
I would tell the world Hwang Tiffany was going upstream, not swimming, not on her own free will, but more like strapped to the back of the propellers of a boat, inches away from getting her bones crushed from the powerful engines.
And the boat is dragging the woman up the stream that is why she defies the normal.
I don't want to hurt her anymore, at first I was indifferent, but this woman is just like the rest of us, a stranger to her own emotions, so she acts upon reason and instinct.
And as a fellow of a same species, how can I turn away while she breaks like fine glass?
She doesn't know why she feels pain, but she knows she cries.
With that thought alone, I take her hand, no hesitation, I grip it, silently telling her that I am here.
If no one cares, I care, although I will hurt her, that much is inevitable, because the weight of the world is too much for me to defy.
That frustrates me greatly, to know that I can't be ripped upstream also.
Because I need to go to work every day, sit in an office every day, make money, go home, eat, sleep, and repeat.
She doesn't pull away from me, but she can't decipher the message behind the warmth of my hand, no matter, as long as I told her.
As long I told her, my heart is more at rest, because at least I tried.
She speaks, finally, and asks me if I'm leading her home, she must have miscalculated my signal.
No, I tell her, before I can even weigh the weight of my words; I tell her she can reside in my home, the place I was almost killed by her, for as long as she likes.
