An Able-Bodied Façade by Scarlett Murray
Photo by Lisa Fotios for Pexels
The boy opposite me, Nathan, relentlessly bullied me in primary school. I wore a hard-plastic splint on my left leg to correct it, to make it meet the floor at more of a right angle. I wore a stiff skin-coloured fabric splint on my left arm, to straighten it out and make my hand stretch out, rather than permanently be fixed in a tight little fist.
If you wanted to insult someone, you said that they were dating me.
Nathan doesn’t recognise me, that’s for sure. It is unlikely that Nathan ever even looked at my face. I don’t wear the splints anymore: I don’t need to; once you stop growing, it is limited how much they can benefit you. At some point, you reach maximum ableness. (It doesn’t matter that ableness isn’t a word, it fits). All of us disabled kids are taught to strive for maximum ableness.
Puberty made me fit. Puberty gave me big tits. Big tits gave me male attention. Male attention gave me confidence. Tragic – I know, tragic – but every woman is more feminist in theory than in practice.
A couple of weeks in the South of France gave me this very bronzed skin tone and bright, bright blonde hair. A drunk friend with a pair of kitchen scissors gave me this shorn shoulder-length haircut. Birthday money from my grandparents gave me this tight tiny black dress that my big tits (yes, big tits) are bursting out of. Genetics gave me this mini waist. Being raised by a mother who habitually freaks out over eating too much gave me this figure. A generational societal pull into committing a vanishing act with your own body.
It is the second week of university. I can’t tell you much about the first, except that I tried illegal drugs for the first time and it made me feel simultaneously fucked up and brilliant. I have never used a dating app before. The threat of being killed prevents me from really meeting up with anyone. (You might know you’re not going to kill me, but I don’t).
I recognised Nathan as soon as I saw him on the app. I was compelled to meet with him instantly. He seemed a little taken aback by my keenness to meet: but not perturbed by it. He suggested a bar by the harbourside. I said yes. I made sure to arrive first as I didn’t want him to see me limping here. I pass as able-bodied, but sometimes, I have to micromanage that guise so I don’t slip up and reveal my true identity – my true identity being that of (shock, horror) a disabled woman.
‘You’re very pretty.’ Nathan says. He looks awkward and bashful, the bravado he possessed in primary school has clearly reduced; or, perhaps, he is just uncomfortable in a one-to-one setting, and reels off a crowd.
In spite of myself, I let out a short laugh that sounds something like genuine gratitude.
‘Would you like a drink?’
‘Yes.’ I say, slowly, ‘A gin.’
He nods profusely, as if to tell me that I have made the right choice.
I smell of gin. I downed three shots before I came here. I told my newly acquired best friend that she had to drink them with me, even though she just planned to spend the evening in her pyjamas watching Netflix and trying to vape without setting off the smoke alarm. Who are you meeting, Amy? Why do I have to drink the shots too? Everyone knows, you’ve only got a drinking problem if you drink alone, so down them – one, two, three…
Nathan is my bully. He trampled on my self-esteem before it even had the chance to grow. I hate him.
We are eighteen. I last saw him when I was ten.
Nathan shuffles over awkwardly. His trousers are too long for him; men always imagine themselves to be taller than they are. He smiles as he approaches the table. One of his front teeth is much bigger than the other, how odd. There’s a collection of whiteheads on the side of his face that I just want to pop, pop, pop.
‘I got you a double,’ He puts the drinks down very carefully. He has a tremor. He’s able-bodied but he’s nervous. ‘I hope a double is okay.’
‘As long as you haven’t put any weird extra shit in it.’ My eyes narrow. I fasten my teeth onto the straw and take a deep, long suck.
‘You’re very pretty.’
Then I get it. I get what he is saying. I am prettier than him. He is so nervous because he believes that he is punching above his weight and he can’t believe that I have even agreed to the date. The splints are shed, and they were my defining characteristic. People used to see splints before they saw character or face. Puberty has made me fit, and now he can’t believe that I am opposite him.
There’s pleasure in passing as able-bodied.
I watch him through my big blue adorable eyes. Those eyes are just a façade. I’m watching him with the pained eyes of the kid with the crooked body.
‘Your bio said you were from London,’ He tries at conversation.
‘Yes.’ I am short, I refuse to connect.
‘Where abouts in London?’
‘West London.’
‘Oh really, where abouts in West London? I’m from West London too.’
I wince. I hate him; and yet, he is too divorced from himself for me to truly hate him. Can we blame ten-year-olds for being dicks? We can. What was going on his personal life? Who cares. Were his parents getting a divorce? Again, who cares. Did he struggle to adjust to the birth of a new sibling? Amy, who cares. Did a grandparent die? You don’t care. Did the hamster he begged and begged for gnaw its way out of its cage within a week of being purchased? Stop caring!
Our society is so hell-bent on understanding the psychology behind the individual that we can’t even look our bully in the eye and get the revenge that we’ve been dreaming up for years and years. No one is pure evil. But some ten-year-olds are shits.
He plays with the coaster, he feels nervous. ‘So, what made you choose Bristol?’
I shrug. ‘Not bright or wanky enough for Oxbridge.’
‘Ah same, I tried for Cambridge.’ He audibly finishes his frothy beer. ‘Why English?’
‘I like words. I like fiddling arounds with words.’ My eyes are very narrow.
‘Ah,’ He laughs, ‘Were you the type of kid that was sat in the corner reading all the time?’
We don’t want Amy on our team – she can’t throw or catch a ball or run very fast.
Everyone has a place on the team, Nathan.
I don’t want to be on the team, Miss.
It’s a legal requirement to do P.E., Amy.
‘Yes, that’s me, I love to read in the corner.’ I slam my empty drink down. ‘Could you get us another? I’ll pay, I just can’t be bothered to go up to the bar.’ It is not that I can’t be bothered it’s that I don’t want you to see me walk. Not yet, anyway, Nathan. It might jog your memory. An eighteen-year-old girl called Amy from West London with a funny walk. I’ve got to be really pissed so that either I forget to be self-conscious; or, I can blame my walk on my being drunk.
‘It’s okay, I’ll get them.’
‘I insist.’ I put my card down. I am a feminist, aren’t I? We’re both living off student loans and have no responsibilities. I can see what he does with my card from here. And anyway, he’s not going to run off with it; he’s too giddy at the thought that he might just get to kiss me.
He looks bashful again, poor thing. Picks up my card. ‘I’ve never had a girl pay for the drinks before.’
‘Well, I’m not like the other girls.’ Never have been. Sadly. Too disabled to play the recorder. God, pity me. All seven-year-old Amy wanted to do was play that vile high-pitched instrument. Like all the other girls. But you need two hands to the play the recorder, and dear little Amy only had one fully functioning hand.
Nathan goes to get more drinks.
I think through my body, in a way that you don’t. I hope that Nathan’s halls doesn’t have a heavy fire door to open. I hope that if it does, he opens it, and there’s no suggestion of me doing it. The weakness of my left side would make it a struggle to open, and I’m doing my very best to continue the able-bodied façade. Why am I doing that? Because I don’t think Nathan is the type of boy who would fuck a disabled girl. And I want him to. He is going to desire and desire the body which he made recoil into itself. And I will feel that some perverse justice has been served.
We pass a boy in the hallway. Nathan and him make eye-contact. The boy surveys me, up and down, with appetite. ‘Hey Nathan,’
‘Hey Mike, this is Amy.’
I smile sweetly. ‘Hi Mike.’
‘Is Nathan taking you up to his room?’
They both look at me. ‘Hopefully,’ I say, with a smile less sweet, more deliberate.
‘I won’t keep you.’ Mike looks a little uneasy, and dashes away.
Nathan takes me over to the lift. ‘Would you like to press the button?’
I frown at him.
He leans forward and presses. ‘Sorry, when I was a kid, I loved to press the button for the lift. Where I used to go swimming after school, there were these lifts – with buttons…’ His eyes fall to his grubby sneakers. ‘If little Nathan could see me now, he’d be so chuffed to see that I lived in a building with lifts with buttons…’
If little Amy could see me now – she’d wonder why I hadn’t stamped on his foot and rushed away cackling. She’d be frustrated by this slow long game. She’d be impressed by my ability to seduce someone we know to be so terrible.
The lift doors open.
‘Ladies first.’
I step in measuredly. Heel down. I can hear and see my old physiotherapist directing me in my head. I’m trying really hard to walk like a normal person – no, not a normal person – an able-bodied person. Language matters. I’m doing an English degree. When I graduate, I’m going to sit at a desk all day and no one will be able to tell what’s wrong with me – wrong, wrong is the wrong word – no one will be able to tell what my physical limitations are. Except I type one-handed. Super fucking fast, but one-handed.
Nathan rushes in after me, afraid that the lift doors will gobble him up.
‘Sorry.’ He feels my eyes on him, making him self-conscious.
‘What are you sorry for?’ I address him directly, my eyes challenging him.
He shrugs; he smiles, limply.
‘It’s very neat in here.’ I announce.
The bed has been made with almost hospital corners; the objects on his bedside-table have been straightened and aligned; there’s even a humidifier bubbling away in the corner, it produces a clear, crisp scent. ‘You thought I would come, how presumptuous.’
Nathan blushes. ‘My Mum notices if it’s not tidy.’
‘Your Mum? I thought you were from West London….’
‘We video-call.’ He blushes again.
I remember his mother. She had witch-like grey hair and stood at about 6 foot. If memory serves correctly, Nathan was the last child of six: he was the youngest by a long way, and his siblings would alternate collecting him from school. Two of them were head-boys and the oldest girl was already at university, a fact that my younger self found simply mind-blowing.
‘Can I have a drink?’ I fall back onto his bed, stretching out.
‘Yes, sure.’ He goes to the kitchen.
Sitting up to survey the room, I catch sight of a box of condoms. So, the room isn’t so neat just to please his mother.
Nathan returns with the drinks.
I take a sip: he has made them disgustingly strong.
Nathan is changed. He clearly downed some booze in the kitchen before he returned. He places a hand on my knee. A hand on my knee. Nathan has never ever touched me before. He has touched my mind. His words have rubbed and rubbed themselves over my self-esteem until they have penetrated the casing that it is kept in.
I can’t help it – I flinch.
‘Are you okay?’
A pause.
A horrible simpering grin from me. ‘Yes, I am.’ I place my hand on his hand. I press his hand into my skin.
Nathan looks relieved. ‘I thought you might be one of those uptight feminist types.’
I want to bash him over the head and tell him that it is cool to be feminist.
Of course, I don’t actually want to bash him over the head because I do not support violence.
I’m not just passing as able-bodied tonight, I am also passing as the type of girl who would genuinely fall for him.
Nathan lets out a ‘ha’ and looks to me for validation. He is now double-checking that I am not one of those uptight feminist types, as so many university students apparently are.
I give him a reassuring flash of teeth.
It is the reassurance that Nathan needs to move his hand from my knee to my leg. His hand is on a slow journey up, and he will stop at my crotch. He kisses me. He is an awkward kisser. There’s teeth-bashing involved. He’s overly zealous with his tongue, which feels like an oddly childish way to behave.
My mind is thinking too much.
What’s that thing on your leg?
And on your hand! What’s that thing on your hand?
Amy walks worse than an old lady.
I want him to enjoy me and I want to cackle at him for it.
Little Nathan stands up theatrically. Little Nathan mimics a limp to cartoonish effect.
And I am crying.
Wait – am I crying?
I am crying in the memory. No, I am not crying in the memory. I am stoic. More stoic than a kid should have to be. I am crying on the inside. I am crying on the inside.
Nathan is pulling off his top; he has a skinny torso with a round protruding tummy, sort of like a toddler. His skin is much paler than his face, and there is a pattern of freckles by his right nipple, following a circle. ‘Aren’t you getting undressed?’
Aren’t I?
I run my hands along my crooked body.
Nathan wriggles off his trousers. His boxers are too big for him: well-worn and faded. He plucks at the waistband with either nervousness or triumph or something in-between. He collects a condom from his box, then runs a hand down the outside of his boxers, and gives his penis a squeeze.
Am I sure I would like his body inside mine.
‘You’re not undressed?’ He queries, as if it is inconceivable that I would do anything outside of his imagining of how the rest of the night is going to go.
‘I would like you to undress me.’ I say, as seductively as possible; I lie back. ‘It turns me on when you undress me.’
He nods eagerly like a puppy who is enjoying being trained.
He grips onto my arse and then unwinds the tights from my legs.
No, reader, I am not turned on. His terrible little face is twisting itself into hateful expressions in my head.
Once he reaches the toe, he stops.
I am revealed to him. Whilst I no longer wear the hard plastic splint that marked me out as different for all of my childhood, I do wear a discrete fabric sock-length splint, which corrects my walking just a little. Corrects. Yes, corrects. My body needs correcting – it needs to be corrected to be as like your body as possible – imagine that message being inked by doctors and physiotherapists into a young mind.
‘What’s that – what’s that…’ He stutters. He is looking for a polite way to ask: so, he has grown as a person since he was a mean child.
‘What’s that thing on your leg?’ I finish for him.
A moment passes.
We hold each other’s gazes.
I wonder if it is finally clicking.
Nathan shakes his head, ‘It doesn’t matter.’ He looks right at the rest of me. His hand snakes up my leg. ‘Let’s get on with it.’
I snap my legs together and the slam of their touch feels like a bolt of power between them. These are my legs, the two of them. The able one hauling along the slow spastic one. They are both mine. Both legs are mine. They belong to me. The functioning one and the less functioning one. The good leg and the bad leg – though, we can save the moral judgements – language matters – both parts belong to me, both parts are me. These sides make me.
I sit up.
Nathan looks puzzled.
I put my tights back on.
Dear Nathan looks very puzzled.
I am putting my shoes back on.
‘What’s going on? Do you have a headache?’
Do you have a headache. What a classically male solution to female distress – let’s make the problem a product of your body, rather than a product of my faulty character. It’s not me, it has to be you.
There’s a generational pull of a million submissive females coursing through my veins, telling me to agree that the problem is with my body, and not with him. Not with who he is.
‘No, I don’t have a headache.’
He blinks triply, befuddled. ‘Would you like to meet another time?’
‘No, I would not.’
He swallows. It looks like he might have a headache now.
I am fully clothed.
He reaches for his clothes. ‘I’ll show you out, at least.’
‘I’ll show myself out.’
‘Oh, okay.’ He rises, leans forward for a kiss.
Ah, men. What I would do if I woke up with the self-confidence of a man. ‘I don’t want to kiss.’
‘Oh, no?’
I wipe my mouth with my sleeve, hard.
He swallows again, hard.
‘Goodbye then.’
‘Goodbye?’
I turn, I leave. Maybe I’ll write him a letter about how much loathsome ableism was bound up in his scrawny little kid body. Maybe he’ll feel bad for what he did to me. Maybe.
Scarlett Murray
Scarlett Murray is a writer based in West London. She lives with her two-year-old daughter and their ever-growing collection of dolls. Scarlett has a blog on her experiences of having a physical disability. Through this lens, Scarlett discusses subjects that she feels are sorely under-represented: motherhood, desirability, language, and more.
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