A song changes

                Can You Feel the Love Tonight was playing softly in the background as the first fist made contact with my face. I’m quite sure the irony was lost on my attacker, yet it stuck out oddly in my mind. I half wanted to yell out “STOP!” just so I could change the song to something more appropriate, but I knew my attacker would just think I was begging to end the beating. As the hits continued to rain down, I had trouble believing Elton as he sang that love can make kings and vagabonds believe the very best.

                I’m not going to bore you with the minute details of the attack, or titillate with the gory details: I got attacked, ironic music was playing, I woke up three days later in the local hospital.

                The police arrived an hour or so after I woke up to ask me questions about the attack.

                They left disappointed—apparently my thoughts on Elton John were not crucial to the case. I hadn’t got a good look at my attacker; I was too busy getting punched in the face to see clearly.

                They kept calling it an assault, maybe it was, but it felt different. There wasn’t rage behind my attacker. The few times they spoke, it sounded like they were been driven by something more primal: hate. The police didn’t care about my thoughts on that, they just wanted a description, and left as soon as they realized I couldn’t give them one.

                I was kept for observation for the night, and released the next morning. On my way out, the staff all just smiled sadly as I passed, like I had been through some unfortunate accident. They pitied me. I didn’t that, I didn’t want anything from them!

                I got back to my apartment to find my girlfriend sitting on our couch, stroking our cat. Her name was Lacey, and the cat was Murphey.

                “They didn’t tell me they were letting you go today,” Lacey said as she got off the couch and rushed over to me.

                She threw her arms around me, and I responded muffled into her shoulder, “They didn’t tell me until an hour ago.”

                Lacey lightly kissed me on the lips before pulling back and gently tracing the bruising on my face. “My poor baby, did they find who did this to you?”

                I walked into the kitchen and poured myself a glass of water before responding, “No, I wasn’t much help either. I never saw their face, and the police didn’t care about what my attacked said.”

                “Your attacker talked to you? Did they want something?”

                I took a sip of water; the cold felt good traveling down my throat. “They just called me a fucking—it doesn’t matter. They said a bunch of stuff. Called me names, then just started punching me.”

                “Sam,” Lacey began with clear worry in her voice, “did they know you?”

                I paused, my glass halfway between my mouth and the counter. “It doesn’t matter Lace. They could’ve heard someone else say my name earlier in the night, could’ve been a deranged stalker. I told you, the cops didn’t care about what they said.” I put my glass down, “Can we talk about something else, please? I just. I--” I broke down. Tears burned as they rolled down my bruised, scratched, and swollen cheeks.

                Somehow I ended up on the floor with Lacey’s arms wrapped around me. She wasn’t saying anything, she was just stroking my hair as I cried. Murphey was there too, gently liking the tears off my face.

                “They knew my name,” I choked out through the tears. “They kept saying it over and over again as they beat me. ‘Sam the dyke fucker’, ‘Sam the fag’.” I started hyperventilating, and needed a moment to calm my breathing. “They were trying to fix me. ‘Teach you for being a fucking dyke.’ Why, why did this happen? Why would someone we know do this to me?” I began to repeat “why” over and over as the sobs came back.

                Some hours later, we were on the couch. Lacey had wrapped me up in my favourite blanket, and something mindless was on television. “Lace, I was attacked by a woman.”

                Lacey opened her mouth to respond, but I cut her off: “I want to go to church tomorrow.”

                One of my ex’s had converted while we had been dating. That was why we broke up. She couldn’t bear to continue, as she put it, sinning with me. We still talk occasionally, the break up wasn’t rough or mean-spirited, and I thought maybe she could offer some words of support.

                Walking into that building with Lacey on my arm was nerve wracking. This was an old church, a conservative church, and I walked into with my girlfriend who lived with me. Vanessa, my ex, saw us walk in and hurried over to us, smiling at everyone she passed.

                “Hello,” I began to say before getting cut off. “Sam, what the hell are you doing here? You know you can’t just show up here with,“ she sneered at Lacey, “her on your arm. Get out.”

                I sputtered, tried to speak, but nothing was coming out. Lacey tugged on my arm, “Come on Sam, let’s just get out of here.”

                In a stupor, Lacey led me away from the church and to the nearest bus stop. We sat, Lacey’s arms dropped around my shoulder, and waited for the bus.

                “Lace, I think it was Vanessa that attacked me. The hate in her voice today. It sounded just like my attacker. And she didn’t ask what happened to my face.” I started crying again.

                The next day I called the police and told them my suspicions, they promised to look into it. Vanessa was never even brought in. Apparently they called her, asked a couple questions, and that was it. Once they found out she was straight and Christian, they let the matter drop.

                Every time I hear Can You Feel the Love Tonight, all I can feel is her fists hitting my face.