Dear Diary, apologies for shaky handwriting. I’m safe and calm now but my hand is still nervy.
I almost undertook a new experiment in disassociation tonight. Almost.
I almost lay there silent and let Frenchy fuck me to see if I could do that. But no.
No. He pissed me off too much. Couldn’t maintain my Zen-like calm and it feels so good to say the motherfucker deserved what he got.
Hard to say if I injured him seriously or if it was merely that painful to him? Funny what you remember from when you’re young. In junior high we had a guy come to our gym class to teach a self defense workshop. This was ostensibly for the girls in the class–I think there had just been some high profile serial rapist in the papers–but they didn’t have anything else for the boys to do, so we all took the class, too. The instructor was a short guy built to the max and he taught us a couple of ways to twist out of holds and included in the instructions how to kick the attacker in the balls if the opportunity presented itself. We practiced in slow motion, but, you know… it was good for an hour of hilarity with a bunch of fourteen year old boys whose idea of perfect comedy is kicking each other in the nuts, you know?
The muscle memory remains, though. At full speed, in the dark, with my blood racing from adrenaline and rage because what he said was “you’re going to have to talk to say no to me,” and his pants already down, I kicked him really hard.
And then once he was down, I confess: I kicked him a couple more times.
And then I left. Might not have been the smartest thing, but I guess I’ll find out. I can’t see him going to the police. I don’t think they treat either foreigners like him or gays very well, and I can’t imagine he’d get much of a welcome reception from the local authorities.
Want to know the funniest thing of all? Femmy got up off his sleeping mat and kicked him a couple of times, too. I gave him a thumbs up for that. I doubt Frenchy could tell. After that first whack I don’t even think he felt the other kicks. Anyway.
I’ve got my travel pouch with my passport and wallet in it, but I left everything else behind. I didn’t have much stuff anyway. You’re hardly allowed to bring anything to BF in the first place and so most of what I left at Veddy’s was drab clothes.
I’m writing this from the top bunk in the far corner of a dormitory hostel. Three dollars a night. No one here has the slightest idea who I am. It’s wonderful.