He dared me to go where he had been. He had me stand in front of a pillar on a ledge with nothing but empty space in front and on either side. "Stay there one minute," he commanded. And so, because he said I should, I did, though I hate precarious perches. I was not afraid as long as I had secure footing, but for caution's sake I warned, "Don't do anything to tease me, now."
Of course he took the challenge. "What, like this?" He pushed his hands at me like they were bulldozers, stopping inches in front of me (or rather, inches from my knees--I was high up).
"Quit! Quit!" I squeaked. He started to laugh, saying something about how helium-filled my voice had gotten, but something made him stop abruptly. I followed his gaze to my hands. They were white as bone from clutching the pillar behind me. They were shaking, too. Now that my first wave of shock was gone, I could feel pain in them. As I shook I scraped skin off on the rough rock.
"You really are scared," he said quietly. "Come on down."
"I-I haven't been up here the whole time," I reminded him.
"That doesn't matter." He reached his hands out and I took them, clutching them tighter than I'd clutched the pillar as I walked very slowly off the ledge. He supported me until I was safely on the ground, then put his arm around me like it might be a comfort, telling me over and over: "I'm sorry; I shouldn't have done that."
It would have been sweet and nice, and it was--except that I couldn't forget this man had caused my fright, even if he hadn't meant to. It colored my relief with a little anger. That anger stood between us from then on. I knew I'd never stand on that particular ledge again, but as long as he was around there'd be others. And if I fell I needed to know whether or not he'd catch me. I thought I knew the answer already--he wouldn't. But I thought I would fall anyway. All I ever did was wonder what would become of me if I fell. When I fell.
Angie,
This has to be one of the shortest of scetches capable of causing me to feel both sides of the story: the pusher, and the pushed. I could tell you a hundred instances of similar mind games... but the most peculiar feeling this story brings to me, is the one of queasiness.
Not the literal discomfort of the body, but a feeling of sickness in the mind; as though suddenly my body were slightly to loose about my spirit, and in between the two were all the insufferable, proud, and belittling thought, all the snide comments and sharp pushes - designed in vicious play - built up like grease and grit beneath my skin but showing through somehow. From both sides, I feel like I have lost something, some connection to this world, to this person -- dismantlement of myself -- obviously one of us was undergoing a test. And I had written beneath skin and ingrained in bone: failure.
Love, Ali