There was a momentary silence in the room, as the others listened to her unexpected angry speech in open-mouthed awe. Tanya let the material fall from her tanned body, and glanced at Art and Sal. Susan's vicious reaction was completely unexpected and took them all by surprise.
"Well, well, well," Art said calmly after a long silence, "so you've got some guts after all, bitch. Good for you. Guess you ain't such a mealy-mouthed chick as I thought. In fact I'd say you got as much anger inside you as we got, maybe more, I don't know. But I tell you one thing, sister, you got to let that anger out! All of it, and all this furniture and crap won't mean a thing 'til you do. Take it from me, Susie, I got more anger in me than any fifty people I know. You think I'm a pervert, maybe a criminal, nuts too… and maybe I am… but I got a right to be! Oh, baby, believe me I got a right to be. My old man was a junkie — he made my mother whore for him to get bread for smack. And when I got old enough he made me pimp for her. Sal here got sent up to prison when he was twelve for stealin' some food so his family could eat."
"I never had nothin' either," Tanya said, looking directly at the young wife. "All my life I've been treated like a piece of shit. Art here's the first guy to take care of me nice. Guess you can't believe that, seein' how we are. But it's true. Sure he knocks me around now and then…"
"Yeah, but you like it, bitch," her boy friend reminded her.
"Sure, I like it. I like it the way you do it, honey. But that ain't all… sometimes… when I'm real scared… he'll cool me out… and I don't feel so scared no more. It's crazy, but nobody gave me so much as a pot to piss in before. Art made me somebody, somebody I like bein'."
The young wife found herself listening to their stories with rapt attention. She even experienced a certain amount of… of sympathy toward them. They had humiliated her beyond measure and were now destroying her home, yet there was an odd kinship between them all, for all four of them had struggled up from the very bottom of society's depths. It was ironic, bitterly ironic, but true.
"So now you got a husband and a fine house," Art continued, "and all we got's a fleabag existence runnin' from cops. But you're like us, baby, you got a real big anger inside you, you got to let out. I know it, I know it from the way you start howlin' like a dog when I fuck you, like you ain't never had nothin' so good in your whole life. You're startin' to let it out… let it out all the way!"
"What… what do you mean?" the young wife stammered nervously.
"I mean you got to let go of that anger like you mean it," the young man replied. "That is, if you got the guts to do it."
Suddenly Susan understood something that she had struggled for years to comprehend. No matter how she had tried before she could never let go, particularly sexually. But with Art she had finally broken through her resistance, and found, strange as it seemed, that she had begun to experience her real self for the first time in her life, her real sexuality. She knew now, knew with unshakable certainty, that it wasn't her fear that had kept her locked up, but her anger. Anger at the world for giving her a hopeless childhood, anger at Miss Whitfield for twisting her mind and making sex a thing to be ashamed of, anger at herself for letting herself be such a willing victim to so many lies and injustices. Maybe Art had hit the nail right on the head, maybe the heart of the problem lay in her anger, not her fear.
"But how… how can I let it out?" she asked curiously. "I don't know how to do it."
As if from nowhere, her youthful tormentor produced his switchblade knife and snapped it open, making Susan start with fear.
"Don't worry, baby, this ain't for you. Watch." He went over to the sofa, motioning for Sal to leave it, then plunged the knife into the soft thickness of the upholstery on the seat and made a wide gash. At once cotton stuffing erupted from the wide hole he made and steel springs shot upward, ruining the couch.
"Don't!" the young wife shouted angrily.
"You see," Art said, turning to face her, "all this shit means more to you than getting yourself straightened out. You're too scared to let it out. Here. Take this knife, baby, and stick it in that armchair. Rip it to god damn shreds and see what happens."
"Don't give her the knife, Art," Sal cautioned.
"It's okay, she won't do nothin'."
Casually he sauntered over to Susan and extended the knife to her.
"I… I can't," she murmured. How could she destroy her own furniture, how could she?
"Go on, baby, get mad. Just be careful you don't try nothin' fancy with the knife on any of us. That wouldn't be too cool, not if you want to stay alive. You're angry, real angry. Take it out on the chair. Go on."
Susan took the knife in her hand, trembling from head to foot. This incomprehensible young man was asking her to plunge it into the armchair. The cold instrument felt odd to hold. The young wife sensed a certain feeling of power — cool, icy power as her fingers closed around the knife handle. She felt almost sure she couldn't do as he asked, yet there was something about the feel of it that almost gave her the courage she needed. For a brief moment she thought of thrusting it at Art's naked body in a dramatic attempt to free herself from their subjugation, but she knew that was impossible. Even if she could bring herself to hurt another human being like that, she knew the others would soon grab the knife away and maybe even use it on her. She stared down at the armchair.
"Go on, honey," Tanya said, encouragingly, "go on and do it. You'll be surprised how good it feels.
The nervous young wife glanced at each of them, and with a weak gesture, she plunged the knife down into the arm of the chair and felt the blade sink into the soft padding. She pulled it out.
"Again," Art said. "Harder, rip the goddamn thing up."
Susan began to plunge the knife into the chair as if stabbing a stuffed dummy, and as she did a strange thing began to happen. She thought of Miss Whitfield — and the endless torment she had endured because of her and the anger came, wild raging anger. She began to plow the knife harder and harder into the chair, venting her rage on the lifeless object, stabbing it with all her heart. As she thrust the blade in, more memories, horrible memories of her childhood rushed up from her subconscious, and her rage increased, extending even to herself and her contemptible fear and terror that had made a mockery of her marriage with Tim.
"Yesss… yesssss!!" she suddenly found herself crying as she began to rip the seat cushion to shreds. Bits of cotton stuffing began to fly all over the room and she went on and on, letting her roaring, repressed anger free at last. And a great weight seemed to lift from her naked body, as if a thousand-pound stone had been suddenly taken from her back and shoulders. She knew in that moment that Art was right, she needed to do this! She had to do it!
"Look at 'er go," Sal commented, his lips split in a wide smile. "Looks like she never had so much fun in her life."
With a cry of revenge, Susan rushed to the sofa, her eyes wild with excitement and began to tear at it with the knife. The others looked at each other with astonishment, then laughed. At once Tanya turned on the radio, and raunchy rock and roll music blared forth, almost in perfect accompaniment to Susan's angry rampage. Soon the others were joining her, ripping pillows apart, scattering material and padding everywhere, smashing everything in sight.
The young wife was breathing heavily, sweat was pouring from her forehead, as she let herself be enveloped by the torrential release of her pent-up anger. There was an almost savage, sensual quality to it that made her realize that her sexual terror was, as Art suspected, totally bound up with her repressed hostility. She glanced around momentarily, watching the others turn her living room into a complete shambles, and a strange perverse smile crossed her contorted face.