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Stop thinking about black tanks.
I can’t breathe. My throat is swollen. I scratch my forehead and chew a chunk of my hair. I want to scream and punch the wall until my hands bleed. Brody’s not here. I need to stop thinking about him and the type of clothing he wears. Thoughts of Brody and how far away he is will only lead to a meltdown, and I can’t keep having meltdowns. They’re too exhausting. Now that I’m home, I need all my strength and awareness. Need to watch what I say. Watch what I do. Stay out of the way. Do what’s asked of me. Keep myself distracted. Don’t think of Brody.
He’s there in my mind every time I close my eyes. Every time I pause too long.
I yank on my hair, hoping the sharp jab will be enough for this suffocating pressure to whoosh out of my body. I’ve never had such forceful sensations, like each of my veins shattered and tiny glass shards are slowly tearing my organs apart. I keep looking at my arms, expecting to see glass poking out from the inside. Like that’s all I am—a collection of shattered glass no one can piece together.
I need to cry. Five minutes. I’ll cry for five minutes and then get back to doing tasks. Organize my posters. Find more movies to watch. Organize something else.
I set a timer on my phone and sob as quietly as I can into a pillow. Sometimes it’s like I’m not even crying, just holding my breath, strangling my body with lack of air while muscles squeeze and squeeze. When I think I can’t take any more, when the pressure is too great and I’m sure I’ll burst apart, I gasp for breath and the tears soak my cheeks.
The timer goes off.
I scratch my hair and forehead, forcing myself to breathe slowly, to count each inhale and exhale. That should be enough for now. That will get me through another few hours. Soon it will be night and I can sleep. Another day will come, another day will go. I’ll get through one day, one hour at a time, like I did in the past. The sun will rise. The sun will fall. That’s the beauty of time. It can only move forward, stealing away happy moments and locking them in the past. Before I realize how much time has slipped behind me, my youth and all the days with Brody will become pale, faded memories. I won’t think of him at all, except on those rare quiet mornings when I stare out the window of the old folks' home and sip my tea, reflecting on those two crazy months I spent at Brody’s house decades ago. Months when I was excited about life and living.
This pain is my fault for leaving home. I let myself taste life beyond these walls when it’s something I can never have.
There’s a soft knock on the door and I scurry to a corner, pulling my knees against my chest. Soft knock. Not hard. That means it’s my mom. I clean my face with my shirt and then go to the door to unlock it.
“Hey, cookie face,” she coos, stepping into the room. She’s a little shorter than me, hair a faded green. She never keeps the same color long.
I shut the door and lock it.
“You ready for dinner?” She rubs my arms and I suppress a squirm. All these years and she still doesn’t ask before touching. I never gave her permission like I did Amber and Brody to touch me whenever she wants.
I shake my head. I’ve been back three days and could only choke down some bread and cheese slices.
Mom wipes my cheek and plays with my hair. I grind my teeth to distract myself from the unwanted sensations. She never listens and only tells me I need to stop making a fuss about people touching me. Touch is normal. She tells me it’s uncomfortable because I make too much of a fuss about it.
“I made your favorite casserole,” she says. “The one with avocado and bacon. Let’s have a family dinner tonight.”
I shake my head again.
“Why not, cookie? I was so worried about you.” The wrinkles around her eyes, on her forehead, deepen. She touches my jaw and her mouth tightens into a small, caved-in line before she pulls me into a hug. “I didn’t know what to do with myself when you left, cookie. I got your letter, but I wasn’t sure you were truly safe. I know how hard it is for you being out places. I had so many horrid dreams of strangers taking advantage of my sweet baby. I couldn’t bear it.”
She whimpers, so I encourage her to the bed. I grab my phone. I hate the voice options. It only supports an outdated app and all the voices sound like robots.
“Now you are. Now that you’re home. Honestly, what got into you? I didn’t know who was feeding you. If they knew how to handle you when you throw a tantrum. I worried you were confused and lost and staying with strangers. So many horrid thoughts. I worried awful men had convinced you to…I can’t even say. Did anyone convince you to do something you didn’t want to? It’s okay if you didn’t know at the time what was happening. We all make mistakes, and you can’t blame yourself for not being aware of their intentions.”
“I don’t know that you were. We need to talk about all your interactions, and I can tell you if someone was being appropriate or inappropriate with you.”
Mom changes positions so her head is in my lap. She pinches and fiddles with the fabric on my knees. It is so incredibly irritating right now. I bounce my knee until she stops.
“No, cookie. You do have trouble. That’s why you need your mama.” She falls silent a few minutes and soaks my pants with tears. I pet her head, chewing on my fingernail for distraction. “How could you leave me like that, baby?” she sobs. “You didn’t ask. You have to say when you want to go out, so I can tell you if it’s okay or not. You need my permission. Are you turning into your father? You think it’s okay to just abandon me? How could you, baby? I couldn’t stand the thought of you leaving me. You know you need your mama.”
She sits up abruptly, and her voice turns hard. “After two months! What were you thinking?”
I flinch and stare at my phone. My knee bounces beyond my control. I was thinking I wanted to spend time with my friend. Thinking I needed a break. Thinking I was tired of my body hurting all the time from bruises and injuries. That I wanted a brief taste of what others experience. Orgasms. Going to clubs. Hanging out, laughing, and enjoying other people. Enjoying life.
Just a taste.
My shoulders curve toward the earth.
