The Beginning

Memories flow like light through a prism: coming in through one clear stream, going out in shattered fragments of colored light. I fill in the missing pieces with imagination, not entirely truth but neither entirely fiction. A somewhat truthful story of a teenage runaway– full of secrets and sadness.

Each chapter is meant to be a complete story in itself, with all of them flowing into and out of each other to form a larger picture. A bittersweet tale of friendship, love, loss with bits of humor, sex and drug use thrown in for good measure.

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Breathe Me

Katie and I laid in sleeping bags on the kitchen roof watching shooting stars. Slow wispy clouds meandered across the sky. Jealous of those clouds, the way they just wandered through life, in no hurry to fulfill their purpose. What if you never found your purpose to begin with?

“Look there’s a circle around the moon. Isn’t that supposed to mean something?” I asked.

“How would I know? You’re the font of useless knowledge.”

Below us the crashing and screaming escalated. It wouldn’t be long before one of the neighbors called the cops, again. I wish we’d stayed at Katie’s house. Both of us pretended that we couldn’t hear a thing and stared straight ahead at the stars.

“I have an appointment tomorrow, I was hoping you’d come with me.”

“Are you pregnant?” Katie rolled towards me.

“No. It’s the results from my HIV test.” I turned my head to look at her. She glowed in the moonlight, so pale, like an angel or a ghost. I’d always envied that, her ethereal quality. You couldn’t pinpoint one single thing but she always seemed like she was meant for more than this world.

“I didn’t know that you had even taken the test.” Her hands reached towards mine. “Are you okay?”

“I’m prepared for the worst. They don’t just call you in to tell you that you are negative. They tell you that over the phone, right?” I figured that it was only fitting. I mean born from trash, die as trash.

“I don’t know. It could be something else. Maybe your bloodwork turned up something else?”

The screaming had reached a crescendo and I didn’t want to deal with that crap too.“Let’s get out of here. Just head to the park or something.”

“Okay.”

We threw our blankets in the bedroom window and climbed down to the garage roof. Jumping off we landed just outside the fence-line.

With Katie’s hand in mine we ran through the alley filled with broken bottles and dead vehicles. Sickly yellow streetlight puddled at the corners, illuminating the trash as if it was a work of fine art. Black pavement gave way to green grass and we rolled into it, breathless. With our backs to a huge oak tree we watched the cars pass by.

“I’m scared.” The tears I had been holding back all day spilled over. I curled up, knees to chest, burying my face into the dirty denim.

Katie wrapped her arms around me.“It’ll be okay.” She whispered over and over again as she stroked my hair.

Hard Lesson

He tumbled under the pregnant moon. The fog so thick it was like swimming in meringue. Naked in the field behind his parent’s house we laid on an old quilt, illuminated and alone. My skin goosebumped in the cold, he smoothed it away, keeping us both warm. That night he said he loved me for the first time.

He wrote me letters, telling me all about himself, about his goals and fears. He wrote odes to my lips, sonnets to my skin and limericks to my laugh. But not a single word to my soul. I wrapped them all in pink ribbon.

In the sunlight we picnicked in fields, eating fresh tomatoes from the garden and cherries from the orchard. The summer sun scalded us, sweat rolling down the back of our knees. We snuggled on the couch watching re-runs of I Love Lucy and Bewitched, while rain refreshed earth outside.  Evenings, when sun kissed the horizon, he’d peel off layers and lick the salt from my skin.

For two weeks I was Diana—Goddess of the moon—until Hecate blackened the sky. With the darkness came doubt, shadows crept into the corners of my heart. Full of questions, seeking to illuminate, I went searching.

I found him, the center of him that laid his head upon my breast and slept to the beat of my heart. I knew him: the way he snorted when he laughed, how he pulled on his earlobe when he was nervous, and the way he liked his cereal and coffee—full of sugar. I remember the way he cried when his grandma died and how, during the service, he held my hand so tightly it hurt. He longed to be an architect, had already been accepted at the state university. His lashes fanned across his cheek, fluttering when he dreamed. Each moment cataloged, filed and cherished.

He had memorized the pattern my freckles make as they trail down my spine, the thumbprint shape of the birthmark on my left butt cheek and the scar that runs down the backside of my knee.

But he couldn’t remember that I hated the color orange, that I was allergic to watermelon or why I cried in my sleep. He didn’t ask what I wanted to be when I grew up. He knew what he wanted me to be.

He wasn’t in love with me, he was in love with my body. He worshiped it with soft kisses and callous fingertips. Each moment was a bittersweet ache, heavy and rich. It wasn’t enough.

He smiled and held his arms out to me. I leaned into his embrace, absorbing his heat, his scent, his happiness. I couldn’t hold back the tears, they fell staining his shirt. I wanted him to be the man I needed. Pressing away I stood back. I could see the pain. I was independent, alone and alive, but heavy with longing for what should have been.

“You don’t love me, you don’t even know me.” I handed the letters back to him, watching his long fingers with the blunt nails cradle them as a precious gift. I had just handed his heart back to him and it broke mine.

In Love With the Night

Sometime between the ages of scared-of-the-dark and sneaking-out-to-meet-boys I fell in love with night. Hitching my leg over the windowsill, nightgown riding high, pale thighs glowing in the moonlight, I entered my magic world. The neighboring fields of wheat and hay rolled and rippled like ocean waves in the moonlight. My bare feet calloused from a summer of running down dirt tracks and chasing chickens. I climbed the fence and danced through the waves, a mermaid in the moonlight.

The shafts of wheat shoulder high, stiff and scratchy, they tugged at my sleeves. As I laid among the rows the world disappeared but for the pregnant moon and scattered stars. I laid there counting shooting stars and creating my own constellations till pink tinged the horizon. Then I raced home, climbed back through the window and fell asleep with my dirty feet nestled under the sheets.

I lived for the night, scared of the daylight and the sorrows that it brought. I couldn’t even say we were recovering from Grandma’s death, we were drowning. At least I was. It was harder to pretend in the harsh sun.

I buried my daytime in dreams and books. I read stories about people who were strong and capable. The kind of people who could survive anything. Just who I wanted to be. I didn’t even cry anymore, at least not while I was awake.Real life felt so off and shallow–blunted of its sharp edges, the swift pleasures and keening pain. I did my chores, read my books and wandered in the moonlight.

I was reading about Inanna, Queen of Heaven and Earth, The Morning and Evening Star.

I said “Hail!” to Inanna, First Daughter of the Moon!

Mighty, majestic and radiant

You shine brilliantly in the evening

You brighten the day at dawn,

You stand in the heavens like the sun and the moon,

Your wonders are known both above and below,

To the greatness of the holy priestess of heaven,

To you, Inanna, I sing!*

I worshiped the night as a priestess, a holy acolyte of starlight. At times I was the goddess, first daughter of the moon. Nothing else mattered but the way the pale light shined on my skin and the night air ruffled my hair. The full moon was bright enough to read each passage aloud, sending whispered praises to the stars.

I fell asleep in grass, one evening. My mother found me, damp with morning dew.  She’d been scared and worried when I was not in my bed. I tried to explain but dancing in the moonlight sounds a bit insane. So she locked my windows and removed the handle. I was stuck.

I would stand before the window, my hands pressing the glass, my breath fogging the panes, trying fall through into the night. But I wasn’t Alice and there would be no more adventures through the looking glass.

When the moon is full and the sky is clear I stand in my garden, my bare toes digging into the dirt. Just trying to fall in love with the night once more. But somewhere along the way I grew too old for fairy tales and lost my inner goddess. I keep wandering through the moonlight till she finds me.

*pg. 93, Inanna, Queen of Heaven and Earth- Wolkstein and Kramer

Shape of Her Fears

“It was a blessing in disguise.”

If I hear my mother say that one more time I will slap her. It’s a blessing to her. She wasn’t the one who had to hold her dead child in her hands. She wasn’t the one who watched her boyfriend, the father of her dead child, as he went through girl after girl. He found a way to assuage the pain, a way that just caused me more.

“No it wasn’t.” And I just leave it at that, for all that she’s better now, sober and clean, she is still oblivious to other’s pain. It’s not that she doesn’t care; I think she does in her own way. She is just so self-centered that she cannot imagine that anyone else would feel differently. And I try to accept her for just how she is and not long for more, for a real mother.

“You are would have been a freshman with a baby. Now its so much easier. You can start school without having to worry about anything but homework.”

“Just drop it Mom. I am going to be late for school.” I leave her and Shana sitting at the dining room table. Shana has another half an hour before the bus comes to pick her up. When its time for her to catch the bus mother with drive her down to the stop. She gets to wait in a nice warm car.

I can see my breath. I rub my hands together wishing I remembered where I left my gloves. But I can see the bus rising over the hill, the sun at its back.

I sit over the wheel well and prop my feet up so that my chin rests on my knees. The bus is loud and busy but my seat is always empty. Damn small town with no secrets. As if I didn’t have enough crap to deal with, now it’s the whispers, jeers and taunts of small minded idiots. Everyone knows, there is no escaping that. I’m just the whore who got pregnant before high school even started.

Hailey is waiting for me in the commons. The dogwood that puts on such a show in the spring is brown and tired. Leaves drift restlessly across the square. I’m tired already, tired of keeping up appearances. The day lies so long and empty ahead of me. Full of mindless facts and shoved books. Who really gives a shit?

After lunch we skip, run across the highway and lay among the tombstones. I brought the pipe today, she the weed. Welcome to High School.

It takes weeks before they realize that I’ve been skipping. Despite everything I still look innocent. Inside I’m tarnished and damaged, full of remorse and longing. But outside I’m a sweet little girl, barely five feet tall with freckles across her nose and pink painted toes. I’m good at pretending.

So I cry a little and make up sad stories that are close enough to the truth that they can believe them but not the whole truth so they don’t feel they need to commit me. You see those little voices, the visions, the pain that I long for, it didn’t ever really go away. I don’t tell them that I dream of my death every night, and it’s a good dream.

I spend a week in the office, doing all my school work solitary, locked in a small room. It’s actually a nice break. I don’t have to deal with finding notes shoved in my locker, hearing people not quite whisper “whore” as I pass by, or have my ass grabbed by upperclassmen. I spend a period each day talking through my ‘feelings’ with the guidance counselor.

I come home to an empty house. I lay in the now empty fields. Under the grape-apple tree. The ground littered with half spoiled apples, wormy and useless. I know the feeling. It smells like vinegar and decay. Hailey lays along the branch, looking down at me through the screen of her long brown hair. We’re both sober and bored.

“Do you ever think about it, the baby?”

“All the time.”

“What was it like?”

“What? The baby, the miscarriage, sex?”

“All of it, I guess. I mean you don’t have to talk about it. You just never do. It might help.”

“Sex was great. I miss it, a lot. I mean it hurt sometimes but not in a bad way. But it was when he completely took me over. It wasn’t me and him, it was us. You know?

Pregnancy wasn’t bad. I mean I never got sick or anything. And I could feel the baby move inside me. That was really cool.

The miscarriage didn’t hurt as much as I thought it would. I thought that when someone lost a baby there was a lot of pain but there wasn’t. Just a pinch, woosh, and there’s the baby.

He was perfect. Just so tiny and perfect. He had the littlest fingers with no fingernails. I wonder when they grow fingernails?”

“I don’t know. I’m sorry.” She pulled her hair out her face to look me in the eye. I know that she means it, but it’s just words.

“It’s not your fault. I blame it on my mother, I’m sure she did drugs during my pregnancy and that’s why I’m incompetent.” I make a joke out of it, even though I don’t feel like laughing.

Hailey and I try so much to pretend that we are just normal, that we aren’t like these apples, half rotten and with pieces chewed out. But I know the scent of her nightmares. She knows the shape of my fears. And that keeps us together.

Not Viable

I have to pee. It has increasingly become the first thought that crosses my mind as I awake. No more lingering in the afterglow of dreams when someone is bouncing on my bladder. I pull down the dark blankets and place my palm against the gentle swell. I watch the baby move under my skin. Ripples and waves roll across my belly. My scrawny ribs stand out in sharp contrast to the smooth bump of my belly.

My life so far has been a series of bad decisions; running away, drinking, sleeping around. This one I can’t regret. All those awful moments brought around this wonderful one. I am just overjoyed. It’s such a funny phrase, overjoyed, beyond normal joy. It’s like drinking sunshine. Weeks have passed as I carried this secret close to my heart because I know that it won’t bring my family anything but pain. I can feel the weight of their disapproval and shattered dreams.

“Is the little alien awake?” Kevin asks as he rolls over to face me. He lays his hand under mine, my stomach firm underneath. His face shines with happiness as he rubs gentle circles. Our child jitterbugs against his palm.

“She’s dancing for you.” I could lie here all day watching the joy and wonder play across my lover’s face but my body has other ideas.

“Could be a boy, we don’t know yet.” He smiles as I rise, his hand slipping down to rest on the coverlet.

“I have to pee,” I laugh. “Pregnant woman.” Groaning I press my palm into the small of my back. The ache does not relent. This does not bode well for the next four months. I potty dance down the hall. It’s raining again, steady and relentless. After getting dressed I join Kevin in the kitchen for breakfast.

“Don’t forget to take your vitamin.”

“Yes, Mother.” He’s a nagger. Our first doctor’s appointment is next week and he’s worried about what the doctor will think. Taking vitamins will make her so much more approving of a teenage pregnancy. I don’t care what she thinks.

I down the vitamin with my orange juice and cereal. He smiles at me across the table. “That’s a good girl.”

I just roll my eyes and get up to wash the dishes.

“Rummy?” He’s already shuffling the cards on the table.

“What’s the point? You always win.” But I sit down and pick up my hand, a very crappy hand. I arch against the ache in my back. The cards are slightly stick from the dirty formica table. I rub the two of hearts against my shirt. Restless, not really into the game, I randomly discard.

“If you don’t even try you won’t win.” Kevin tosses his hand on the table.

“I’m sorry, my back is killing me. It’s hard to concentrate.”

“Do you want me to rub it?” He doesn’t wait for an answer. His thumbs digging into pressure points, hurting worse.

“Gentle, please.” I wince and roll my shoulders, my hair falling forward over my face.

He rubs softer circles, his breath tickling the back of my neck. I can feel the heat of him, radiating ripples in the air between our two bodies.

“Thank you.” I reach my hand back, laying it on his hip. I can feel the jutting bones beneath his shirt, his jeans hanging low. Standing and turning I tiptoe to reach his lips, a sweetheart kiss. His hands slide down my back, gripping my hips, pulling me closer. He whispers kisses across my lips, along my jaw and down my neck.

“Sorry, I’ve got to pee again.” I pull back and just roll my eyes. I skip down the hall to the bathroom. Bright light slats through the blinds casting patterns along the white tile floor. A brief shaft of sunlight in between rainclouds. I smile as I shut the door. Our little alien must be stretching with all the pressure I’m feeling.

The smile quickly fades as sharp tugging pain replaces the pressure. Fear grabs my stomach in a vise grip. But just as quickly the pain lets up. I sit on the toilet, gushing fluid.

Finally I flush and pull up my pants. I walk towards the sink when pain stabs across my abdomen. I catch myself against the counter and breath deep, tears trickling down my cheeks. It’s too soon, barely twenty weeks, not viable. I sob as I feel her drop, my baby. I drop to my knees, screaming and crying.

“May?” I hear the fear in his voice but I can’t speak. His hands reach for me, helping me up. I pull down my panties and collapse onto the toilet.

Too soon, too soon, the thought keeps racing across my mind. I can feel the cooling wetness on my thighs and the heaviness pulling the elastic still caught on my knees. I can’t look down.

Kevin drops to his knees before me. His eyes downcast, staring at the one place I can’t look. He raises his face to look at me, the pain and horror echo across his features.

I follow his gaze back down. Our baby, our perfect little son, lay nestled in bloody cotton. I reach down to pick up, still attached to me by the umbilical cord. The pain my body a distant echo now.

I count his fingers and toes. So small and tiny, he’s limp across my palms. Tears fall from my nose to his pale blue skin.

Keven reaches his hands out, a towel draped between them. Gently wrapping our son, he places him in my arms and I mourn.

I lean my head back, the window cold against my hair. I can hear the rain outside, pounding on the glass, Kevin on the phone, his voice hushed and heavy, and the blood that falls from me, lowering and laden. Not the single sound that I longed to hear. Our child, grown heavy in my arms, falls to my lap. My heartbeat feels slow and distant as it all fades away.

“May, come on May, stay with me.” Kevin calls to me, the light brighter now, my hands empty. I reach out clutching empty air.

“Incompetent cervix…premature labor…placental abruption…blood loss…rest.” The words drifted through the haze in bits and pieces. They all amount to the same thing; my baby is gone. I can feel Kevin’s hand on mine. He rubs his thumb across the pad of my palm, each movement a sharp reminder of the pain. I long to drift back into the darkness where pain plays hide-and-go-seek and I never have to find it. But I can hear my heartbeat quicken on the monitor, all can hear the breaking. I open my eyes to see his tear streaked face.

“Hey May.” He strokes the hair away from my forehead. “How are you feeling?” His forehead rests on mine, our eyes locked and broken, our tears mingle along my cheeks.

“Empty.”

Into the Darkness

“Sometimes it’s so dark that it feels like light never existed. I can’t see my own body and I’m lost. It’s like when you have a fever and the walls won’t stay still. You feel like space is moving around you and you are sitting still. That’s how I feel. Like life is moving around me and I’m stuck lost in the darkness, standing still.”

It’s a new moon and my room is dark and cool. There is a breeze blowing in the window and I can hear the crickets and tree frogs that hide under the porch. It’s a soft gentle summer night, the kind that makes you feel restless with anticipation. I’m hot and cold and feeling tight in my skin. I know the sensation is a precursor to something drastic. So I relish while it lasts before I’m in the real darkness again.

All I can hear is his soft breathing on the phone. I worry that he’s fallen asleep on me. I long to feel his beard scraping my thighs. I long to drown in his mind, the way it works tempting me to be wanton. Can you lust for someone’s mind?

“Mason?”

“I’m still here. I want to see you. I feel like I’ve needed you forever but only just realized it. Will you come?” He says things that make me think and feel and want. And I want him, badly.

“I will skip in the morning, catch the bus down there. I have to break up with Jeremy first though. I owe him that at least.”

“You don’t owe him anything after Heather. I will meet you at the bus stop. Don’t come here, he’ll be here.” He was right.

“I will see you there. I have got to go now though. It’s late and I will have to wake up early if I want to catch the bus. I will dream of you tonight.”

After he hung up I turned on the desk lamp. I packed up extra panties, two shirts, a skirt, my diary and a handful of condoms. It seemed trivial to be packing when I’m trysting tomorrow with a married man.

—

It was a comedy of errors. I missed the first bus and had to hide in the bushes while the school bus drove by. Then I hiked up to the gas station and caught the next bus but lost my transfer ticket and had to hike again but this time just to the house. I was several hours late by now. He must have given up on me.

“Hey babe, I wasn’t expecting you today. What a great surprise.” Jeremy leans over and kisses me. He takes my bag from my hand and places it on the table. Every time I look at him all I can see is Heather’s head in his naked lap and I just want to slap him.

“I didn’t come to visit you. I thought you would be working. Sorry. I just came to get my stuff. I can’t be with you anymore.” I said cold and stiff. I unzipped my bag partially and grabbed my deodorant and books off the shelf under his loft-bed. Shoving them in, I avoided his eyes. His scuffed Doc Martins kicked the bed frame in my peripheral vision.

“Why?”

“Really? Listen I wanted to avoid this crap so just stop. I know about Heather. That’s more than enough.” I zipped my bag up and walked out the door. I could hear glass shattering behind me but I kept walking. I passed through the backyard and opened the gate to discover Ben. He shut the gate behind us and we continued down the path a bit before either of us said a word.

“That went well. I don’t imagine either of us will want to go back anytime soon. I’m sorry if this makes things difficult for you. I don’t think that Jeremy will appreciate his roommate screwing his ex-girlfriend.”

“Is that what you think we will be doing?” He stops in the middle of the path and I pull him to the side. We stand in the shade of a weeping willow, the leaves reaching down to brush against my hair. He moves like water, flowing into me, his hands fluid in my hair, his lips liquid on mine and his tongue sweet and pure. “I want to do so much more than just screw you.”

I melt as he swallows me whole, the darkness and the light. His teeth sharp and the pain so sweet as he bites my lower lip. I lust for much more than his mind right now.

—

There were times when I regretted it, never going home, leaving my mother wondering just a week before her birthday. I regretted the pain that I caused her, when my mind was clear enough to empathize. Mostly I just regretted my own discomfort. I was just that self-centered.

It wasn’t generally hard to be homeless when you were young and attractive. Most men would gladly feed me dinner if it meant that they could feed me breakfast the next morning. I put on a good act. There was little real enthusiasm for the act now. I lost the passion somewhere along the way.

Tonight I fell asleep on a friend’s couch, a girl-friend. It was itchy and tickled my nose. The air in the house was stifling hot. I wanted to open a window but I didn’t trust the neighborhood. Back home I could sleep outside and the most I would have to worry about was waking up with chickens in my hair.

There was no peace in the night. Sirens, car alarms and arguments cut the thick air. There was no darkness, not the pure clean dark of a moonless night. It was always lit like dawn, pink orange light of neon. My stomach rumbled and ached. My ribs stood out taut on my skin, I’d come to like that. To admire each bump and ridge. It was a work of art.

Passing Light

I heard my mother come in. Loud and cursing, crashing and broken glass. I curled my blankets around me like a nest. Huddling under the comforter, my pillow pressed against my ear. 

Everyone pretends that everything is normal and right. It’s normal for Mom to go out partying every night. It’s normal to have strange fucked up guys over ogling your pre-teen daughter. It’s normal to think, drink, sleep, eat this way. 

Cancer should be a four letter word. When it arrived everyone flinched, nothing stayed the same. Grandma lost her hair, wore ugly turbans, slept all the time and never woke up Saturday mornings to make pancakes. Grandpa just retreated. He used to make up random songs– songs about peanut butter, bananas and shoes. He spent all his time outside, on the tractor, in the barn, in the dirt. Mom came home sober now.

I would try, every once and awhile. But the sight of her sunken cheeks brought nightmares and the sound of her rattled breathing broke my heart.

Mom would rub lotion into Grandma’s hands. She’d carefully trim her nails, file and paint. She fed her when she was too weak to eat and bathed her when she couldn’t do it herself. She brought mystery novels and would read them to her. I could hear her through the walls, her voice monotone but at least trying.

I came home from school and sat on the edge of my grandma’s bed. I held her soft hand; it always smelled of roses. She had the perfect fingernails, even now. I told her about my day, about the failed geography test, the Daughter’s of the American Revolution essay contest that I wanted to enter, and the way the daffodils were starting to bloom along the driveway. She fell asleep before I finished.

Mom made dinner. We all ate in front of the television to keep from talking. I did the dishes and my homework. And after tucking us into bed she left. Every evening she would leave. I don’t know when she came home; she was always there in the mornings when I woke up.

Mom substituted alcohol for the drugs. She came home drunk, going on and on about some strange guy’s chest hair. Smiling and happy. But completely oblivious to the fact that it was almost midnight, on a school night, and she hadn’t been home all day to make dinner or tuck us in.

Mom brought her friends over, her crude, drunk and high friends. She instigated a water fight while I tried to do the dishes. Her and her friend, Cara, ran around the house with glasses of water, leaving everything damp. We had ice cream for dinner, and fell asleep on the living room floor.

I was left to clean up the messes. The vomit that missed the toilet, the broken glass and blood. It overwhelmed me, so that when she was on a binge the house was always a mess. When she was sober she cleaned up. I think it was her way of apologizing. I would come home from school to the scent of bleach and the sound of her voice singing along to the radio.

 Mostly though I was just left alone.  She never noticed if a couple of bottles went missing. I would make dinner, leave a plate outside Grandpa’s door, do the dishes, homework and put Shana to bed. While she slept I would sit in the windowsill, closing the curtains behind me. Just me and the moon. I had shoved a pin into the wooden frame. Tiny scars crisscrossed my ankles and thighs. I would drown myself in the pain and cheap beer.

 The afternoons that I came home to music, bleach and dinner were worse. I was so full of rage. What right did she have to be a part-time parent? She left me to my own devices so often that when she was sober she had no right to tell me what to do. You couldn’t be a parent only when it pleased you to be so.

She hadn’t been there to help me with my spelling homework, to listen to me practice piano, teach me how to use a tampon or dry my tears. Because I had lost my best friend and my mother, she’d been my mother too. Mom didn’t care about my depression or pain; she was too wrapped up in her own. When I had told her that I wanted to go back to sleep and never wake up, she left me to sleep. When I had told her that I missed Grandma so much that I wished I could be with her, she told me she missed her too. I was screaming for help and she was pulling me down into her own personal hell. I had to find comfort elsewhere.

Jason was four years older than me and a foot taller. His long arms and legs reminded me of a spider. I liked being towered over. The feeling that he could take me over, control me, mold me. My life was so out of control I sought to relinquish it to someone else.

He took over willingly. His sweet little virgin to mold the way he wanted. He went through my clothes and threw out anything he felt was too revealing. He wouldn’t let me cut my hair, wear makeup or talk to people who had been my friends. He would hold me down, arms pinned above my head, and fuck me till I screamed. Calling me a dirty little slut and I loved every single minute of it. He told me how to think and feel and be. And sometimes when I woke sobbing from the nightmares he would be there. Holding me tight, soothing my fears and drying my tears.

“What the hell do you think you are doing? You are thirteen! If you get pregnant I will make you have an abortion. You should be riding your bike and going to slumber parties, not sleeping around. You can’t see Jason anymore.” This coming from the woman who brought home a different guy every month. I could hear them moaning and banging through the bedroom wall. Monkey see, monkey do.

I’d been having sex for almost a year now. I don’t know what she thought I was doing the afternoons I spent at Jason’s house. Did she think we were just watching cartoons and eating junk food? Frankly I’m surprised that she found out, despite the pile of condoms in my underwear drawer.

“Really? I don’t know where you get off thinking you can tell me what to do. You weren’t a mother before, so don’t try to be one now.”

The slap brought tears to my eyes. My cheek stung hot and bright. I wasn’t going to stoop to her level. I turned around and ran to my room, locking the door behind me. I could hear her crying in the hall, I had no sympathy for her. She’d screwed us both over.

Jason was the only good thing in my life right now. He made me feel safe and sane. And I often questioned my sanity. I would sit in class and imagine stabbing my pencil straight through my wrist. In the bath I could see rivulets of red blood blending into the water, my veins wide open. When I grabbed my toothbrush the bottles of pills promised me an end to the pain.

Mother didn’t care about my depression or pain, she was too wrapped up in her own. When I told her that I wanted to go to sleep and never wake up, she left me to sleep. When I told her that I missed Grandma so much that I wished I could be with her, she told me she missed her too. I was cry for help and she was pulling me down into her personal hell.

The room was cold now, frost forming on the corners of the window panes. I had a quilt, two comforters and a wool blanket wrapped around me. I curled the edged under me, snug as a bug in a rug.

I almost screamed when I saw his face appear above me. His hand was warm over my mouth, my cheeks frozen under his fingertips. I struggled out of my cocoon. He wrapped his arms around me, placing his lips to my hair. He hushed me as I sobbed into his chest.

“I need to get out.” I didn’t know what would happen to me if I stayed. I was afraid of myself right now. I pulled a sweater over my flannel nightgown. I slipped tennis shoes onto my feet.

Jason carried me out of the house, walking down the hall past my mother’s room and out the front door. He had two friends in the backseat of his car. They smiled but didn’t say a thing. I snuggled into his shoulder as we pulled out of the driveway.  

Pauses in Breathing

Deep maple light falls dense upon the carpet. The sun struggles through thick haze. Inside cool air flows from the vents fluttering the bedskirt. Outside the fields are burning.

We both sit, my mother and I, on either side of the bed. The frail, bald man a conduit between our hands. His fingers are so delicate, almost feminine, slender bones covered in sliding skin. They were strong, solid with callouses–farmer’s hands. I used to pull splinters from his palms. My needle digging deep under the skin as he sat perfectly still, watching my face.

This is the second time, in as many years, that I have stood here holding a frail hand in mine. Grandma’s hands had always been delicate, with long slender fingers and carefully filed nails. She taught me piano, knitting and origami with those hands. Her fingers clever and dexterous, untangling hair and shoelaces.

They still held hands. I would sit in the window sill and watch them walk together along the garden path. She’d pause to button his sleeve, he’d brush a strand of hair off her shoulder. Then they’d continue down the path until they disappeared from view. In the spring they had walked together under the flowering cherry trees, the last time I saw them together. She had been so weak, she stumbled but he held firm, holding her upright.

My mother had forced me to stand by my Grandma’s beside as she lay dying. I was suppose to talk to her, despite the fact that she was in a coma. You don’t know what they hear. I had wanted to run in the fields and prank call boys from the school. I wanted to live, not wait for death. I regretted it. I realized that I wanted to be the one holding her hand as she left. The last words she heard from me were complaints about being by her side.

I’m so grateful now. I run my thumb along the paper white skin, tracing edges of bruising. These hands would swing me into the air, hold me upside down so that I could walk on the ceiling. “It’s okay. We’ll be okay.” I whisper into his ear. Of everything I’ve lost, this I’m willing to let go. There is no such thing as forever. His breathing chokes and sputters beside me. I can hear my mom trying not to cry, soft hitching breaths. I refuse to look at her, to let her tears trigger mine.

Outside the flames lick across the stubble of the neighboring field. Smoke curls into the sky obscuring the autumn sun. Light struggles through, amber faceted, and so hot. The air smells like grass smoke, smoldering summer. The flames cleansing the fields. It seeps through the window sills. You can taste the acrid scent on the back of your tongue. My throat itches with the sharpness. I’m sweating in the shadows of flames.

Last summer the flames had jumped the fence. They raced along the bank of the stream that traverses both properties. Farm hands and firemen beat them into submission. A dark stain slashed across our golden field. In the ashes I found arrowheads and petrified wood, bits of the past. I brought them home to show him. He no longer had the energy to drive the tractor, much less walk, that distance. He kept them on his bedside stand. I would sometimes come in to see him rolling that piece of wood between his palms as he watched daytime television. The scent of smoke still clinging.

The pauses between each rasping breath grow longer. My chest aches in response, assaulted with tears and heaviness. It’s as if I’m suffocating in the smoke that clogs the sky outside. I fight for breath just watching his chest. Then it’s silent. I stare into his face, looking for a change. His eyes are closed, scrunched together along the bridge. Mouth pulled into a permanent grimace. He looks as if he’s about to cry.

“Is he?”

“Don’t!” she whispers fiercely, “They said there will be pauses.” I meet my mother’s eyes above his body, tears pouring down her face. She sobs and wipes her nose on her should, holding onto his hand with both of hers, not willing to let go. She hasn’t learned to let go yet.

We wait, watching the fields burn outside his bedroom window.

Leaving the Future

“What you doing?” Carrie asked as she combed out her hair. I had spent the afternoon swimming in the pool at her complex in my panties and her t-shirt. After a quick shower and a change into some borrowed clothes, that might not get returned, I felt almost normal. I still longed for some break from reality. The voices were starting again, my conscience returning. I wanted the lies, not the truth.

“I don’t have any plans. What’s going on tonight?”I watched her through the old-fashioned vanity mirror. The surface was pale grey not quite silver with streaks of black. Her image looked as through a movie screen, not quite real.

“I want to go see Kevin, he’s single again. He’s got weed and a couple hot friends if you are interested.” She knew my buttons and just what I was looking for.

“Sounds good.” Truthfully I could care less what the guys looked like. I would put on a good show regardless; it’s what I was known for. And hell what did I want to be known for? Who wanted to be a good girl? Good girls didn’t have fun. They were stuck back at home following the rules and watching Lawrence Welk. I played along with that game for 13 years and I played it well. But now was my turn. And I was going to lose myself tonight.
—
“Truth or dare?”
I contemplated shocking them and saying truth. But the truth of my life was bare to see. And really that wasn’t the point of this, we were way past middle school. I knew how the game was played by now.

“Dare” I almost hoped that it was public. I had an exhibitionist streak that longed to break free. I would lick her pussy here on the front porch if she asked. I was mellowed out from the weed and wine, feeling fearless and lonesome.

Carrie hopped off Kevin’s lap and crawled across the wood floor of the front porch to where I sat with my knees to my chest. Her breath felt hot on my goosebumped skin.

“I dare you to fuck him.” She whispered in my ear, tilting her head to whatever the hell his name was. I don’t know why she bothered, if she didn’t tell everyone once we tramped up the stairs the screaming would let them know. I always put on a good show.

I just shrugged. “Got a condom?” I asked her. She slipped one out of her purse into my waiting hand. I shoved it into the pocket of my jeans and climbed onto his lap, my feet wrapping around his back. His hands came up to hold my back. I leaned backwards, Carrie’s face alien upside down. I just smiled. I didn’t even know his name but not that it mattered tonight. I wasn’t myself tonight either.

My tongue chased his around his smoke tainted mouth. I tangled my fingers in his dark brown curls. He really was cute in a good little boy kind of way. When I was this person that’s how I liked them—innocent. I wanted to corrupt them to fit me.
I opened my eyes to watch him kissing me. His eyes were shut and his face so earnest. I almost hesitated then. He deserved so much better. I looked behind his head, watching the rain fall in the amber street light.

“Let’s go upstairs.” I held his hand firmly in mine as I dragged him through the living room and kitchen. I could hear cheering from the porch. He led me upstairs, the lights out, darkness pushing in.

His room was black but for the red light of the alarm clock numbers. He was sweet and gentle, kissing me and caressing me. But we both knew what was expected of us. Our clothes fell as petals unfolding and I faked it–not feeling a thing. He kept pausing to look at the clock and I rolled my eyes getting tired of acting.

After whatever he considered a good amount of time he moaned above me and I screamed once more, my nails digging long furrows into his naked back. It was my mark, my punishment, my small bit of dominance. I would really love to hurt him, revel in his cries but I put on a good show and that wasn’t what anyone was looking for. So I moaned and cried out and dug in as his teeny weenie did whatever and I hoped he would finish soon. I had to pee now.

He paraded down the stairs shirtless, baring what he thought were trophy scars of masculinity. I danced across the floor and took the pipe from Carrie’s hand. She handed over the lighter. I stared into her eyes over the flame. She looked almost proud. I winked, holding in the smoke for a moment. My head swirled already. I coughed a cloud of smoke into Carrie’s face. She laughed and reached behind her back to turn up the stereo on the kitchen counter.

I passed the pipe to the guys sitting around the scarred wooden kitchen table with its mismatching chairs. Then Carrie and I waltzed around the linoleum floor. Circle around, around, around and twirl. Dizzy, I tripped dragging her down on top of me, her barely covered breasts in my face. I nipped at the bare skin right above the lace of her bra. She yelped and I kissed it better.

She rolled off of me and we both lay side by side on the cool floor. My head felt hot, my fingertips numb, and the tip of my tongue itched. I rolled to the side facing her, my ear on the cold linoleum. I traced the curve of her ear, down her neck and placed my palm over her heart.

“I love you girl.” I said and I meant it. I meant it with the real me, not the person that I was tonight. The sweet straight A student, who had freckles across her nose and pink painted toenails. The person I was before.

She rolled towards me, throwing her arms around me, raining kisses across my face. “Love you too.”

“Damn, that’s hot. Want to go upstairs?” Mr. Teeny Weenie asked.

“No, I wanna dance.” I waved my hand in the air. Kevin reached down helping Carrie and I up. Then he twirled me round the kitchen, the slow dance in opposition to the music on the radio. His green wool shirt was scratching my arms but I didn’t mind. I fell into the dizzying blackness that haunted the outer edges of my mind and let my conscience fade. No voices left.