Unloved at First Sight

I remember the precise moment I stopped loving him.
We had gone out to dinner.
I was just getting back from the lady's room.
He looked up at me and smiled.
His eyes, I noticed, were dead and lifeless.
Not even a dull glimmer of light remained. 
I blinked
thinking eyes would appear in the two gaping holes in his face.
They only grew deeper.
He looked at me quizzically.
Perhaps something in my expression had given me away.
I sat down beside him
avoiding looking at what had once been a pair of chlorine blue eyes.
It was as if something had changed in the time it took me to use the restroom. 
When I left everything was normal.
But when I came back he was no longer the man I loved. 
I denied it for a while,
dismissing it as a feeling that would pass just like indigestion. 
But it never did.
It only worsened.
An unexplainable bitterness began to build up inside me.
Today I looked through some old photos of us
and realized that I'd imagined those chlorine blue eyes of his
because he'd never had eyes of his own to begin with.
Funny howI was the one with the eyes and I was blind the whole time.
Maybe I should pluck my eyes out.

An Alcoholic's Affair

His touch was too eager.
Almost as if he was afraid
She would evaporate into thin air.
She wanted to.
But she laid there instead
as he murmured drunken slurs into her ear.
She could taste the bitter fluid on his tongue.
He never seemed to want her when he was sober anymore.
It made her feel utterly repulsive.
Was it her unsatisfactory performance
that had driven him to his alcoholism?
Or had her looks deteriorated so rapidly
that the thought of touching her was sickening?
Perhaps this is why his movements were always so rushed now.
He wanted to get it over with.
Maybe he no longer enjoyed it
but saw it as a right of passage he had worked so hard to earn
he felt obliged to indulge. 
Frankly, she no longer cared
to know the answer to these questions.
She felt his body convulsing on top of her -
a sign that he was close.
So she closed her eyes
and clenched her jaw.
"It'll be over soon" she thought.

Excerpt #2

                Mondays. Everybody hates Mondays. And with good reason. I woke up around noon and dragged myself to the bathroom to run the water for my bath. Pulling off my nightgown I staggered towards the bathroom mirror. It had already begun to fog up so I wiped away the steam with my hand. I yawned and stared at myself for a moment. I’m disgusted by the sickly looking girl that’s looking back at me. The mirror fogs back up again, and I welcome it --- not wanting to look at the ghost trapped inside the glass.

                I slip into the tub as the water is still running. The warmth of the steam emanating for the water hugs my body and pulls me deeper into its depths. I hug my knees to my chest, resting my head on my knee caps and watch the water level rise. I turn the handle that turns off the water once it is a good three fourths full.

                The water seems warmer today. My pores scream, silently begging for a break from the unbearable heat. I don’t listen. I sink down in the tub so that everything below my neck is engulfed in the flames of the water. The screams are drowned out with silence. A sigh of contentment eases its way from between my lips.

                I wish I’d opened a window. The room is humid and I find it difficult to breathe. My eyes close. Maybe I fell asleep for a moment or two. It’s hard for me to distinguish between sleep, and wakefulness these days. So let’s just say I fell asleep. It couldn’t have been more than twenty minutes later when I opened my eyes again.

                My mind was still racing with thoughts of revenge for the betrayal I felt. I was sad, I was mad, I was everything in between. I waited for the numbness to settle in, but it never came. The ever present numbness I so often felt was gone without the slightest trace. Oh how I longed for numbness now.

Muse

October 3, 2012 10:49pm

                                                                              

It’s a sensual process.

Watching him paint.

But today I’m his subject, and there’s no talking. He likes it completely silent when he works. He talks about his paints like they’re a person, his brushes – a fine wine, and his canvas – a beautiful lady. He’s the kind of person that has a mind so complex that after a five minute conversation with him you’d just assume he’s dumb, or extremely high.

He says he can taste color. Sometimes I think I’m dating an eight year old. Then my eyes roll over his body, and I remember why I put up with it. When my eyes get to his waist he makes a hand gesture, signaling me to look at him. He wanted this painting to be profile. He’s very persistent about keeping eye contact. He says that the muse is as much the artist as the painter. They’re both part of the process. I open my mouth to say something, but he puts a finger to his lips and shakes his head. I scowl at him from behind wisps of my unruly curls. He smiles. He loves when I pout.

I’m wearing nothing but an oversized, tacky Bill Cosby sweater and a pair of his grey boxer-briefs. I’m sticky. I can feel the sweat dripping down my back. He’s been at it for an hour now. I’m uncomfortable, cranky, and tired. He says It’s sexy. He says I look better when I’m all grungy.

The cat curls up in my lap. He looks up from his canvas and frowns. He walks over to where I am on the couch and shoos the cat away. He walks back over to his canvas. It’s so large, he can nearly hide behind it. That’s saying quite a bit considering his large frame that stands as a whopping six feet and two inches.

Sometimes I think he enjoys painting more than he enjoys physical intimacy with me. When I see the way he looks at them – the paint, the brushes, the canvas – the way he speaks to them – the way he touches them. I envy them. What I wouldn’t give for him to caress me so gently. To whisper so sweetly. To love me so tenderly. My heart aches.

His fingers are on the canvas. He’s smearing the paint. He pushes his hair back from his brow and gets some blue across his forehead. There’s yellow on the bridge of his nose, and green on his left cheek. If I could taste color, I’m sure he’d taste divine.

He finally drops his brush against the easel, steps away, and smiles – admiring his work.  I stand and he waves me over. I look at it. It’s beautiful. Gorgeous even. But it’s not me. The girl in the picture is radiant. She’s flawless. She’s happy. She’s what he wished he saw when he looked at me.

We’re all just somebody’s muse I guess.

I wish I were the one behind the canvas, instead of the one on it. 

Laundry Mat

                 He looked out of place in a coin laundry mat. I can always tell when it's a person's first time. Call it a sixth sense. He set his basket down on top of a folding table and rubbed his chin, eyes searching...I know that look. Every newby gets that look. We meet eyes and his face brightens. Then he's striding towards me, eyes darting here and there. I'm shoving wet clothes into a dryer when he approaches me. I brush back my bangs and look up at my visitor.

                "Hey, I'm sorry to bother you, it's just - well I'm new to this whole thing."

                "I guessed as much. You don't really look like the typical coin laundryer."

                He laughs at this, pushing his hair back out of his face. "I forgot my soap."

                I grab my bottle and hand it to him. "Use mine."

                He accepts it with his left hand and reaches out his right. I think he wants to shake my hand. I place my right hand in his and he pumps our clasped hands up and down for a moment before retracting. His head tilts to the side. "You're a lefty aren't you?" I can feel my eyebrows knitting together in confusion.

                "How'd you know?"

                He shrugs, "I took a class on body language. I kinda guessed when I was watching you load your laundry, and confirmed it with that handshake."

                "Hmm, very observant of you."

                "I used to be a lefty. Trained myself to be a righty though. Just more convenient."

                "Lefties have more fun."

                "Is that so?"

                "It is."

                "I'll have to test that theory some time. Thanks for the soap," and then he sauntered back over to attend to his laundry.

                I felt anxious. I'd say half an hour had passed. He was reading the paper. I didn't think anyone read the paper anymore. Other than stock brokers...and he was far too attractive to be a stock broker. Maybe he was the intellectual type. He looks up to turn pages and I forget to avert my eyes. He smiles and waves. I give a half grin. He goes back to reading. I go back to reading him. So far I had gathered the following: he was tall - probably 6, 1", perfectly groomed teeth, coffee drinker (I could smell it on his breath), and a hunch told me he had a tattoo. I racked my brain, trying to think of a reason to go up and talk to him without seeming creepy. Nothing comes to mind. Just then I hear the crinkling of paper. I look up to see him folding up the newspaper and placing it in the seat beside him, leaning back in his chair, hands behind his head.

                I grab a pack of gum from my purse and shove a stick in my mouth. I think chewing will take away my anxiousness, but I quickly realize it doesn't. He stands, stretches, and rubs his hair. Then he walks over to the vending machine; leaning his tall frame against it. I watch intently. B7. Twizlers. Pulling open the wrapper, he rips one off and takes a bite. I reach for another stick of gum. When I look back at him, he's looking straight at me. I sit still. Unsure what to do. he grins again. Why does he keep doing that!? He stands up again, finishing his Twizler and grabbing another, and my bottle of laundry soap.

                "I believe this belongs to you," he says once he's made his way across the laundry mat, to the corner I've tried to tuck myself away in.

                I stand and take it, placing it beside my empty laundry baskets.  "Thanks."

                He nods and takes another bite of his Twizler. "Do you like Twizlers?" he asks, pointing it towards me.

                "Yeah, it's my favorite candy actually."

                "Is it now?" he says, eyebrows raised.

                "Yep."

                "In that case..." he places his hand, palm-side up, in front of my mouth.

                "You want me to spit my gum out?"

                He just nods. My mouth involuntarily forfeits my minty gum. He then places the Twizler to my mouth. I take a bite. There's that grin again. He pops my gum in his mouth, hands me the rest of the Twizler, turns, and walks back towards his chair. I sit back down and finish the candy, hardly tasting it. We're having a staring contest. I can't tell who's winning. Maybe there's no loser in this game. He's chewing my gum, his jaw moving rhythmically. His right arm lying limply over the seat beside him, his right ankle resting on his left knee, his left hand is tracing the patch of five O' clock shadow on his chin. My eyes wander slightly upwards to his lips. They look soft and chewy, like two marshmallows I wanna slurp into my mouth and devour. His eyes are oddly dull for the brightness that seems to radiate from his entire being. On his head lies a mane of thick brown hair. It looks nicely groomed, styled suitably, slicked back with a few loose strands that dangle down in front of his face. He's dressed in a way that says "I care about the way I look, but I don't care enough to spend more than fifteen minutes getting ready in the morning". Today that entails a pair of jeans, and a snugly fitting white T. The fabric strains over his chest...I'm tempted to grab another piece of gum.

                He puts his wet clothes in the dryers. I pull my dry clothes out of the dryers and begin to fold them. He's watching me. I'm not looking at him; but I can feel it. He wants me to look up. He wants me to look at him. I can't muster up the courage, so I just keep my eyes down, admiring my now clean clothes. I hear footsteps approaching. He's standing beside me. I recognize the worn converse. I finally manage to look up at him. He's not chewing anymore. Must've spit out the gum. He's standing very close. I can smell him. He smells like cinnamon and cherry Twizlers. He bends down so we're nearly eye to eye. I smell the sweet on his breath when he finally speaks:

                "We were dying since the day we were born. How long does it take to die?"

                "A million years, and be there much sorrow for we only have but a short span to live."

                "So live, and live well. For sleep soon becomes eternal. Lasting."

                I'm amazed. "How did you- "

                He grabs the book half hanging out of my purse. "I glimpsed it when I first came over. I love Lockwood. He's my favorite poet."

                "I couldn't agree more. He's a rare gem. A true poet among imposters."

                So I was right. He's an intellectual. He leans in a bit closer and whispers, "That thine kiss were like that of an ember, dangerous and smoldering."

                "My lips do kiss to douse the flame that awakens a burning that cannot be numbed."

                His hand traces up my neck, to the nape, entangling his fingers in the waves of my hair. His fingers form a fist around the hair, and he uses it as leverage to pull my face closer to his. Our lips make a few brief encounters, brushing against each other as he speaks.

                "And oh, my maiden, rosy cheeked and fair, arousest thy not what thou' art not trained for."

                He spoke the last few words into my mouth as he kissed me. My lips parted eagerly to taste his. His mouth tasted fruity and minty. His lips were soft, and his kiss was firm. His hands groped my back. We were in a slight backbend over one of the folding tables. When we finally broke away, we stumbled a few feet apart, trying to balance our footing and steady our breathing. His hair was a bit disheveled. He pushed it back nonchalantly as I smoothed the non-existent wrinkles in blouse. Looking around, I noticed we'd acquired an audience. I counted four women, a few scattered children, and an older looking fellow who looked a whole lot like Bill Cosby.

                We smiled at each other, trying to contain our laughter. "Can I tell you something?" I asked.

                "Go ahead," he replied warily.

                "I lied. I hate liquorish."

                He smiled again. "Do you think if I took you to dinner later I could get your name, maybe even your number if I'm well behaved?"

                "There's Starburst over there in that vending machine. Those are my real favorite. I'm in a good mood - if you bring me some, I just might tell you my name. No promises though. I'll be sitting over there," I said pointing at my chair a few feet away. I walk to my chair and sit down, watching him lumber over to the vending machine with that grin on his face.

Jenny

I guess I’m a liar.

I told them I would meet them at the fair at seven.

I told them I was on my way at eight.

But I was lying in his arms.

I laid there in between the sweaty sheets twirling the purity ring around on my finger. He was asleep in a few minutes. I rolled over on my side, clutching the sheets to my chest and let the tears fall soundlessly to my pillow. I was lying in bed with a thief. He’d taken my virtue. I could report it stolen, but who would return it?

I drew my legs to my chest, pulling myself into a ball. The tremors rolled through my body like thunder. Holding in the gasps that shrieked inside my chest caused a burning like sensation at the base of my throat.

In anger, I tossed back the sheets and sat up; letting my legs dangle over the side of the bed and onto the shag carpeted floor. I wiggled my toes as my legs swung back and forth. Instinctively my hands caressed my stomach. The tears returned once more, streaking down my face and dripping onto my bare thighs.

I looked down at the silver band on my ring finger. The silver band with the words: true love waits inscribed in loopy cursive. I pushed the finger into my mouth, wetting it with my tongue. I pulled it out and twisted it loose, sliding it off of my finger. I turned back towards him and threw into onto the bed as I stood.

Standing there before the full length mirror pulling my hair back into a pony tail I realized that the girl the mirror reflected had a face different from my own. She looked sad and bitter – two things I was in short supply of.

Then I smiled at her and she smiled back at me.

There I am.

Bus Ride With A Stranger

September 25, 2012 8:18pm

What is he staring at?

Surely he’s not looking at me like that?

Is there something on my face?

I grab my purse and pluck my compact from the inner pocket. No, nothing on my face.  His eyes shift to his phone. He’s checking a text. He smiles. It’s a pleasant thing, that smile of his. I find myself smiling too. I look back at him – he’s looking right at me – his grin stretching even wider. Then he points.

“Do you mind if I sit?”

The whole bus is empty, yet he wants to sit in the seat beside me. Who is this guy? He doesn’t wait for my answer. He’s already accepted his own offer.

“I’m Abel,” he says, tipping his hat.

“Harley.”

“That’s different. I’ve met a boy with that name. Never a girl. I like it. It suits you.”

“Thanks, I think.”

He chuckles, “I just meant it’s not the norm.”

“The norm is drab.”

“So I’ve been told.”

Enough with that smile already. It’s distracting. It’s…wait – I forgot what I was saying…oh, right – that smile. My goodness, his teeth are as white as porcelain. Oh, I think he asked me a question…

“What was that?” I ask.

“Fade out there for a second?” he jokes.

“I was just thinking.”

“About?”

“You’re awfully nosey for a stranger.”

“I prefer the term ‘curious’.”

Now it’s my turn to laugh…but it stops short. “Why do you keep looking at me like that for?”

“What do you mean?”

“You have this intense stare. It’s creepy.”

“You’re awfully blunt for a stranger. I’m creepy am I? Maybe I just have intense eyes.”

“Either way. It’s still creepy.”

He goes quiet. Pondering something. Now I’m staring. I look out the window. The bus jerks to a stop and my body thrusts forward. I try to catch myself, but somehow I end up in his lap instead. I don’t even have to look at him to know he’s smiling. He helps me straighten up.

“I may be creepy and nosey, but you’re clumsy.”

An older couple, a black man in a construction uniform, and a girl in her mid-teens pay their bus fair and find a place to sit.

“Harley?” Abel’s lips are so close he’s nearly kissing my ear.

“What?” I say, trying to sound annoyed.

“Try something with me.”

“With a stranger? I know better than that.”

“Just listen, I have a proposition.”

“Oh?”

“There’s something in it for you too.”

“Do tell.”

“It’ll be fun.”

“That’s subjective.”

“Just follow my lead.”

He stands and holds out his hand. When he sees my hesitation he smiles. He turns around to look at the others on the bus.

“Can any of you strangers sing a tune?”

The black man smiles. “Whadaya wanna hear?”

Is this really happening?

“You know any Frank Sinatra?” Abel asks.

I open my mouth to object, but the black man is faster. He belts it out.

“Fly me to the moon. You’ve got good taste sir.”

Then Abel turns to me, removing his hat and placing it on the seat beside me.

“Harley, may I have this dance?”

“Are you mad? We can’t dance on the bus.”

The black man pauses.

“No, I’m not mad. I’m nosey and creepy.” He looks at the bus driver in the rearview mirror. “Tony, you mind?”

“C’mon lady. It’s just a dance.”

The black man chimes in: “He seems like a nice guy. Just dance with him will ya?”

I sit there for a moment – mouth hanging open. He’s waiting. They all are. They all want me to dance with him.

“You can’t be serious?” it was more of a plea, than a statement.

“Oh, but I am. Please. You won’t regret it. I’m light on my feet.”

“You better be, because I have two left feet.”

 I put my hand in his. He yanks me to my feet and into his arms. He smells like cinnamon. I hear the black man start up where he left off. Abel’s body is firm against mine. We’re both staring. I see that smile flicker across his face. He’s whipping me around like I weigh no more than a feather. I stumble often, but he catches me every time. I’m enjoying it more than I’d care to admit.

The first song ends and another one starts up in its place. It’s one of my favorites – Lay your head on my shoulder. I melt against Abel’s chest. He radiates enough heat that I forget how miserably cold I was prior. His idle hands become attentive; one slips down to the small of my back, and the other in between my shoulder blades. He leans closer.

“Was that cherry chap stick I saw you putting on earlier?” he asks with a subtle grin.

“Strawberry.”

“Can I try it? …That was creepy wasn’t it?”

“Extremely. But I have a thing for creepy guys.”

“Really? Since when?”

“Since now.”

We stop dancing. The black man stops singing. The bus driver is watching the scene from the rearview mirror.

“C’mon Romeo.” I laugh.

His eyebrows knit together. Maybe he’s lost his nerve.

“What’s there to think about? Kiss her already!” The old woman shouts from the back of the bus.

Abel and I smile simultaneously. His face nears mine…suddenly the bus turns a sharp corner and he’s thrown into a nearby seat and I’m thrown onto him. My face is caught by his chest. We both sit up, trying to regroup. His hands find my face and he tilts it upwards until our eyes meet. I can feel everyone watching, waiting to see what happens.

                “While I’m still being creepy – I’d very much like to taste that chap stick of yours.”

                My lips find their way to his cheek. I drag them lightly over to the corner of his mouth. He turns his head – our noses touch. I feel his breath on my lips. Our lips collide with a jerk of the bus – we welcome the initiation. His mouth lingers on my bottom lip, sucking it into his mouth. His teeth faintly prick – nibbling. A smile breaks out – it’s mine. I guess it’s contagious because it’s on him too.

                I pull away suddenly. “What stop do you get off at?”

                “I was supposed to get off seven stops ago.” He smiles.

“Well since you’re here…” I pull his face to mine again; using the front of his shirt as leverage.

…Let’s just say there’s nothing quite like kissing a stranger.

Life. Of. Ventures. Everlasting.

It’s the way colors would taste if you could eat them. White would taste of contentment, yellow of happiness, purple of infatuation, red of passion, and pink would taste of endearment. Pick your poison; they’ll all be the death of you in the end.

                It’s the way it smells when it first begins to rain. Its aroma lingers like vanilla, fresh linen, or an open flame that’s sparks kiss your fingertips. It clings to your clothes and in your hair to be smelled by others around you. To some, this scent may be too strong.

                It sounds like complete silence amidst a roaring thunder. It’s at a frequency only you can hear and comprehend. It’s a ringing in your ears that leaves them throbbing or the echo of voices when you’re submerged in water --- starting loud and progressively fading away with the sunlight that rests on the water’s horizon.

                It’s the way butterfly kisses feel, faintly tickling your cheeks when they’re damp with fresh tears. Or the way your body shudders at the touch of a cold hand and your temperature elevates, leaving a numbness where fingers traced over your skin.

                It’s the way a sea of grass looks when you’re crawling on your hands and knees. It’s the sight of two hands clasped with fingers intertwined. It’s what causes your eyes to widen when you see the expression that lingers on her face when she thinks you’re not looking. The look that says all that can’t be spoken with words.

                It’s all the power that lies within that four letter, one syllable word. The word that redefines every one of your five senses. ..

                Love.

                Love may be like a lot of things, but it’s not like falling. I never fully understood the expression “falling in love” --- probably because it isn’t accurate, and doesn’t make sense. Falling is what people do on a daily basis --- love is when someone catches you. 

Inside.

I always hated when mother left to go grocery shopping. It made me nervous to be alone. I wasn’t fit to be alone in all honesty. I turned on the TV though she’d instructed me not to. She said I was only allotted two hours of television a day. She was afraid that the frequencies would interfere with my brain waves and give me radiation damage.

I’d barely gotten any sleep last night. My insomnia was getting worse. I caught mother slipping sleeping pills in my pudding a few nights ago. She’ll do anything to make sure I take my medicine. Sometimes, when I’m having a bad day and my temper acts up, she’ll beg me to take it. If that doesn’t work, she’ll cry. She knows I can’t stand to see her cry. Mother always gets what she wants.

About half an hour later I heard keys jingling outside the front door of our apartment. I turned off the TV, and rushed back to my room, slipping under the covers. The front door opened, and she stumbled inside. After setting the bags down on the kitchen table she came and sat down beside me on my bed. I blinked, feigning grogginess. “Hey sleepy head. How long have you been up?”

“I just woke up,” I lied, propping myself up on my elbows.

 “Well I just got back from the store. How about I fix us some pancakes? How’s that sound?”

 “I never say no to pancakes,” I laughed.

After breakfast, at exactly 10:15 a.m. she ran me a bath, just like she does everyday at exactly 10:15am. I sat with my shoulders hunched over my body as she scrubbed my back with a pink loofa, humming some tune that she’d gotten stuck in her head at the grocery store. “It’s your birthday tomorrow,” she cooed. “I’m going to make your favorite – red velvet cake. And for dinner I thought we could have a nice pot roast.” I smiled in response, catching the drops that dripped from the faucet and watching as they slipped between my fingers back into the water.  

She helped me rinse off and then wrapped a towel around me when I stepped out of the bathtub. “Now run and get dressed. I have to go tidy up the house,” she ordered, shoving me out of the bathroom.

I dropped my damp towel to the floor and stood in front of my mirror. It was a habit I’d acquired rather recently. I think it’d been triggered after I watched a documentary on alien abductions after my mother went to sleep one night. Now every day after my bath I had to check my body for any marks, lumps, or scars that hadn’t been there the night before.

Once I felt as though I’d completed a thorough inspection of myself, I shrugged into the pink collared shirt and faded capris my mother had laid out on my bed for me. Sitting down at my vanity to do my hair, my brush strokes seemed to reflect my solemn mood. Or maybe mirrors have the tendency to make me solemn; and with good reason. My looks are less than mediocre. I used to be plain. I used to look like every other Caucasian female with brown hair, brown eyes, and a lack-luster figure. My transition into ugly was not as progressive as I would’ve liked. It was too quick. I didn’t have enough time to adjust. Now my skin is pallid to the point I looked ill, my hair is thin and stringy, and my eyes have dulled with the rest of me.

My seal of dismal peace is broken. She snatches the brush from my hand and begins to pull it through my hair. “Mother, I’d prefer that you knock before entering my room from now on,” I said keeping my voice low to mask the annoyance in my tone. Her brush strokes reflected her animosity towards my suggestion.

 “Why? What have you got to hide?”

“Nothing, I just would like to have some privacy is all. Oww, Mother! You’re hurting me,” I cried, grabbing the brush away from her tightly clutched fist. She brought her open palm across the side of my face, causing a loud popping noise to echo through my mouth when her hand made contact with my cheek.

My Mother hated violence. She only hit me when she thought I was being rude. A subtle, but ever-present resentment had slowly begun to build between my mother and me, and when she hit me this resentment flared with an intensity so fierce that it caused the back of my neck and face to catch fire.

She saw my eyes glaze over and my body stiffen. Usually these were the warning signs that my temper was about to get the best of me.

“I’m so sorry! Oh honey I’m so very, very sorry. It’s just …I don’t know…what’s gotten into you lately.” I spun around in my vanity chair to face her. She looked frightened. I think I scare her more than she likes to let on. I took mental note of this.

“No Mother, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have made such a silly suggestion.” She stroked my hair tenderly – the acceptance of my apology.

She made fish tacos for lunch. I took all my medicine without complaint and reached for my third taco.

“Don’t you think two is enough Harper?” she chided. Though she’d worded it like a question, it was more of an order.

“I’m still hungry, Mother.”

“Have another glass of water then Dear. You should be thankful that I care enough to stop you from overdoing it. If I let you, you would just eat your weight in food.”

“May I be excused?” I asked.

“What for, Dear?  Did I upset you?”

“May I be excused?” I repeated, choosing to ignore her demeaning question.

“Well alright.”

I went to the bathroom and locked the door. Bracing myself against the counter, I stared down into the gleaming bowl of the sink. I turned on the faucet, waiting for the water to get hot enough for steam to billow up into my face in airy clouds of mist. I used three pumps of soap from the dispenser and lathered up my hands under the sweltering liquid flame. Most people wouldn’t think of washing your hands as a form of self-mutilation, but that’s precisely what it was for me. I’d wash them seven times in a row – thirteen on a bad day. My hands would bleed and the skin on my knuckles would crack when I made the slightest movements with my fingers.

She knocked on the door. “You can’t keep doing this to yourself Harper. It’s an unhealthy way of taking out your frustrations. Dr. Miller says you should try painting, or writing. You used to like poetry. Why don’t you write some poems in that new journal I got you?”

I ignored her incessant chatter, watching the water turn pink as it streamed over my hands. They were numb from the heat. The burn was now a mild tingle. I turned off the faucet and closed my eyes. “Harper, come out of there. I wanna discuss your birthday plans. Should I get twenty three individual candles or a two and a three?”

I dry my hands and open the door. She is standing in the doorway, picking lint off of her nude pink sweater.  “No candles.”

“Why not?”

“No candles and no cake.”

“But you can’t have a birthday without cake.”

“I’ll be in my room.”

“Fine, Dear. Go take your medicine.”

 I didn’t take it. I stood at the bedroom window, feeling what little warmth I could through the glass pane. I longed to remember what it was like to feel the sun on my skin without a barrier between its light and my flesh. The thought of it made my whole body smile. If it gave life to dead things, maybe it could give it to me. Lord knows I wanted it. It had been sixteen long years since I’d stepped foot outside this apartment. Sixteen years of seclusion and being cut off from everything and everyone outside. The front door and the sterile, unused guest bedroom were the farthest stretches of my known universe. The last time I’d seen the sun face-to-face was when I had just turned six years old. I never got a chance to say goodbye.

I felt the fact that my birthday was on a Monday to be a bad omen. There’s a reason everyone hates Mondays. Why should I think my birthday was an exception? I couldn’t find a reason either. So I assumed it was going to be awful.

I woke up when it was still dark out. My alarm clock confirmed that it was 4:27 am. Ordinarily I would make an attempt to go back to sleep, but after listening for a few moments I realized that my Mother was not yet awake. This kind of occurrence was a rare one. I sprang from bed too quickly and my head swam between my ears. I was cautious as I crept out of my bedroom and towards the bathroom.

I lock the door once safely inside, and – trying my best to avoid making eye contact with myself in the bathroom mirror – open the medicine cabinet. The knife makes a soft whisper when it cuts through the air as I pull it from its designated shelf. It’s a thin knife that I’m able to keep hidden behind bottles of expired ibuprofen.

            Climbing into the white, porcelain bowl, I simultaneously dropp the stopper in the drain and turn the water on; watching as it rushes out of the mouth of the faucet and into the soap scum lined tub. I suck in a breath between my teeth when the cold water makes contact with my skin.

            By the time the water reaches mid-torso, my body is completely numb from the cold. I shut off the water and slide down lower in the tub. My thumb gingerly caresses the blade of the knife. Without much effort, it slices through the first few layers of my skin. The red runs down my arm and into the water. The drops of red spread, momentarily staining the water pink. I watch the rings of color fade again and again.

            I let my arm dangle over the lip of the tub, my fingers just touching the floor. The water facilitates the blood flow from my small cut. My fingers trace in the pink puddle I’ve created on the linoleum. It’s silent. Not even my own thoughts make noise. Not even the slightest whisper. It’s the red. It makes everything quiet. It hushes all the noise. It hollows out the sound. That’s why red is my favorite color.  

I prop my leg up on the side of the bathtub, biting my lip to suppress the moan I know is bound to come. I feel the coolness of the blade, resting against my inner thigh. I exhale and close my eyes as I press the blade of the knife against the skin there.

My eyes close again and I’m on the edge of euphoria. Back and forth between consciousness and unconsciousness. I dig the blade deeper into my flesh; making a real effort not to protest the pain that pulsates through my entire being.

Then the pain comes. I try to blink away the tears that fill my eyes, and clutch the side of the bathtub as I admire all the crimson. Even through the tears that blur my vision, I can see the red clearly. Clearest of all in fact, because all other colors have faded to a shade of grey. A hiss of severe discomfort escapes my mouth when the water fills my fresh wound as I ease my leg back into the tub.

            I sink down lower. The water fills my ears and all I hear is the faint echo of my muted heartbeat. I hold my breath, remaining under the water for as long as my lungs allow. A few moments later I resurface for air, pushing my wet hair out of my face. My body trembles. I’m cold. I’m shivering. Absentmindedly I touch my fingers to my lips. I feel them quiver and for some reason this is hysterical to me.

I guess I’d been laughing for a while when my Mother finally walked in. I forgot to lock the door. Habit I suppose. She opened the door to me tossing the small knife back and forth. Right, then left, then right again. It was almost hypnotic. I waited, but she didn’t scream. She didn’t scream, but the expression on her face was far louder than any noise she could’ve made.

She rushed towards the bathtub, her arms outstretched towards me.  She’d nearly reached me when she slipped in my pink puddle. I sat motionless in the bathtub as I watched her try to regain her footing. Instead, she fell backwards, hitting her head on the corner of the sink counter on her way down. My body thawed and I unfroze, climbing out of the tub to inspect the damage. “Mother?” I stammered. There was so much red. And with the red came the silence.

I didn’t like this silence.

The fall wasn’t what I expected. It was too anticlimactic. She was supposed to try to wrestle the knife out of my hands and accidentally stab herself in the process. And the fall happened too fast. It should’ve been in slow motion. She should’ve been suspended in mid fall for what seemed like ages. She was supposed to whisper something in my ear before she died. Something that would dramatically alter the course of my life. But none of those things happened.

I think I was less traumatized by her sudden death, and more so by my reaction to it. No tears or remorse. I thought those were default reactions to death. I didn’t throw myself on her body, sobbing to satisfy my grief.  I didn’t even have a desire to touch her. She looked contagious. Maybe the full impact of the blow hadn’t hit me yet. That’s what I wanted to believe.

The blood pooled from the gash in the back of her head. It looked like a halo. A halo of red. I think that’s when red stopped being my favorite color.

I left the bathroom, my leg wrapped in a ribbon of red. It dripped down my leg, leaving a trace of vibrant foot prints on the white carpet. My favorite silk robe was lying at the top of the hamper. I grabbed it and pulled it on. Then, walking back out into the living room, I noticed something. I was headed for the telephone when I saw that the front door was open. Not wide open, just slightly ajar. How long had it been that way? A few hours? All night?

            Mother had always been careful to make sure the door was locked before she went to bed. I made my approach, taking hold of the doorknob. Outside. The door was the barrier between me and it. Nothing more than a slab of wood. I opened the door. The door that would lead me from seclusion.

            Fear surged through me as I was standing in the door way. The first few steps were stiff and forced. Then I become more confident, my speed increasing as I paced down the narrow hallway. By the time I reached the stairs I was running. It was invigorating. I felt my face give birth to a smile. It threatened to rip my face in two. Soon I had burst through the doors of the administration office to my apartment complex. I had reached the court yard. I was outside.

The sun kissed my face and embraced me in its arms of warmth.

“I missed you.”

The Camera

10:38PM 8/18/12 – free write

                He was wearing that boyish smile I loved so much. It made my fingertips tingle with electricity. He knew exactly what he was doing. He was aware of his effect on me. It was a game to him…not that I minded playing along.

                His eyes search mine and his lips purse together. He’s thinking. I try to formulate my own version of his thought process. I draw a blank. I nuzzle against his stubbly face.

 “What is it?” I whisper.

“There’s something about you that’s both new and familiar. I can’t place it, but I know it’s there.”

I don’t want to talk. So I kiss him instead. He accepts it without complaint, his hand coming to rest at my collar bone. He has an unnatural obsession with collar bone. I roll over and grab His camera off the nightstand. He chuckles.

“It’s too late, I’m tired. I can’t.”

“Then, don’t. Let me,” I insist.

He doesn’t respond. I take that as an ‘okay’ and climb on top of him, straddling his waist to get a good angle from above. He moves his hands to my bare tights.

“Your hands are usually cold, but they’re always warm when it matters,” I say, squinting behind the lens.

“Well that’s good to know,” he responds, flipping on the lamp.

“The lighting is perfect.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Nothing. I like it like this – it’s natural ya know?”

“Natural. Okay. I think I got it.”

I ruffle his hair a bit and turn his head to the side. He looks at me sideways and I can’t help but to smile. His eyes are grey today. His lips are a rosy pink from all the friction caused by our kissing. He licks them absentmindedly when he notices me staring at them. Snap, zhooo. Snap snap zhoo. I adjust as he pushes himself up onto his elbows. I snap a picture of his chest, one of his stubble covered chin, one of his lips, one of his eyes. There was still a slight layer of sweat that made him glow in the soft yellow light. I push him back down onto the pillow.

“Close your eyes.”

“Like this?” he says closing one eye, and peeking out of the other.

“Close them both please.”

“Yes ma’am.”

I look at him there in the stillness. He looks so peaceful. My body warms and I find myself lying against the crook of his arm. His eyes open and I close mine. He’s humming. I’m purring. I feel his hand rubbing the top of my hair and nuzzle closer.

“Look at me,” he says.

I open my eyes. “What?”

“What, what?”

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Like what?”

“The look. You have that look. The one that the guy gets in every romantic comedy when he realizes he’s falling for the girl.”

He closes his eyes again. I seize the opportunity. Snap, zhooo. He rolls over, pulling away from me. I snap a picture of his back.

“Enough with the camera Steph.”

                I place it back on the nightstand and crawl over to him. I use my lips to greet him. His shoulder blades, the back of his neck…his spine. I taste his goose bumps. He rolls back over and opens his arms. I fit perfectly. His face is pressed against my collar.

                “You smell like peppermint,” he sighs.

                “I love you too.”

                He looks me dead in the face, trying to find the right words for the thought that’s being processed in his mind. His mouth opens as if to speak, then closes.

                “You wear it well,” I say, interrupting.

                “What?”

                “The look. It looks good on you.”