OLD.
His weight pressed hard against my flat chest. My silent warm tears flowing effortlessly down both sides of my face as I tried to control myself from completely losing my grip. I tried to avoid thinking about his heaving and sickening breath that blew into my face in big gusts. Dear God, let it just be over. I shoved my tiny fist into my mouth to keep from screaming but it didn’t work.
I awoke screaming at the top of my lungs again with my hair matted with sweat. I roll over to look at the clock, the red light shining 4:17 a.m as bright as ever, later than the usual two in the morning, weird. I got up and fumbled around in the darkness, tripping over a couple of the twins’ toys along the way. I finally made it to the bathroom unscathed and turned on the light revealing the horrid “Mango Madness” that my mother painted it last summer in the hopes of bringing some color to our drab home. I look at the mirror disgusted with my reflection. I don’t have the perfect skin or eyebrows or hair. I have stupid bags under my eyes that haven’t seemed to fade away over the years no matter how much sleep I get. Nights like tonight make them even worse. Nobody will ever love this. Something so worn out and used. It’s gross. I’m gross. I splash cold water on my face and neck hoping that some miracle would happen and it would cleanse me into the person I’m supposed to be. Not this. But I end up feeling more revolted with myself than ever. Tonight is just another one of those nights. Sigh. I reach up into the medicine cabinet and take the razor out that I’ve cleverly hidden under an old toothpaste box and my foundation. I sit down against the wall on the cold tile and lift the sleeve of my flannel up. Pining for a spot that isn’t scarred yet or that doesn’t already have a cut. I see an opening at the crease of my elbow. I slide the blade across ever so gently, but enough for it to do it’s job, and watch the dark blood begin to seep out and down my porcelain arm. I feel as if a weight had just been lifted off of me. I feel relaxed. I’m in control. I can control this even if I can’t control anything else. Not my reoccurring dreams, my therapy sessions, the pills I jam down my throat every morning with my orange juice, or school. I’m in control. At this very moment. And that’s all I need. Even if it’s at a few minutes at once.
By the time I’m done cleaning things up and putting things back into their proper place, I’m sleepy again. I pull my sleeve down and turn off the light. I cautiously go back to bed without tripping over anything this time and get under the covers with a mind at ease. It’s not too long before I shut my eyes and surrender myself to the nightmare within. There’s a few brief seconds of darkness and then it starts up again. A man knocks me down into the long grass, it’s a warm day and the breeze is blowing his ashy hair, his rough dirt encrusted hands ripping my delicate pink skirt, exposing me, taking away the innocence I once had…
