I sighed and buried my head in my hands. How the hell was I supposed to know what to do? My elbows were still propped on the table, but I looked at her through my fingers.
“Really. What do you want me to say?”
She shrugged and looked across the table at me. I tried to understand what was going through her head, and why she was confessing these things to me. The more I tumbled the words over and over in my head, the more the comments became clouded. I was confused.
Somehow, I never thought things would come to this. This really wasn’t the way that this conversation should happen. I had played through the scenario in my head so many times, in so many different ways and places, but it had never turned out like this, not even once. I thought about it like it was in all the movies – the parents, sitting the kid down together, their eyes filled with their contempt for each other, and trying to be civil while they told him that they were splitting. That nothing would ever be the same again. That her life was about to be ripped apart. That they hated each other and would never be in the same room again as long as they could help it. Hell, in the more morbid day dreams, the father may even hit the mother, smash her across the face, splattering her blood across the wall in Pollock patterns.
But things are never as enjoyable as they are in the movie. I sat across from my mother, imaging every argument that had lead to now. I closed my eyes for a moment, sinking into the screams. I could almost feel the hand gestures moving the air around me. The venom tipped words layered the ground like land mines, and it was impossible to move forward without stepping on one and losing half of your sanity. Somewhere, above the surface of my dream like state, I heard my mother still talking.
I slowly swam my way back to the surface of reality, already missing the warmth of my imagination. Why couldn’t they just make this easy on me, instead of trying to pretend things were going to get better?
“I mean, I can’t even talk to him. he assumes everything he does is right, and that all of our problem stem solely from me. He really thinks that he is held above these standards, and that he is untouchable.”
I nodded at her and opened my eyes, rubbing my fingers along the bridge of my nose. She continued to talk, and I nodded in fake sympathy, pretending to understand and that it wasn’t scarring me inside. My lungs itched for a cigarette, but I didn’t smoke anymore. I took a deep breath in through my nose, holding it until I was worried that my lungs would explode.
I let the breath out softly through my mouth. Every now and then, I let out a yeah, or a right, but I never said anything of any real value. Suddenly, she was standing up, and I lifted my head from my hands. I blinked my blue eyes and looked up at her as she walked by and continued behind me. I heard her move about in the kitchen, glasses clanking in the cabinet, the tap turning on. I listened as she filled the glass with water and took a sip. She sighed again and sat the glass on the counter. “I guess I just don’t know what to think.” I nodded again, knowing she couldn’t see my face. Listening to the inner workings of my parent’s relationship was a unique form of torture.
As their child, I knew things about their relationship that I never needed to know. I heard her footsteps leave the kitchen and turn left, heading down the stairs. I knew she was going to check the laundry, and I rose from my seat at the table, taking the time to push in my chair. I strode to the bathroom, my tennis shoes squeaking lightly on the wooden floor. I shut the bathroom door behind me, flicking the lock into place behind my back. I clicked the light switch, and the lights above the vanity flickered to like, buzzing dimly with yellow warmth.
Refusing to look at myself in the mirror, I bathed in the light, leaning my back and head back against the door. I wanted to be there for my mother, but everything was making me so numb inside. I felt like I would never understand, like I would never escape the feeling, and like I would never be the most important thing to anyone. I let out another puff of fair and slipped down the length of the door.
My body sank to the floor, and I sat there for a moment, huddled forward, my arms clutched around my knees. I propped my chin up on my knee cap and stared forward with empty blue eyes. As many things as I understood, I failed to understand even more. The hole inside me was growing quickly, and I was unsure of how to fill it. I closed my eyes and tried to use the music in my head to drown out the world.
This trick never worked. Every time I closed my eyes, something inside me started screaming. It was filled with rage, terror, and pain. The screaming never subsided, and only grew louder when I tried to sleep. When I opened my eyes, everything went silent again. I could hear my mother moving about in the hall – my father was still out drinking and wouldn’t be home for a few more hours. Her footsteps disappeared into her bedroom, and before long, her light clicked off.
I stood quietly, afraid to disturb her. I walked quietly down the hall and down the stairs into the basement. I entered my room and looked about. The walls seemed to close in on me, and the room was oppressive as it would be for the remainder of my time there. I tiptoed to my bed and pulled the sheets back. Stripping to my bra and panties, I climbed into bed and pulled the blankets up around my body.
I lay there in the dark for what felt like days. My father came home and stumbled about upstairs for a few minutes. I heard him walk into my brother’s room and wake him, so that he could ramble something before he went to his room for the night.
My parents hadn’t slept in the same room for at least a year now, and I still found it odd. I watched their marriage crumble the entire time, and never said a word to anyone. Before long, I slipped into sleep.
That night, I dreamt of fires. I dreamt my skin was burning, and that I was pouring gasoline over my hair. The air was filled with the smell of charred flesh, fresh and bloody. The pain was excruciating. I was screaming, but not out of pain. I was cursing my parents for ever bearing me, cursing them for bringing me into the godforsaken existence I now found myself in. I cackled madly and I lit match after match, holding the burning stick in the palm of my hand. Pain ripped through my body, and my heart raced. I was afraid I was going to die. I desperately wanted to die. The dream stretched on and on, all night. I woke up sweating, my skin on fire throughout the night, but every time I slipped back under, the dream was the same. Something inside me was endlessly screaming. And that night, all it did was scream and burn. I ripped at my smoldering skin, tearing chunks off with my blunt fingernails. I watched the burnt blood pool in my palms and drip off my fingertips. Every time the fire that consumed me burnt out, I would light more matches, and continue to wash my hair with gasoline. I woke up screaming.
Dark circles ringed my eyes. My eyes were cracked with red veins, and my lips were pealing, razor sharp pieces of flesh attached to my face. I tried to carry on, like the emptiness inside me wasn’t eating me alive. After a few moments, I climbed from bed, my bare feet sweeping against the carpet. My back was sore, and I grimaced when I attempted to stretch. I took a few deep breaths, and rose to my feet.
My legs felt weak under my body, even though they were more than strong enough to support me. I reached for my jeans, and pulled on a tee shirt. Before long, I found myself ready for the day. I emerged from my room and headed up the stairs. I walked into the kitchen and poured myself a cup of coffee before noticing the house was oddly quiet. My mother was in the front room, on her laptop, while my father was watching TV in the living room. They were both alone. I knew this was something that my father had been complaining about. She never sat with him. They never sat together. They never watched TV together. He ignored her. Things were never going to get better. Times when they were both home made me happy I had gone away to college. I was happy I only came home for weekends. My happiness was fleeting.
I put on a smile and sipped my coffee, my insides screaming with all their might. I would be able to go back to school soon, and longed for the lonely quiet I normally resided in. I was tired of hearing them pick at each other, acting like the other person was an old scab, something to be thrown away. I began to pick at the inside of my wrist with my nails absent mindedly – a habit I had redeveloped after high school. I would pick up the skin over the vein, stretch it tight, hold it there for a second while I dug my nail in, and then release it, happily leaving trails of crescent shaped fingernail marks down the length of my arm.
I managed to ignore the majority of the day, and before I knew it, I was back in my apartment. My sole companion there was my television, and it constantly babbled in the background of everything I did. I spent the day drifting in and out of sleep, and I was unsure if the world or sleep swirled around me at any given moment. I constantly felt lost, torn somewhere between constant tears and a cavernous emptiness. I found that no matter how hard I tried, I could never find middle ground between my two painful extremes.
I thought hard about hurting myself. I hadn’t intentionally hurt myself in almost a year, but the struggle to continue became harder and harder every day. I was unhappy with my appearance, and considered giving up eating again. I felt like this was a good option, but couldn’t bring myself to actually do it anymore. I had grown weak. My pretend strength and normalcy had stripped me of any courage I used to possess.
The more days that passed, the more I knew about their relationship and their counseling. My own apartment was no longer the safe haven I had depended upon it being – I was drowning in my own bathtub. Most of the information was passed on to me via email, and I dreaded checking it every day. Each word I read forced its’ way through my retina and out the back of my head, leaving my brain matter spattered in lovely patterns over the wall behind me.
I found myself gasping for air, struggling to keep my head above my own life. I had trouble sleeping, didn’t want to eat, and was unsure of what to do with myself. I was falling apart at the seams. Then, one night, I made a mistake. My school work was done, and I had nothing to do for the evening, but sit and think. I spent a long time thinking about different things, and came to the conclusion I had to face what was going on with my parents head on.
I thought more in depth as the hours passed, and became more and more distraught. I knew nothing could ever be different. Every relationship must be this way, and every relationship was equally as hopeless and lifeless. Every relationship was the same as a living death. Why should I be forced into something so terrible? Why should I continue to allow things like this to ruin my life? I made my decision.
I made a mistake. I am a mistake. No one likes mistakes. How could I ever live as such a mistake? With such a mistake? Mistakes are impossible to correct. What’s done is done. I gave up. I don’t remember why. But I know everything is a mistake. Everything I am is a mistake. And just like that, I made everything disappear. I don’t think anyone was too worried. I'm sure they probably didn’t find me for several days – maybe even weeks. I was probably a sight to behold, all bloated and disgusting. But it doesn’t matter – a mistake doesn’t deserve an open casket anyway.
