#musings of moments in a life that comes of and brings nothing signficant

[softsweetwhispers]

| k. - WHAT MAKES A WOMAN? - @nosebleedclub xxiv. wolfpack. page from "Alpha Status, Dominance, and Division of Labor in Wolf Packs" by L. David Mech

[softsweetwhispers]

The house is unwelcoming. The grass has curled and dried around its edges, what once was a beautiful lawn meticulously taken care of, now only remains gray and sad. The plants are permanently dead along the perimeter, weeds no longer thrive and tangle with the wood boards, dandelions are no longer blown into wistful messes, flowers no longer bloom in nature’s beauty. 

Ever since the new neighbors moved in – a son, his father, no mother, no pets –, nothing’s grown right on the land. Something about the environment not being safe. Whatever could’ve possibly thrived is killed before it has the chance. 

It rings ominous and dark, like an omen. The plants aren’t the only thing dying in that house. The plants couldn’t be the only thing dying in that house. It exudes a stifling silence, a promise that there’s as much sunlight as there is hope, and there’s a reason those damn plants aren’t growing. 

Like the boy. The boy who was always there, the one that stands in the window and people-watches like it's a hobby rather than a necessity. It is, after all, a necessity; with the way things die outside the house, it’s no surprise things die inside the house as well. 

The boy is this town’s charity case, quiet and always covered in one too many bruises for it to be a coincidence. All his pants have holes in them, his eyes are wide, off-putting, like they can see through your soul from across the street. He’s young, maybe twelve, maybe fourteen, not yet in highschool. Nobody knows his name, or really his face – we only know what we can see from inside the house. It all comes from inside the house. He never leaves. 

He stands, just visible through the cracked glass, barely peeking out through the curtains, feet planted on unstable floors in an unstable home. The house seems to wilt around him, close to collapse, the foundation threatening to collapse. He looks over the black lawn that stretches and spreads across the neighborhood like a disease. He is alone, except for the dead things, the ones he fits in with.  | k. - @nosebleedclub march viii. the boy who was always there

[softsweetwhispers]

I bought a neapolitan ice cream, candy pink and vanilla bean white and oak brown, a perfect scoop of tooth-achy goodness, topped with a bright red cherry. My hands, one wrapped around the crispy waffle cone, the other wrapped around you, fingers clinging to your arm. You pulled back, but I didn’t let go, stumbling a clumsy dance into your arms. 

I gasped as the ice cream, teetering dangerously in my hand, nearly got squished into your coat. You laughed, loud and unapologetic, even at the looks of others. Let them look, I thought, for their eyes don’t matter as long as yours is on me. 

You finally relented and curled yourself around me. Your arm snaked around my waist, and a warmth like no other spread across me. I could feel it through the cold material of your jacket, through the flurry of angel white falling from the sky, through the numbing temperature of my dessert. 

You bent down your head and grabbed the maraschino cherry, all without letting go of me. Your white teeth scraped against the juicy red and you peered up at me. I wanted to kiss you, fruit and all, just to see the heat rush to your cheeks. To see them turn the color of, well – cherries. 

Instead, I smiled. That you don’t know how much you mean to me smile. That I would buy a hundred icecreams if it meant seeing you like this smile. That I wanna be that cherry smile.

| k. - @nosebleedclub x. maraschino cherries

[softsweetwhispers]

When we drove through the rain, the water hit the roof over and over, washing us in a muted silence. The repeating, uneven, patternless sound could be heard clearly, even through the rusting metal of your car’s frame. It served as an unsuccessful way to fill the tension, a backdrop of white noise against our palpable fear. Thunder rolled below us from a distance, echoing through the streets and under the car tires like an omen. The dark clouds hung low in the sky, building something more than just rain, overlapping each other and dipping just beneath the top of the treeline. 

Silence wrapped its slimy tentacles around our mouths and coated the seats and the windows. The inside of the car was stale, the kind of quiet that made everything feel heavier. The way we tried to pretend everything was okay, how we tried to hide all our secrets, what I’ve been too scared to say aloud when you can look at me. 

When we drove through the rain, your skin was close enough for me to reach out and touch, if only I wasn’t so scared. You’re closer to me than you have been in for the past two months, and yet when I look over, you seem a million worlds away. I’ve been trying to close the distance you’ve been incomprehensibly focused on making bigger. There’s a crack between us that spreads with every argument you start and every touch you pull away from. I am going in behind you with a naive hope, uselessly pouring concrete in behind you, trying to fix the irreparable damage.

I was foolish for hoping it might’ve been the beginning of redemption. I thought the muted, forced proximity of us – what we’d been trying so hard to avoid, this elaborate chess game of denial and avoidance – would make us acknowledge our problems. But maybe it only allows the opposite of what I’m wanting; you’re using it as a shield, an excuse not to look at me, like every other feeble excuse you never would’ve prioritized before the incident. The headlights paint across your lips and nose, making you look gaunt and tired. They prevent your carefully blank face from being hidden from me. 

When we drove through the rain, I tried to put onto it what we can’t find for ourselves. I’ve rendered myself helpless trying to make things better. I’ve used all my resources, given up everything, no longer own any piece of me that doesn’t belong to you – and will continue to do so. Despite your uncertainty, I will keep fighting against the intangible monster that’s taken you away from me and swallowed you whole. I won’t leave you to face it by yourself; I was here before, I’m here now, and I will continue to be here. 

Maybe we'll never find what we can’t fix for us, but you’re still here. Even though we’re in different universes, even though you’re struggling with a fight I can’t see, even though these past few months have been one inescapable tragedy after another; you’re still here. So I’ll stay. I’ll stay and wait for the rain to get worse, and I’ll weather the storm like I always do, with you by my side like you always are. 

| k. - @nosebleedclub march, xxi. clambering

[softsweetwhispers]

You left behind nothing but a pair of old shoes when you left. 

They sit next to the front door, pressed neatly together, left foot next to right foot, the same place they always were when you came home and took them off. They were the ones you were obsessed with; the ordinary, plain gray fabric, with not a single visible smudge of dirt, no sign that they’d been worn at all, except for the wisteria that you embroidered on the heels. You told me that it reminded you of home. You said you could smell the Japanese blossoms opening as the stars burned like tiny fires in the night sky. 

The day we got them, you confessed to me that you’d never owned a pair of American tennis shoes. You were fascinated with them, and with the way the shoe stores had lines and lines of the same brands, shoes that had laces and shoes that had velcro, shoes that were nonstick and shoes that had cleats. I’m convinced you would’ve bought one of every kind, if I hadn’t been there to stop you. When you finally found them — my shoes, you said, like you’d whispered my green card over and over in the passenger seat on the day you got it — I’d never seen such a look of joy. I felt myself fall in love with you just a little bit more as I asked if you were sure, if you wanted those instead of blue ones or red ones or green ones. You brought out your embroidery kit that night, told me I had to appreciate the unappreciated, and turned something ordinary into something beautiful, as you often did.

You always found a way to find virtue in everything. Even in something as simple as shoes.

You treated them with such care, such respect. You never would’ve allowed them to just sit there, if you were still here. I always admired that about you. You were careful with the things you loved and you always said everything had a place, we just had to find it. It was the same thing that drew you to America; you believed if we could find a home anywhere, it would be here. 

Your focus on the little things was something I never understood, something I never grasped fully. Maybe there were just too many differences between us, or maybe whatever made you grow up to be kind and good was what was lacking in my childhood, or maybe it was always supposed to be this way — you and me, completely different, alone in a brand new world.  

Now, it’s just me — completely different, alone in a brand new world. 

There are pieces of you I can’t let go. The shoes are part of a bigger problem, I know, but that doesn’t make it any easier. Some days I can hear you chastising me to get rid of them, but I can’t make myself. They’re all I have left of you, and it’s easier to leave them there, a reminder of everything I’ve lost and the pointless waiting for you to come home.

| k. - @nosebleedclub prompts, xxiv. old pair of shoes

[softsweetwhispers]

Memory lies in the base of these cliffs. The old stone has been here longer than I’ve been alive; decay tests at its defenses and causes craters in its surface. Its shape carves itself as a potter does with clay. The land’s hands reach up to push its fingers in the perfect spots, creating a beautiful masterpiece. Its base is wide and thick, darkened and weathered, and it grows upwards, reaching for the sky. It sits sturdy against a gray-blue backdrop. The end of the cliff curves down back towards the bottom, like a child reaching for its mother. 

The shores bash unsteadily against the rough rock. The water is a brittle kind of cold, a hypothermic-inducing temperature, and layers itself with a complicated combination of beautiful hues. Powder blue and cambridge blue and flint gray and slate gray. The angry wind pushes it forward, and pulls it back, a dangerous cycle. Sea foam curls together in an attempt not to be separated, white and frothing and strong enough not to be pulled under the current. 

Fog dances along the shore, rising up through the chilly air. The wind teases it, sharp and cold, as it lays thick and heavy. It climbs up with a sort of certainty; it’s been here long enough to know every inch of this place. It's nearly completely opaque, a haunting white, and wraps itself around the cliff like a blanket. It’s a cold comfort, but a comfort nonetheless, and the rock clings to it with a strong ferocity. 

The rock, the cliffs, the sky – they’ve become intertwined together so that one cannot be without the other two. Together, they’re a breath-taking sight, something that could never be put into words. They are a part of something bigger, something made with the intent to be more. I am merely lucky enough to witness it.  | k. - @nosebleedclub xxv. memory of the cliffs

[softsweetwhispers]

hey mom, do you still remember me, all the way up there in heavenhellpurgatorywhereveryouare, or maybe that's not how memory works when you're dead.

hey mom, it feels like everything is wrong now, everything is different, it's not right, it's - it's complicated, i guess. it's impossible to talk to dad, it's impossible to talk to his now ex-wife, it's impossible to talk, it's impossible to, it's impossible.

hey mom, your daughter tells me i look exactly like you. it makes her cry. i wish i could tell her how guilty it makes me.

hey mom, i told dad i didn't need a therapist, (i've already been thorough two, he tells me it's not working because i'm not receptive to it. or something. another problem, i guess.), but i lied and i think he knows.

hey mom, i'm fucking drowning.

hey mom, i found something i really love and even though it feels like i'm ripping out my insides/ and bent-over-at-the-knees hurling, even though i've sewn my mouth shut at the expense of everyone else, i really do love doing it. i think i might go to college for it. i wrote a poem about you, i'm not sure you would've liked it, though.

hey mom, i realized the other day you won't be there when i graduate.

hey mom, i got a girlfriend. you always took us to church and we weren't raised religious, but you believed and i think sis does too now, or maybe she just uses it as an excuse to get closer to you. i don't know what you thought of gay people, but i like to pretend you would've liked her, even though i'm pretty sure, at this point, you wouldn't be able to form a coherent sentence.

hey mom, do you think if i killed myself I'd see you in heaven? or do you think the stories are true, and I'd go straight to hell?

hey mom, i got a girlfriend. and we have a dog and two cats. and dad has a girlfriend who's a little too young, but we both know she's not gold-digging, and it's obvious they really love each other.

hey mom, it took me five years of fighting, and not crying, and seeing everyone mourn, and hating you, and resenting you, and missing not you, but what could've been, and breaking down silently while everyone was asleep, and hurting myself, and - none of this will change, but i think - it took me five years, but i think i forgive you. mostly.

hey mom, would you be proud?

| k. - @nosebleedclub xxi. questions to ask your mother (DRAFT)

[softsweetwhispers]

With days spent waiting, I am overcome with sympathy for Rapunzel; pacing, alone and isolated, for a sign that may never come. Just a glimpse of what’s been promised, whatever sliver of an idea that gave her enough hope to hold on for all those years. I guess I’m not as strong as my hero from once upon a time ago, because my tether to you has begun fraying at the edges. Her hair held strong as her unexpected prince climbed up it, but mine has hardly bared the weight of you and I’m not sure how much longer it will last.  

I don’t mean to doubt you, but with days spent waiting, I could’ve built my own tower. My own prison within a prison, a physical manifestation of the cage you’ve put me in. I’d stand at the only window and look down, where you’d be on the soft grass of the Earth, breathing in air from the sky. Your favorite hobby is watching me, dangling the carrot with the promise of affection, calling out to me as if you ever really considered saving me. I am helpless, entirely dependent on whether you decide you want me enough to get me out. 

You have rendered me nearly helpless with days spent waiting. I am as isolated as that princess, ignoring others’ affection in favor of your temporary attention. Standing as alone as she in the room with merely the wardrobe and endless ceiling above for company. Just as her, I have no control over my life. I handed it over to you a long time ago, foolishly tripping over my heart to place it into your hands. You wouldn’t dare give it back now. It means too much.

At least I don’t have a Mother Gothel to deal with. 

Only you. 

Only ever you. 

The thought sends a nauseating bout of dread to my stomach. Somehow, that’s not as comforting as it should be. Somehow, that’s so much worse.

@nosebleedclub april xxv. days spent waiting

[softsweetwhispers]

The sweet, heavenly smell of perfectly-baked goods drifts through the humble diner and into her nose gently. It smells like home, and she tries not to think of the streets of Italy, the farmer’s markets Mamma used to take her to before she got sick. Standing on the brown wood-grained tile, watching people bustle from table to counter to table, she is immediately taken to a different, happier time. The warmth reminds her of the pulsing heat of the sun on her back, the press of her Mamma’s presence at her side. 

Somebody bumps into her from behind and she mutters an apology. She is pulled out of the fantasy, just as she reaches for the coins her Mamma is handing her — going to the markets was always a special occasion because they’d never had money, so she held her hands out with a sort of reverence as ten euros were dropped into them — and suddenly, she is back in the diner. The atmosphere is pleasant, but not home; the people that are just a bit too American for her to really be able to pretend otherwise; the food, while delicious and wonderful in itself, was not the food of Italy’s streets. 

Under the delectable, yet overpriced menu decorated with practiced calligraphy with low hanging bare bulbs hanging from them, is a display case full of already made food. Oversized blueberry muffins with chunks of purple-blue deliciousness poking out of its golden brown crust, steaming chocolate chip cookies she could imagine melting in her mouth, coffee cake that crumbled just the right amount in just the right way. 

They’re not the goods she’s used to from her old home, Italy, but they are from her new home, America. She’ll miss the sweet custard filling of Zeppoles, the way she took a bite and it melted in her mouth, she’ll miss the almonds, and the candied fruits, the elaborately beautiful designs ingrained into flat, soft pazelle. Still, her stomach growls quietly as she walks up to the counter, pulling money — dollars, not euros — out of her pocket. 

Today she decides that she will get something new: she is here, in a new country, with new cultures, and new baked goods — she might as well embrace it. She points to the curious looking pastry, some sort of fried dough with a sweet white cream sandwiched between it, topped with melted chocolate. The tiny chalkboard in front of it reads profiteroles in that same cursive, with a little heart over the eye. She points to it and her shadow hovers perfectly over it, the light making it look like an innocent child’s hand. 

The cashier is friendly enough to feel familiar, and he smiles at her shyly as he hands her the bag. She thanks him and walks back to a table in the corner with a single chair. She carefully takes out the profiterole, with the same reverence she’d held her hands out for Mamma’s money, and takes a deep breath, relaxing at the heartwarming smell.

When she bites into it, it tastes like heaven — the perfect balance of fried and sweet and soft. It reminds her of when her Mamma used to get a box of bigné alla cremas, that same custard-smooth vanilla flavor. Mamma’s offering her one with that same secretive smile, the same twinkle in her eye, the same soft don’t tell your father laugh. She takes it and closes her eyes. When she takes another bite, for a moment, it all feels like home. 

@nosebleedclub prompts, april vii. profiteroles

[softsweetwhispers]

you're whispering again, all sweet echoes and careful words into this deep, dark space. lights pass by in a blur, painting the night sky with multicolored facets and leaving us winded. i can barely hear you over the hair in my face, the music playing, the air slipping through the open window. i lean in, clutch your hand, and you whisper of ancient stories or ancestor's ancestors made. you tell me of sacred promises and lambskins and sacrifices. there's something to be learned, you say, about the poet's journey. you are looking at me, eyes conspiratorially shining and lips twitching, the string connecting the two of us tugging. there's something to be said about the words spilled; about the love felt.

| k. - @mercuriian nanowrimo prompts 2023;

[softsweetwhispers]

The line is drawn on the body perfectly, meticulously — cold hands don’t shake once as their latex-covered fingers grip the marker. The air is frigid, and beneath the one in control, the body twitches. It won’t be able to feel anything under all that anesthesia, and it’s been put under for a long while now, so the reaction is strictly biological, but he hesitates nonetheless. You can never be too careful.

The next moment is silent, still, absent of any suspicion that anything could be alive in the room. The one in control grins — for it is a miraculous thing to be granted this opportunity — and sets down the marker. He picks up the scalpel next to it, both the odd shade of crimson red for different reasons, satisfaction settling in him as it gleams in the Gray Room’s lighting. 

The one in control feels adrenaline from the ends of his fingertips to the heels of his feet as he makes the smooth, red line straight down the subject’s chest. The sharp edge splits the skin and opens it, and the blood immediately rushes out. He watches in morbid fascination as warm rivers of blood flow down to the dip in the stomach, rolling off the ribs with a beautiful vibrancy.

He reaches his hands into the ravine it makes, gloves stained red and blood slicking up his arm and filling the room with that repeating shlck, shlck, shlck. The predictable shiver of pleasure he always gets slithers into his brain and activates something he rarely feels, but in moments like these. He takes a deliberate breath and pulls himself back together not even a second later; he can take care of it later tonight, if he’s lucky enough to be able to remember the feeling.  

He can’t help but wrinkle his nose in disgust at the way the intestines slime together, the familiar squelching of bloody fluids. It always gets everywhere — point in case, disdainfully, as it slips from him when he tries to place it on the plastic covered counter — and the inevitability only adds to his disgust. 

He shudders. In this line of work, very few things truly disgust him. This never fails to. There’s a reason why humans aren’t his favorite subjects. Rabbits, small dogs, even raccoons — they’re the easiest to handle. Humans are… probably the worst.

Regardless, this is what The Master asks for. What The Master Wants, The Master Gets. He will carefully package every part of this precious, beautiful body, from all ten carefully pedicured toenails, to the billions of billions of strands of hair upon the subject’s head. It’s what he’s asked of him. 

Besides, he'd be lying if he said a part of him — a rather large part of him (eight inches, to be exact) — didn’t enjoy it. There was a thrill to the chase. An excitement to the cut. 

@nosebleedclub april xv. vivisection

[softsweetwhispers]

The stage is alight with blue, azure beaming down from the lights and hitting the paint-splattered set floor. Underneath your feet, vibrations from the practicing band pulse in time with Ten Minutes Ago. A couple of kids fly past you, pushing the staircase set piece that splits in half. You can almost imagine Cinderella herself standing on it, leaning down to carefully take off one shoe as the music intensifies to a crescendo. Or maybe you’ve just seen the show too many times. Still, it seems vivid, you can’t help getting caught up in the fairytale.

Backstage, energy pushes itself to the center of attention. Anticipation hums through the air and thickens the tension, a feeling that might've been familiar if the stakes weren’t so high. Everyone is alright with nerves and excitement, the pride of showing something they’ve worked so hard on mixed with the fear of all the things that could go going wrong. 

Cast members pile themselves together in groups, laughing as loudly as they can before the house opens and they have to fall to a hushed silence. Grease foundation is smeared on their faces, counters, and brushes, highlighter and contour is being exchanged with a natural ease, people sit stock-still, hardly breathing as others help those that need it apply their makeup. 

Tech kids linger in the doorway as they eat what’s left of whatever dinner one of the mom’s brought. They fill the spaces that aren’t taken up with elaborate early-century costumes, bodies soaked in cologne, champagne, and BO, and props that need to be added to the ‘To Be Fixed’ list. 

The fast pace is familiar and you let yourself fall into the easy rhythm. You watch as they too, surrounded by people who are doing the same thing they are with the same kind of reinforced passion. They get ready for their first performance under the lights, with the smell of chalk and light background chatter. 

Opening night is officially a go. Here’s to hoping nothing too monumental happens. 

Opening Night (inspired by a true story)

[softsweetwhispers]

There is a subtle, cinnamomy smell in the air.

The granite counter is smooth beneath my fingers, cold rock even colder because of the autumn air. My finger absent mindedly runs the trail of a crack from years ago tracing from the top left corner of the surface to the center. I still remember the day it happened as vividly as when it happened - after the company installed it wrong, the image of my mother rightfully pissed off yelling into a phone while waving dramatically through the screen window was one I'd giggle at for years to come. It was a time before the food truck, when everything was unstable and dangerously reckless, when everything me and my mother had built shook violently. She took a terrifying time and turned it into something fond.

The neighboring sense of sweet pumpkin pie and grilled squash are carried by the wind, which whistles softly in a tune that sounds like a memory. I can see us: me, laying in bed feeling nothing but waves of nausea and the mucus in my throat, and my mother, with her first gray hair and kind hands and soft lullaby.

It smells like buried treasure and home, a smell that clings to my mother like a weighted blanket. Her apple cider bubbles on the stove, a mix of cinnamon and nostalgia together in a pot. It's her apple cider - ten time winner of the town's annual best cider contest. Nothing, not the families who ordered an abundance, not the kids whose face is lit up at the magical taste, or the way it seemed to bring a whole community together, could beat the time and effort my mother put into making each bite special.

I can hear her humming the tube now, back to me as her fingers carefully pull pie dough, fingers taking care where others' wouldn't. She has more than one gray hair now and doesn't much have the energy for yelling so animatedly, but the Greek warrior strength she conjures into her spine is something I wish I deserved to wear.

My mother is made of steel; apple cider will always smell like home; these are truths I'll always know.

| k. - @nosebleedclub v. apple cider

[softsweetwhispers]

Asters and Goldenrod were given in abundance, soft dandelion yellow flowers turned brown and rotting, dehydration from their roots to their petals causing their beauty to crack.

Maybe I should’ve been grateful. Maybe I should’ve tried to preserve them, a reminder of one of the worst days of my life, but I didn’t -- as soon as I got home that night, I threw them away, tossing them in the trash right on top of the weeks-old leftovers we’d only just cleaned out. I remember flies, dozens of them, flying up in a panic, their ceaseless buzzing making the ringing in my ears worse. I tried not to think about maggots as they inevitably flew back into the trashcan, and I closed the lid.

There were Asters and Goldenrod given in abundance and maybe I should’ve been grateful, but I couldn’t say anything past the barbed wire tangled in my mouth. My jaw clenched and I remember the familiar taste of blood. All I could think about was how much my mother hated flowers.

It was a memorial service because we’d decided on having her cremated. I didn’t make the decision, didn’t have any part of it – my father did, though. He was the only person who knew her well enough to make the decision, even though they’d been divorced for almost a decade. My siblings and I were too young to know any version of her except the one that had been infected by her own mind. Her father wanted nothing to do with her and her mother couldn’t use the bathroom by herself let alone decide if her daughter would be thrown into a coffin or burned into ash.

People spoke, but I don’t remember what they said. I sat on a cold, plastic chair like the ones in waiting rooms and stared ahead, waiting for it to end. Static echoed in my brain like some secret hidden message and there was nothing I wanted more than to lay in bed and make everything stop. I felt like a ghost – unreal, invisible, outside of the real world. I thought, these people didn’t even know my mother. I thought, how cruel it was to make up a person who never existed for the sake of relieving self-guilt.

My mother’s best friend walked up to the podium – the podium, as if it was some charity or public speaking, as if what was left of my mother wasn't even something I could hold in my hands – she said I can’t believe we’re all talking about how like she’s not here, and I wanted to scream but she’s not! She wasn’t here and she never would be.

When it was over, somebody picked up the strings holding me together and made me walk and talk like everything was okay. When it was over, I stared at the flowers in my hands and couldn’t feel anything except anger curled so tight within me I thought I would snap. It was all wrong. Asters and Goldenrods are beautiful, and the world shouldn’t be beautiful when my mother is dead.

| k. - @nosebleedclub xii. asters and goldenrod

[softsweetwhispers]

you looked at me with softened almond eyes, edges wrinkles up in the way only smile lines can. your eyes always reminded me of those sour apple rings – sugary on the outside, sour on the inside, and I think if the only person you were ever kind to was me, that is all the motivation I need to stay on earth.

your twizzler red lips curled into a smile, chewy rope tilted up and I thought if I leaned over and kissed you, it would be entirely too sweet. I’ve never liked twizzlers, but I’d eat them everyday if it meant just one moment with you.

your laugh is unabashed and loud, the savory butter to your smile’s maple syrup. cozy, warm, and confectionary, I think I could drown in your presence if you weren’t my anchor.

freckles span across your skin like they could tell a future of us. you and me, me and you. maybe laughing at something stupid I said. maybe sharing a bowl of candy. I always thought they were too sweet, but it’s okay – it’s the perfect excuse to give you half anyway.

| k. - I tried to write you something, but I had a reese’s in my mouth and you were smiling so big, I got distracted. - @nosebleedclub xxii. maple syrup

[softsweetwhispers]

The closet is colder than I would’ve expected and when I hear the air kick on, goosebumps race each other across my arm. I shiver, tighten my arm’s grip around my knees, and curl impossibly further into myself. The gash on my forearm burns and my legs protest against me, but I only relish in the pain.

I wish I had a blanket, but there’s nothing I can do about it; I can’t leave, because he’s waiting out there, plopped onto the recliner sitting in front of the television, beer in one hand and cigarette in the other. I can hear the muffled sound of background music and people talking, the only company I have.

I’m not sure what time it is. There’s no clocks, no windows. Actually, there’s no anything — the closet is small enough for me to reach out my arm and touch all four walls, and was emptied out years ago after Mom left. The only thing that remains is the curtain rod that just barely brushes against my head when I sit up straight. The position forces my neck to be bent at an odd angle, but I don’t mind. I’ve been through worse.

For a second, I think I hear something out there — his heavy footsteps, or his low growl, or his obtrusive slamming — but I immediately shake the thought off. It’s impossible. This is my safe place, the only place in the house where it’s ensured he won’t come after me. If I tuck myself away in here first, I don’t have to worry about how hard he’ll throw me in. As long as I stay out of sight, out of earshot, out of mind, I’ll survive.

The thought of fighting back enters my mind with the traitorous taunting of hope. Even if I were brave enough, there’s no way I would win. I’ve tried before. My presence is as insignificant as the gum on the bottom of his shoe; he picks me up and throws me to the ground without a second thought. It’s better for me to stay put. It always is. 

Just until I’m eighteen. Just until I’m eighteen. The mantra repeats itself even before I know I’ve thought it. I’ve treaded these unstable waters before. As dangerous as they were, they were also familiar. All I had to do was ride the waves out. I can last longer than him. That, at least, I can do. I owed it to Mom. I owed it to myself.  @nosebleedclub prompts, april xi. “safe” place