The bedroom comes into view as the door swings open. My unmade bed sits directly across from me, centered along the far wall. Dim rays of sunlight enter through the busted upblinds, and dance across the sheets. It lights up the marigold pattern along the comforter and the four matching pillow cases. Countless nights spent hiding under the covers from a monster flash through my head as I stand there frozen in place. Fear no longer consumes me as I look over to my safe haven, instead all I feel is loneliness. Hours upon hours were spent hiding away in here. Closing myself off from the world, from all of the pain that came included with living.
I close my eyes and take a moment to steady my breathing before I finally walk into the room. The ragged carpet underneath my soles is a stark contrast to the stability of the plastic floor in the hall. I let it consume me as I slowly bend down until I’m on my knees. The smell of my old perfume floats in the air around me. Vanilla with notes of strawberry. I find comfort in the remnants left behind from my past self. I would do anything to hold her now, to promise her that she escapes. I would keep the truth hidden, never letting on to how much worse it’s going to get. She deserves the peace.
I wouldn’t tell her about how desperate I am to die. How the only reason I’m still alive is to keep those, who are the reason I want to kill myself, happy. I’d never let on how I’ve returned home, because the toxicity that seeps through these walls feels more stable than any form of happiness I’ve been able to find in the outside world. That I can’t escape, because the emptiness hurts so much fucking worse than the pain of home.
My fingers run through the frayed yarn of the carpet as my eyes dance around the walls. Old sketchbook drawings, pictures, and trinkets decorate the wood covered plaster. My younger self had fought so hard to fill these four walls with life. A stark contrast to the box of razor blades she had kept hidden underneath the mattress. Constantly trying to slap a band aid of happiness over the fatal emotional wounds that were obliterating her mind.
I find myself zoning out on the tattered papers hung by mismatched thumb tacks, focusing on every pencil stroke, wishing I could become a part of the art. Something to be cherished. A slight breeze flows through my room from the small AC unit that clings to the window on the left side of the bed. It rustles some of the looser papers, allowing their shadows to dance across the wood behind them.
“This room felt so empty without you here,” mom’s voice pulls me out of my trance. I strain my neck to look behind me, where I find her standing awkwardly in the doorway. She tries to hide it well, but I see the fear behind her eyes. It’s been like this since the incident, and it’s nothing but a constant reminder of what I’ve done. How I’ve hurt her. The idea of leaving me to my own devices has become her worst nightmare.
“It still feels empty,” I mumble out before I can catch myself. Her eyebrows raise up in response, and I almost miss the tremble that works its way across her bottom lip. “Sorry, I just mean that it's full of so many things that don't fit me anymore,” I usher out quickly, desperate to escape the conversation.
A forced smile pulls her lip up and she takes a few steps towards me, before kneeling down next to me. “Good thing we have all summer to redo it!” She reaches forward, brushing a blonde curl out of my eyesight. The sadness slowly returns to her face as she gazes down at her only child. Again, stabbing me with a knife of guilt. I break eye contact unable to deal with the emotion and instead look down to my hands. The skin around each fingernail has been pulled at, leaving bits of dead cuticle hanging off. It’s a poor habit I’ve tried time and time again to break, but at this moment I’m thankful for the distraction.
She must sense the mood change because by the time she speaks up again, the syrupy sweet tone has seeped back into her voice. “Well I better go get started on dinner, you know dad likes to eat early.” I give her a nod, still not looking up. It’s not untilI see her, out of my peripheral vision, leaving the room that I finally return my gaze to the bed. The warm orange colors blur as my eyes become unfocused. It’s not until the first drop of salty liquid hits my palm that I realize I’ve started crying. The sadness hits like a tidal wave as I stare at the resting place.I was just a fucking kid. How can she treat me like this is my fault? Did she forget? Does she not remember all the nights she spent curled up next to me, knowing he wouldn’t hit her if I was there?
I pull at my skin again, grateful for the pain that pulls me back. All my focus goes to the blood beginning to surface along the side of my thumb. I watch as it beads up, catching bits of the lowering sunlight. A sense of calm blankets over me as the beads conjoin together, creating one larger droplet. I tear at myself one more time, making myself smaller and smaller.
Giving myself less and less to hate.
Play Demon Limbs (Acoustic) by PVRIS
The hot water from the sink burns with pleasure against my new minor wounds. I push the ceramic plate through the water, letting the liquid stream over my entire hand. Below me, bits of sausage mix in with the murky water, waiting patiently to be let down the drain. Mom had gone all out for my first day home. Lining the table with fresh biscuits and a large pot of gravy.
“When you’re done, we’re all set up!” Her voice calls from her place on the couch. I swing my head over my shoulder to get a better look at her and Dad. Together, they take up most of the tattered seats. In front of them on the coffee table sits a cheap board game. It was a family tradition to have game nights every Friday. A tradition that slowly faded into the background as I got older, more aware. The less time I spent around him, the easier it was to pretend that my world wasn’t getting flushed down by amber liquid.
I lightly smile back at her, “Okay, Mama.” My gaze swings forward again as I reach to the left to put the now sparkling plate on the drying rack. I marvel at the inflamed, red skin peering back at me. The pain has become my most dangerous addiction. A constant escape from the mental war, while also being a dangerous game to see how far I can take it.It’s never been enough.
I take my time, making my way over to the coffee table, wanting the red to ease up before eyes fall upon me. A sense of giddyness fills me, like a child hiding stolen candy. It evaporates abruptly when I notice the glass in front of dad. Condensation drips off of it, leaving a ring of wetness on the wood. Through the murky glass, I can see the still brown liquid that fills the cup up halfway. My stomach knots as I stare down at it, trying to keep my facial expression in check.You knew better, Nova. Nothing. Ever. Fucking. Changes.
“Alright,” mom’s voice breaks the awkward silence as she pats her lap with excitement. “We have Uno or Monopoly. You get to pick, SuperNova!” I quickly take my seat on the worn down carpet. The table separates me from them, and I do my best to avoid looking at dad. Even now as an adult, he haunts me. A living human, with a recurring death to everything good about him. Over and over and over again I’ve watched the man who was supposed to give me the world, turn into a ghost of anger.
“Let’s go with Uno,” I answer, smiling up at Mom. Uno is a much shorter game, and the sooner I can disappear, the better. Her and Dad both smile back as his thick fingers reach forward to grab the cardboard box.
“Uno it is, babygirl.” He takes out the cards and begins shuffling them. I don’t miss the way his thumb sticks out slightly too far, ruining the smoothness of the process. “Do you want to deal?”
“You can,” I state back. Unable to help myself, I glare at the drink once again, wishing it would just disappear. I almost allowed myself to believe that things would change, that it could be better.
His thumb swipes over the edges of the cards, letting the pieces of cardstock batter against each other. Quickly he starts handing them out. One to me, one to mom, one to himself and so on. I keep track of each card placed in front of me, zoning in on how the bright logo contrasts so greatly against the black background. “You’re over.” I state, finally looking up to him. “You just started the eighth rotation. It’s only seven,” I deadpan, feeling bits of myself begin to go into hibernation somewhere in the back of my mind.
“I did not,” he chuckles before reaching forward and grabbing my stack. Without looking at the front of the cards, he fans them out, allowing for an easier count. Eight cards stare back at me. “Well I’ll be damned,” he laughs again, grabbing the last card and slipping it back into the deck. The air around me begins to feel like water as I reach forward, taking my cards from him.
With an empty hand, the temptation gets the best of him. His calloused digits circle the brim of the glass before he clutches it and brings it up to his mouth. The longer hairs from his mustache brush against the top of the cup as he tips it up. I watch as his throat bobs with not one, not two, but threeswallows. Each one forces my heart to sink further down into my stomach.
“I’ll start!” Mom states, louder than necessary. If the uneasy tone in her voice didn't give her up, the fearful look in her eyes as they dance between Dad and I definitely do. By the end of my time living here, I had found my voice. I became her protector during the screaming matches, the one who would slam objects down to grab his attention. I grew up to become her knight, always keeping her safe, not that she ever appreciated it.Clearly.
Her fragile hand makes its way to the top of the leftover cards, flipping a red two over. She smiles, gently biting her cheek, before placing a red four on top. I stare at her for a moment longer, almost feeling guilt. It’s my first night back, and a part of me feels like I owe it to her to keep the peace. At least for tonight. I glance back down at my cards, unable to truly focus on them as the unease seeps deeper into my bones.
A girl should never have to be afraid of her own father. That’s supposed to be her first love, the one that checks under the bed for monsters and kisses away all the pain. Over time my fear hardened into anger, allowing me to fight back. But underneath that raging hot shell of wrath, still lies the little girl who was scared of him.
Without paying much attention, I grab onto the only red card in my hands and place it down on top of the deck. Dad eyes it, before choking on his fourth gulp he’s taken since I’ve sat down. With a slight cough, he wipes his mouth before speaking up. “Already playing dirty, Nova?” Dad grins at me, but I’ve been trained my entire life to recognize the subtle hint of annoyance that crosses his face. It sets off a tsunami of pent up emotions I’ve been harboring since the last time we spoke. Since he threw his daughter out on the street when her acceptance letter came in the mail.
“It’s just a fucking game,” I mumble, reorganizing the cards in my hands till all the colors sit in their correct pairings.
“What was that?”
A lump lodges its way in the top of my throat as I look up to him. He sits there, unamused, waiting for me to repeat myself. His fingers slightly tighten against the glass, causing his fingertips to lighten in color. Mom just sits there, frozen in place like usual. Allowing me to once again become the punching bag.I’m sure she missed her safety blanket.
