She said it was discipline and that I needed to learn. That she was doing it for my own good.
I couldn’t think of a single thing to say that didn’t sound trite or uncaring, over text. If it weren’t for the girls, I’d be over at her place, dragging her into my arms and holding her tight.
I tried to be what she wanted. I really did. But it got to the point that I just couldn’t do it anymore.
Dread curdled in my gut as I typed my reply with shaking fingers.
What happened?
The dots appeared and disappeared several times. I waited, my heart pounding harder with each second that passed.
When I was 17, I had a really bad day. Lost a pageant I was supposed to win. I should have won by a landslide, because it was just a small town one. Mom was so angry, she didn’t speak to me the whole drive home. When we got there, she told me I was an embarrassment. and that I’d never amount to anything if I couldn’t even win a small-town pageant.
Em.
I went to my room and I just... I couldn’t take it anymore. The pressure. The constant disappointment. Feeling like I was never good enough no matter what I did. I just wanted to crawl out of my own skin.
I knew where this was going. The scars. Christ, the scars.
I hurt myself. Not for the first time, but worse than I ever had before.
I’m so sorry.
I tossed the phone onto the duvet and rubbed my hands over my face, pressing my palms into my eyes until I saw stars.
I’m so sorry.
The words were pathetic. Useless.
There was a hot band around my chest that made it hard to breathe. I picked the phone back up, my grip tight enough to crack the casing.
Jesus fuck, this hurt.
The scars meant I couldn’t compete anymore. No more pageants. My mom’s dream died because of what I did.
That wasn’t your fault.
Wasn’t it though? I’m the one who did it. I’m the one who ruined everything. She’s never forgiven me. It’s been over ten years and she still looks at me like I’m scum.
I wanted to throw my phone across the room. Wanted to drive to wherever her mother lived and tell her exactly what I thought of her. Wanted to wrap Emily in my arms and never let go.
I stared at those words until they blurred. My fingers hovered over the keypad, trying to find something, anything, that would help. That would take away even a fraction of the pain she was carrying.
But what could I say? What combination of words would be enough?
I started typing. Deleted it. Started again. Deleted that too.
Every response felt inadequate. Hollow. Like trying to patch a gaping wound with a fucking band-aid.
The three dots never appeared on her end. She wasn’t typing. The silence stretched between us, heavy and awful.
I set my phone on my chest and stared at the ceiling. She was over there alone, drowning in all of this, and I was stuck here because I couldn’t leave two sleeping kids.
I should go to her. I needed to go to her. But I couldn’t.
My phone stayed dark. No new messages. The minutes crawled by.
I picked it up again, typed out a message. Stared at it. Deleted it.
