Lionel had once told me that, for several weeks leading up to the night she drowned me, she vacillated between wanting to reunite with her baby boy and wanting to get rid of the child who took him away from her.
I don’t remember those weeks, though. I don’t even remember spilling the apple juice.
Fighting for my life is my very first memory.
I remember the iron grip on the back of my head as she held me underwater. The fire in my chest and lungs as I inhaled water. The absolute terror that consumed me so greatly, it would’ve killed me if the water hadn’t first.
Then came the warm blanket of peace as my vision faded, and all my pain went away, replaced by a cocoon of warmth. I’d never felt such serenity, and it was odd how, in that moment, I felt like I could finally breathe, only to be abruptly pulled from the water and for everything to come barreling back in.
The terror.
The pain.
And the utter confusion as to why my mommy held me underwater like that.
What came after was a whirlwind of her screaming to let her finish killing the demon who murdered her child and my father wrestling her away from me sprawled on the floor, coughing and vomiting up water.
Then, his deep voice. Soothing me. Telling me everything’s going to be okay. That I’m safe now.
But he lied to me—I just didn’t know it.
Even back then, I wasn't angry with my mom for what happened. Maybe it’s because I didn't understand how to be, or even why. I forgave her because I didn’t know what else to do as a child, but eighteen years later, I still do.
No—I never blamed my mother for trying to kill me. It was the fact she never made me feel safe in all the years following that I still struggle to forgive her for.
Nevertheless, Lionel saved my life that night and then continued to save me while I worked through the trauma.
For two years, I clung to his soothing voice with a grip far stronger than my mother’s. He was my safe place when my mom went to a psychiatric hospital for treatment, during CPS's involvement afterward and the threat of being put into the foster system, and even still when my mom came home, profusely apologizing and hugging me until I felt a familiar burn in my lungs.
The only one I could run to for safety was Lionel D’Amour.
Only for him to shatter that, too.
I turn off the water and stand there for a moment, residual anxiety clinging to my bones.
I can’t remember exactly how old I was when I could finally take a shower—maybe twelve. Even though it was a bath she drowned me in, they were the only way I could stand to be in water. I couldn’t handle the feeling of it running over my face. It felt like being submerged, and I’d panic and think I was drowning again.
To this day, I struggle with them, but they’ve gotten a lot easier. When I was sixteen, I started training myself. It became therapeutic to stand beneath the shower stream as the water beat over my face, holding my breath until I couldn't anymore. Pushing myself to hold it longer and longer.
I’ve gotten to over three minutes now, and each time, I hold it a second or two longer, granting me a little more of my power back, as if I’m one second closer to never being able to drown again.
Logically, I know that’s impossible, but in my fucked-up head, it feels that way.
It feels like taking away the power Lionel had for saving my life and giving it to myself instead.
I can save myself.
Feminine voices break through my trance, bringing me back to the shower room.
Wringing out my hair, I grab a towel, twist it around the sopping strands, and knot it on top of my head, then quickly dry off with another.
“Did you hear Dread’s going to be at Craig’s party tonight?” one ofthem asks.
It sounds like Victoria—she has a distinct, nasally voice.
“Who hasn’t?” her friend answers.
Lynn, maybe?
