Page 1 of All The Broken Pieces: Vol. 1

Chapter 1

Hovering over my gradebook, I lean hard with both elbows on the countertop and thread my fingers through my hair. The cotton balls that were contained to my throat have manage to claw their way into my mouth. My lips feel like they were doused with sand. The little black brick of a computer sits in front of me, between my elbows. Case closed. Normally, I wouldn’t care so much. I wouldn’t feel this lasso around my neck tightening as the clock on the wall ticks down the minutes until the bell rings and students fill the hallways.

Dread bloats within me, leaving a rancid taste in my mouth. If my stomach wasn’t tied like a right knot maybe I could think. Or breathe. This part never gets easier. It doesn’t matter how many months pass or how much interest I take in work. It doesn’t matter how much I sleep. How much I exercise. How much I drink. How much I regret. How much I forgive. Nothing helps.

Sighing deeply, I glance at the classroom. The afternoon sun floods through the window slicing the art room in half. Half desks and chairs, half cabinets filled with supplies, sinks, and student’s artwork. Some of the cabinets are mine. Budget cuts. I don’t know a single teacher who hasn’t supplemented their class budget with their own money. It’s just the way it is here.

The gray silk blouse I donned this morning to keep me cool clings to my body like wet toilet paper. Sweat drips between my breasts and down the small of my back where it’s sponged up by my pants. My hair is twisted up on top of my head and stabbed with a 6B pencil. Despite holding the tresses off my neck, it’s still slick with sweat. A few wayward strands curl tightly, hovering just above my damp skin. Thank God this isn’t a freshman class, or it’d be full of bodies making the room warmer. It’s the end of the school year and the heat is overly oppressive. Since my school district isn’t loaded, there’s no AC. Not even in the teacher’s lounge.

On any given day, with the heat index at 98 and hundreds of bodies trapped inside a cinderblock building, it could be the reason why I feel this way—lethargic and frantic to the point that I could be sick at any moment. A ripple moves from the clavicle at the base of my throat up towards my mouth. My skin is covered in tingles and I shiver. Hesitating. I have a few moments. I rest my palms on the laptop, lid shut.

Glancing around, I admire my students. Their diligence. Determination. Two things I once possessed. Two things completely foreign to me now. There was a time when I was passionate about art, love, and life. Those embers died. Maybe petrified and turned to stone.

The kids worked hard this year. I see their potential even if mine was washed away. If I had it to do all over again, I’d probably make the same mistakes. I relive that damn day every hour, but on days like this when the temperature is high, my tolerance to keep the memories at bay is low. If I catch the scent of lilies there’s no way to stop the torrent of memories that appear so vividly that it feels like I’m there, reliving that horror. My mind won’t stay on track and it won’t until I get this done with. Open the laptop and do it. I breathe in. Exhale.

My eyes water as my gaze fixates on the students, clustered together at the far end of the room, drawing pads on the sill, and pencils in their hands. They are all off to one side trying to sit in a splotch of cool shadow. They talk about the beach, summer plans, and unrealized hopes that pop up like spring daisies. Guard your heart. I want to warn them, but I haven’t a clue how to do it. I’ve been living on autopilot for years, waiting for my motherboard to fry or come back online.

Remember the first version of AOL where you’d sit there listening to the screech of the modem while waiting for something to happen? To connect or get rejected. By a fictional blue man trying to outrun a triangle. Needless to say, I don’t relate to normal things anymore. The truth is, I’m a horrible person. I did something hideous. It’d be different if I couldn’t live with myself and cried my eyes out, but I don’t cry. Sand. My head, eyes, throat, and mouth are constantly cotton-balled. Maybe I have no soul. I don’t think I’m a sociopath, but how would I know? It’s not like people raise their hands to get tested for that sort of thing.

My eyes shift to the side again as I throw my gaze onto my laptop. At some point, I straightened my back and started wringing my hands. They’re slick. My fingertips have turned white. Damn. Just do it. Stop being such an ass. What’s the worst thing that could happen?

Pictures. Photos can’t hurt me.

Just get it over with. I shift my weight, perched on a tall stool, leaving one of my ballet flats on the floor with the other hooked over the lowest rim of the footrest. Pressing my cracked lips together, I smooth my shirt. There’s a V of sweat down the front of my once pristine blouse. The idea was to dress retro. Not the way kids do, but with a classic Audrey Hepburn look. Dark hair pulled back, slim capris nearly to the ankle, ballet shoe, topped off with a silk blouse with a sash at the waist. It looked amazing when it wasn’t soaking with sweat.

The plastic of the computer case feels cold to the touch. I slip my index finger under the rim and flip open the lid. The screen lights up and a web browser opens. I type in the letters. Pull up the website. Facebook. Every forty-year-old woman’s dream. A stream of consciousness from the past and the present colliding in one place, coupled with ads, haters, over-sharers, trolls, and fake news. Years ago, it was fun. Now? Not so much. But everything was exciting once. The memories of me laughing so hard it hurt have faded to nothing. I don’t remember what it feels like to smile anymore. The tightness of my mouth hints at a severe issue with RBF (resting bitch face). I’ve been called worse.

Why am I sporting the social media albatross? Somehow communicating with parents via social media has become normal—expected. For normal people it’s not a problem. I mean, think about it. Facebook is the social media equivalent of a labradoodle on pixie sticks. It’s excited to see you. So much so that it licks you with memories, photos, and ads of everything, all at once, tail wagging, eyes wide with no regard for your past. For the pain. It’s a robodog. How could it possibly know I’d rather shove this pencil through my eye than log into my account? It doesn’t know because normal people like to see all this stuff.

I’m not normal. I don’t want to see it. But I’ve learned to take the hits life throws my way. I get knocked on my ass, lose a few years of my life, and get back up. When I was younger, I thought bouncing back meant full mental and emotional recovery. Ready to grin again—laugh life in the face and say, ‘you can’t get me.’

The truth is no one recovers. Every human over the age of twenty-nine is a patchwork of pain, suffering, and antidepressants.