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1:17.

1:46.

2:03.

That’s when I gave up, pulled on a hoodie, grabbed my cigarettes, and slipped outside.

The place on the cliff from yesterday was quiet, dark, and empty when I sat down, hood up, music in my ears, cigarette in hand, letting the night stretch out in front of me.

My body already hates me for this.

But I can’t do anything to make it stop.

18

Mireya

Past

Play – Kitchen Fan Lullaby by Claire Boyer

My heart as a map

There are too many shoes by the front door.

I count them while standing at the top of the stairs, my fingers tight around the cup because I’m not supposed to be downstairs when Mom has people over. Especially when dad is working.

I forget the number and start again. One...Two...Three...Four...

The music is loud and the walls shake. I can hear voices laughing and talking all at once in the living room, like no one is listening to each other properly.

Mom is down there somewhere with them. I hear her laugh sometimes, then lose her voice again in the noise.

My throat feels dry, so I take one step down, then another. The stairs creak, and I pause, but no one looks up, so I keep going.

The kitchen smells like smoke; there are bottles on the counter and too many hands moving. Someone is leaning too close to Mom. Another person is sitting on the floor.

I don’t go all the way in. I just reach for the sink; I only want water.

My hand slips, and the cup falls before I can catch it. It hits the floor hard, water spreads everywhere and for a second, everything stops. Even the music feels quieter.

Everyone looks at me, mom's face is sad, she stops laughing when she sees me. My face gets hot and I can’t breathe right.

“What did you just do?” A friend of hers says looking at her socks. They're all wet...

I try to speak, but nothing comes out, then she crosses the kitchen in a few steps. I look at her feet instead of her face, her hand comes up and I feel the slap hard on my cheek.

Mom runs and pushes the woman away from me. "Don't fucking touch my daughter!" She grabs my arm, pulling me away and starts walking back to my room.

“You can’t just behave for five minutes?” she says, like I’ve ruined something that matters to her more than I do.

"I was thirsty mom, I’m sorry.”

She stops in front of my room and smiles, brushing my hair back, “Sorry, baby. I didn’t want you to see them,” she says, opening the door and pushing me inside.

In my room, she sits me on the bed. The mattress dips under her.

“I don’t like when people are here, mom,” I say, but my voice feels small next to the noise from downstairs. “It makes me feel weird.”