Recurring

It was like a recurring dream. I walked in, confident, a noir picture in my classic attire. I had to look self-assured and what says that better than a trench coat and red lipstick. But then he was always there, in the corner, already drunk. And no matter how precisely I order that drink, no matter how calmly I walk across that room, my heart is pounding in my ears. So many words caught in my throat.

It’s over. He’s scum. He left. He pushed you away, told you he was tired of hearing your sorrows, treated you like trash. Why care?

But then, why did I ever care? Even before it happened, it’s not like he was one to accept help. I liked to tell myself he’d pushed me away in grief, but was that the truth? Or was it that he’d never let anyone in? Ever.

Fuck.

People say having a compassionate heart is a gift. But why did my heart have compassion for someone so cruel, for someone determined never to accept my help? Why the hell did I care? It had all started from a dream anyway.

No, not the hopeful kind you have when your mind wanders. No, the kind you wake up from in a cold sweat with your heart racing. The kind where something terrible has happened and he’s there at your door and can’t even speak.

When it actually did happen I wondered if he’d show up, staggering, drunk on the door step.

And now here I am, stuck in this endless repeat of a scene. He’s in the corner drinking. He doesn’t need me. He doesn’t need my help. And I’ve moved on. Hope for better things. Go after better things. But my heart is still in my throat and pounding in my ears.

Flashback

I could feel my blood pounding in my ears.

“I just want you to think about it.”

I could hear her talking, but all I could do was grip the counter and will myself not to snap.

“We’re not going to talk about it.”

I managed to speak without shouting. The blood was pounding in my throat. I’d never been able to feel where the blood vessels were before.

“I don’t understand why we can’t even discuss it.”

It was all waking up again. The memories flashing. My brother yanking the Legos out of my hands. His grasp was violent. I screamed. My dad grabbed me by the arm and began dragging me out of the room.

“You whining brat! You just scream and carry on!”

“But it wasn’t her fault!” I remember my sister screaming in my defense.

I was innocent. It didn’t matter. It never mattered with him. I knew there wasn’t a chance. There was never a chance of him calming down. He drug me out of the room. He always drug me by the wrist, once even lifted me off the ground. He was huge and I was three years old.

You grow up and sometimes you make amends. You don’t ever forget the beatings. You just try your best not to think about them, because when you do you start to remember more of them and more.

“I don’t understand why you can’t talk about it.”

Her voice was distant. The last time my heart had beaten like this I was yelling at him. It had been years.

She didn’t know what she was doing. She hadn’t meant to trigger it. But she had.

Just A Night Out

It was just a night out. It was just another formal event. Hundreds of others would be laughing, talking, dancing. Did any of them feel that trepidation in their blood?
That clenching of muscles and nerves.

I hung back against the low brick wall in the garden. Already, clusters of people had gathered about the hotel entrance. Smoke and laughter filled the air, accompanied by bits of song. My dress caught against the coarse texture of the wall, as if expressing my reluctance to go forward.

Hide. Stay where it is safe. Stay in the quiet. He will not find you here.

But even if I hid, life would happen without me. Life would even find me in the darkness of that courtyard garden. Even if I hid, he would still exist. He would still be dancing, drinking, laughing.

My anonymity in the darkness would not save me.

I pulled my skirt off of its cold rough fortress. Forward. It was just another night out. No need to over dramatize. No need to contemplate that destiny would make or break me the minute we came face to face. Destiny doesn’t stop when you’d rather not participate. Even your choice to be passive is an action, because you chose.

Go on. Join the fray. You’ll kill them all in that dress.

It’s just another night out.

Deep Water Rescue

And as if out of no where everything was shutting down.

Drive.

Hope.

Zeal.

I was again that child in the darkness, afraid of the void in every shadow. It had been months now since the deaths and I’d been coping.

Coping.

Crying.

I’d finally come out of my cave, felt like the world could live again. That I could be a part of it again. Seen beauty in the rising sun.

And now. Now.

Again I was a canoe in the middle of the sea. No land in sight. And who could say what slightest turbulence could send me under.

Capsize.

The plunge. The gulping. The cold. The dark.

And the knowledge. The knowledge I’d learned at age ten. Summer camp. Achievement awards.

You can’t deep water rescue a canoe without lifting it on top of another boat.

Is It Better To Burn Than To Fade Away?

Maybe she should just let it all go.

If he always found a way to condescend to her, maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. 

The smoke from her cigarette seemed to give life to her thoughts, asking questions from her to the cosmos. Perhaps that was the charm of smoking. A conversation with the air. 

She wasn’t much for being treated like a child. But if she asked for respect she might lose him all together.

The stand still. The risk. 

Love was never easy. 

She shifted her stance, leaning against the stone wall of the hotel entrance. Her figure shrouded in a long dark raincoat, promising of a noir dream. 

The only tangible, committed relationships she’d ever been in were a compromise. A survival tactic. Never built on real love, the kind that stops your heart. 

She hugged the wall under the awning, watching the rain muddle the reflection of the street lamp on the drowning pavement. She drew out another cigarette. Just buy enough time to finish her thoughts. 

He stopped everything. Heartbeat or the world turning. 

Why did the times she shared a real love wreck everything? No matter how mutual the affection something always stood in the way. Or maybe she’d just never been loved. 

But now? Him?

Even these thoughts he’d deride. Tell her, her writing missed the mark. Tell her how wrong she was. Tell her what she meant or felt. He could always find a way to condescend. 

Her cigarette threatened extinction, inching ever closer toward the filter. So often her smoking would pass faster than her thoughts resolve themselves.

Was he trying to lessen the sting? Was he trying to deflect the love that slipped past his defenses?

He could cheapen it all with his, “knowing better,” with the superiority of his age, that stab of calling her a romantic. He could treat her like she was a handful and use that to cheapen everything about her. 

The cherry glowed and sputtered out as it hit the watery pavement.

Is it better to burn than to fade away? Is it better to leave than to be replaced? 

Hearts Like Smoke

The words always hung on our lips, like the years that trembled on Daisy’s. They spilled to the air, but never the ear. Always silent between our eyes.

All the things he had tried to tell me. A scattered explanation. The shatterings of a heart. In the silence of a glance. The hookah pluming between us. And our hearts like the smoke, hanging in the balance of the thick air.

Suicide Bomber

He thought that he was a time bomb. At any moment he would say the wrong thing, let one thing go and-

Boom.

The whole relationship gone. And anything he cared about in himself with it.

Suicide.

He was always afraid of hurting me. But in truth I was the suicide bomber. I was the one with a timer inside. A trigger that no one knew about that could be pulled at any second. A ticking, flashing that anything might activate and then-

Run.

Cause there’s no telling how far the blast will go and if you’ll be able to survive.

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

Get out of here. Before you kill him. Before you kill yourself. Get out of here. Before it’s all too late.

He tried so many times to tell me to go. Tell me he’d break me. Tell me he’d kill me. But I waited. I stayed.

Run.

Get this timer out of me.

Because killing you will be the death of me.

 

 

 

“Just because I check my gun at the door doesn’t mean my brain will change from a hand grenade.”