Three

“No one will know,”

he says, as he takes my hand and leads me inside.

But.

I’ll know.

You’ll know.

I’m not sure I can do this.

I’m not sure I can escape from this.

I shouldn’t have drank as much as quickly.

But I never anticipated the escalation.

One moment, talking about how your wife had saved you.

The next, your hands making their way up my thigh.

“They’re all busy.

It’s really okay,”

he says, as he bends me over, tugging the hair at the nape of my neck.

I know it’s wrong.

But in this moment, it is everything I want.

 He turns around, allowing me to climb on top.

I take in the depth of ravenousness in his eyes, the way his fingers glide down my torso, the potency of even his slightest movements.

And I let him slip.

What am I doing?

I can’t do this to her.

“Maybe we should get back,”

I say.

“To be continued,”

he says.

But I’m not so sure I can do that.

I’m not even sure I’ll be able to look at myself tomorrow.

Fifty-Eight

It’s 6:30 PM.

I should’ve been gone long before now.

But Mommy isn’t here.

She was supposed to be here almost an hour ago, when daycare closes.

But she isn’t.

“Where is Mommy?”

I ask.

The nice woman looks down to me,

“I’m not sure sweetie. I’m sorry.

I just called your aunt.

She’ll be here soon to get you.”

A few moments pass, my aunt pulls up.

She apologizes profusely for my mother’s absence.

Once we’re buckled and on our way, my aunt looks over to me with sad eyes and says,

“I’m so sorry, hun.

Your mom must be doing something important.”

I look away, out the window.

I don’t want her to see my tears.

Mommy isn’t doing anything important.

I know what she’s doing.

She’s too drunk to remember she was supposed to pick me up.

This isn’t the first time.

It won’t be the last.

But I always stupidly hope she’ll remember me.

And I’m crying, not so much because she forgot me.

Again.

But because I keep letting myself believe that maybe this time, she won’t.

25

Snap.

The sound of the rubber as I release it from my hold.

It’s tight.

So tight it aches.

But I know it will only last a few more moments.

I grab the needle sitting next to me.

The syringe it’s bound to filled with sun that will ignite the veins beneath my skin.

Tap tap tap.

The sound of my fingers hitting my skin, making sure my vein is ready.

Silence.

The sound of the needle breaking the surface.

Ecstasy.

The moment the sweet, sweet sunshine invades my vessels, coursing through my being, screaming to be felt.

I pop off the tourniquet and lay there in silence as the drug does what I already know it will do.

I can’t remember a time when I didn’t do this.

At time where I didn’t crave to escape.

With all that I am, I wish I could break free.

But I’m not strong enough.

The people around me don’t understand.

They call me worthless.

They call me a low-life.

They tell me I will never make anything of myself.

And I’m starting to believe them.

But what they don’t know is that I hate this.

I hate it more than any of them could possibly understand.

I long to be free of this affliction.

To be able to love others as they have loved me.

But I know I can’t.

I am bound by what cannot be seen.

And to it I’ve always returned.

To it, I always will.

Forty-Seven

“I’m really glad you came to join me,”

he says, wrapping his arms around me.

We stay silent, bodies entwined, hearts dancing in the space we cannot see.

A few moments pass.

You leave my embrace to finish setting up your site.

Funny how this simple act has saved you from yourself.

It doesn’t seem like something holy and powerful.

Maybe it’s the act of meticulously preparing.

Perhaps, the long moments of watching the world pass, letting your mind talk to the sky.

Or the way something as mysterious and dark as the water can produce such life-sustaining gifts.

Whatever it is, in this moment, I am grateful.

You finish setting up and join me in the sand.

And then the clouds open, water begins to empty from the sky.

All I can do is giggle uncontrollably.

I can’t help but to look up and allow the warmth wash over me.

Is this what being cleansed feels like?

You come back to me and kiss me sweetly, as we unconscientiously move to the beat of the rain.

And I can’t remember a time I was more at peace with the world, more at harmony with another person, than right in this moment.

If only this moment was enough.

Enough to pull you out of that place your mind goes when I’m gone.

Enough to make you suppose you are worthy of all the love this earth has to offer.

Enough to bring life to the darkness you drown in.

Enough to make you stay.

Twenty-Four

He’s so fast.

I keep trying to catch up to him.

By the time I do, I can barely see his house.

“Come on,” he yells,

“catch me!”

He’s deep within the swampy cattail forest encompassing the drainage area behind his house.

We’ve played here a dozen times.

Even though we aren’t supposed to.

He continues tromping through our makeshift wonderland, giggling whenever I come close to actually grasping him.

And then it’s silent.

It takes me a few minutes, but I finally find him.

His face is colorless.

He’s crying.

“What’s wrong?”

He looks up at me.

Then I look to his feet.

They’re enclosed in the thickest muck I’ve ever seen.

And I understand why he’s crying.

There’s no way he can get out.

“What are you staring at,” he yells,

“go find my mom!”

I panic.

I turn and run faster than I’ve ran before.

But I have no intention of finding his mom.

Doesn’t he know what parents do in these situations?

He would be better off stuck than found out by his mom.

I promptly run home, into my room, and dive under the covers, shivering in terror.

I hope he’s okay.

I avoid his end of the street.

Thankfully, he’s a year younger than me and doesn’t start school until next year.

So I don’t have to face him at the bus stop.

A couple days later, I’m walking by his house, and his mom comes out.

I look away, walking faster and faster.

“That’s right!

You should be moving fast.

And you should be ashamed of yourself. What kind of friend are you?

Don’t you ever come back!

My son doesn’t want to see you again.

I don’t either.”

She slams the door.

I don’t blame her.

 I am a terrible friend.

I’m unable to reconcile the amount of pain I've caused his heart.

I cry on and off for the rest of the day, until I have no tears left to give.

Until my heart is as shattered as his.