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.