I was never a thin body type. My baby pictures showed a chubby, cute baby, and as the years wore on, the only thing I lost was the cute part.
I don't mind not having a ton of friends, or being the one on the fringes of the group. Honestly, I don't care. I work best on my own, always have. I'm not really a "Hang with the group" person. I really only have two sometimes-friends and a librarian who lets me hang out with her at lunch, which is alright by me. The fewer people who I have to deal with in a day, the better things turn out.
But there is something I wish I had. Or rather, wish I had back.
I had a boyfriend for about 8 months my freshman year.. He dumped me a week before Valentine's Day. I was looking forward to not spending it alone so much.
I loved him. I've never loved anyone the way I loved him, before or after. And I thought that for the first time in my life, despite all my insecurities, I'd found someone who loved me no strings attached. Who found something he wanted to love.
Guess I was wrong. He started dating another girl that March. Bastard went from a size 11 (me) to a size 2 (her). He wanted a student model, not a model student.
My sophomore year, I became my own evil twin. My grades slipped, I stopped eating, started exercising like a psycho, and to my delight, lost twenty pounds before October. I lived on half-slices of plain whole wheat toast and diet pills. Headaches kicked up--I started taking Advil like candy. 40 pounds gone by February. I was a size 6. Not good enough. I stopped eating altogether unless I couldn't help it. I exercised like crazy. No one noticed until I passed out in the bathroom.
I didn't have an eating disorder, before you ask. Eating made me fat, repulsive, ugly. I wanted to be anything other than the disgusting thing I'd been all my life. Perhaps the route I chose was not the best.
My chemistry teacher found me in the stall. They sent me to the ER--Ms. Brennan came and visited me. She made me look at a mirror, told me how beautiful I was. I didn't believe her. I still don't.
I lost another three sizes my junior year. I stopped going to the counselling sessions my parents set up for me. I was the skinniest I'd ever been. I wore makeup every day. I suffered through contact lenses I could barely stand because my glasses made me look too intellectual. No one cared.
I threw myself back into my schoolwork with a vengeance. I'd barely passed the year before, for other people's approval, and look where that got me. Nowhere. My grades didn't care about how I looked. They gave me exactly what I put in.
I still wasn't eating. I was still exercising mercilessly. My performance consumed me. Another size smaller.
The school psychologist called me into her office one morning. I don't know how I was planning on spending my day, but an intervention wasn't it. I cried in front of another human being for the first time since I was twelve that day. My mom came to pick me up at noon--my crying jag wasn't finished when she walked in.
My ex had been through eight girls, all prettier than me, by the time I found myself on mandatory check-in status with the psychologist.
My senior year finds me a straight eight student, dateless, and reluctantly eating my way back up to a size 4. I passed my ex in the hallway one day. He asked if I wanted to catch a movie. I told him to fuck off.
In my sophomore year, I would have said yes. I'v learned that it doesn't matter if I'm dangerously thin or model beautiful. In my mind, I will always be the size 11 who wears glasses and a frumpy hairstyle and couldn't care less about make-up because I don't get noticed anyway.
I have no one who cares, but I've come to terms with that. I'm going to live for myself because I have no one else to be living for. Here at the end of my life in high school, I've had one person who almost loved me. One person.
Love doesn't come in a size 11. But Life does.
My Nightmares
The nightmares always begin the same, but rarely end the same way twice.
It always starts with my mother and I, sitting on her bed in some hotel room in Salzburg. I can’t be older than four or five--I can still sit on her lap and play with the locket my father gave her before he left--but I see the two of us as though I were another person, standing in the doorway as a casual observer, nothing more.
She’s laughing at my happy chatterings that drifted across the linguistic boundaries of French and English and that secret language of babies and small children, her fingers pulling through my soft black curls to tame them into their nightly braids. She says something in quiet, lyrical French, her raspberry-colored lips turned up at the corners and her simple speech sounding like a lullaby. I giggle at whatever she said and roll off of her lap onto the soft comforter, squealing at her fingers tickling my sides.
And then, the lights cut out for a moment, and when they flicker back to life, my mother and I--now no longer a baby, but an older child, perhaps nine or ten--are in a different hotel room, a different city, a different country. I am no longer small enough to sit on her lap and play with her necklace as she combs my hair, and so sit cross-legged on the bed in my Chinese silk pajamas and let her work behind me. I say something in melancholy French about the weather, staring moodily out the window. My mother smiles and kisses my temple as she finishes tying the ribbon in my hair.
And the lights cut out again, and a woman screams, and the dreams change.
Sometimes, I am a young woman of maybe fourteen, holding my mother’s hand as she lays bleeding on the hotel room floor, dressed in red high heels and pearls and a black dress--her funeral costume. A man stands above us both, looking at a pistol with smoke curling lazily to the ceiling like he believes that he is the one dreaming, the one having a nightmare. I scream and cry and try everything I can to save her as he turns and walks out of the room like a drunkard, and she melts like the steam from the spout of her favorite tea kettle.
Sometimes, I am in my uncle’s house as a woman of perhaps thirty or so, with my young cousins that must learn to go through life without a mother. Fire licks at the nursery walls, and I have the young girl in my arms and I reach into the cradle for the baby boy, so confident that in an adrenaline-fueled flight, I can save them both. But as my fingers brush the edges of his blanket, the cradle collapses like kindling in a fireplace, and he falls, still sleeping, through floor after floor after floor, into the fiery depths of Hell itself, and in my attempt to grab him before he should fall too far, the girl falls out of my arms too, and I am left screaming by the edge of a gaping pit, the flames licking and laughing in my tortured ears.
Sometimes, I am an old woman at the end of my life, standing in a maze in the dead of winter. I find myself lost, and I wander and wander and wander until the wind begins to howl, and a woman in a mourning veil appears before me, wielding a blood-soaked dagger. As much as I wish to run, something deep inside me stays my feet and relieves my knees of the compulsion to support my weight, my tired old eyes anchored in fearful apathy to Death and her bloody weapon.
Sometimes, on nights that are still and pleasant like this one, I am myself as I am right at this moment, watching you walk away from me with a gun over your shoulder and a military uniform clothing that body that I know so well. I scream your name and beg you not to leave me, not again, but still you march, moving to join a column of the damned marching with a feverish compulsion to the depths of Hell Itself, and I can’t stop you and I can’t follow and I can’t bring you back. And then, you stop in the middle of your path, and the tiniest spot of red appears on your back, blossoming outwards like a macabre rose until your whole body is soaked in blood, and you fall to the ground, dying, and I can’t move to help you, or do anything besides scream.
And sometimes, it is different, and sometimes, I wake up before these dreams have run as far as they have, and sometimes, I continue to toss and turn in the captivity of my dreams and they play farther and farther like a play that I detest and at the same time cannot stop watching, and some nights, for fear of dreams, I don’t sleep at all.
But always I wake up screaming. And always, I wake up to you holding me like the fragile child I really am on the inside.
“Shhh, shhh, my love, it’s alright,” you whisper in my ear, dragging me from the horrific grip of my mind with every stroke of your fingers through my soft dark curls. “I’m here, it’s alright...”
My fingers curl desperately around your nightshirt, willing myself to remember that you haven’t died, and I haven’t died, and we’re together, and all is well again. “I dreamt about you again,” I whisper into your shoulder, still clinging to you like you were the last shred of hope left anywhere. Like I did when you finally came back from the war. “Please don’t leave me again.”
“I won’t.”
“Promise.”
“I don’t make promises, you know that.”
In a fit of half-awake fear, I squeeze tighter. “You’re all I have--don’t make me think I’m going to lose you.”
“You won’t.” You lay back down against the pillows with me still curled up like a child against your chest. “I’m right here, and I’m not leaving.”
I tuck my head under your chin like always and pray that time stops for an eternity or two. “Don’t leave me here again,” I mumble sleepily again, my eyes fighting not to close against the comforting repetitive strokes of your fingers against my scalp. “Just stay with me right here in this bed in this hotel room and don’t ever make me leave this ever again.”
A tired, breathy chuckle escapes your nose and ruffles my hair a bit. “I love you so much,” you whisper, sounding just as tired as I am.
Soon, the moon is playing on your skin and mine, and between the blankets and your strong arms around me, I’m about ready to drift off again, although I don’t have quite such a bad feeling as when I went to sleep the first time.
My mother used to say that nightmares are just the shadows around us that we fear the most, and maybe that’s true, and maybe it’s not. I’ve never been much of one to muse on the questions of the inner subconscious. But if it is the truth, then my biggest fear, my greatest nightmare, is losing you all over again, and not having you come back to me.
Which, incidentally, is something I could’ve told us both all along.
It always starts with my mother and I, sitting on her bed in some hotel room in Salzburg. I can’t be older than four or five--I can still sit on her lap and play with the locket my father gave her before he left--but I see the two of us as though I were another person, standing in the doorway as a casual observer, nothing more.
She’s laughing at my happy chatterings that drifted across the linguistic boundaries of French and English and that secret language of babies and small children, her fingers pulling through my soft black curls to tame them into their nightly braids. She says something in quiet, lyrical French, her raspberry-colored lips turned up at the corners and her simple speech sounding like a lullaby. I giggle at whatever she said and roll off of her lap onto the soft comforter, squealing at her fingers tickling my sides.
And then, the lights cut out for a moment, and when they flicker back to life, my mother and I--now no longer a baby, but an older child, perhaps nine or ten--are in a different hotel room, a different city, a different country. I am no longer small enough to sit on her lap and play with her necklace as she combs my hair, and so sit cross-legged on the bed in my Chinese silk pajamas and let her work behind me. I say something in melancholy French about the weather, staring moodily out the window. My mother smiles and kisses my temple as she finishes tying the ribbon in my hair.
And the lights cut out again, and a woman screams, and the dreams change.
Sometimes, I am a young woman of maybe fourteen, holding my mother’s hand as she lays bleeding on the hotel room floor, dressed in red high heels and pearls and a black dress--her funeral costume. A man stands above us both, looking at a pistol with smoke curling lazily to the ceiling like he believes that he is the one dreaming, the one having a nightmare. I scream and cry and try everything I can to save her as he turns and walks out of the room like a drunkard, and she melts like the steam from the spout of her favorite tea kettle.
Sometimes, I am in my uncle’s house as a woman of perhaps thirty or so, with my young cousins that must learn to go through life without a mother. Fire licks at the nursery walls, and I have the young girl in my arms and I reach into the cradle for the baby boy, so confident that in an adrenaline-fueled flight, I can save them both. But as my fingers brush the edges of his blanket, the cradle collapses like kindling in a fireplace, and he falls, still sleeping, through floor after floor after floor, into the fiery depths of Hell itself, and in my attempt to grab him before he should fall too far, the girl falls out of my arms too, and I am left screaming by the edge of a gaping pit, the flames licking and laughing in my tortured ears.
Sometimes, I am an old woman at the end of my life, standing in a maze in the dead of winter. I find myself lost, and I wander and wander and wander until the wind begins to howl, and a woman in a mourning veil appears before me, wielding a blood-soaked dagger. As much as I wish to run, something deep inside me stays my feet and relieves my knees of the compulsion to support my weight, my tired old eyes anchored in fearful apathy to Death and her bloody weapon.
Sometimes, on nights that are still and pleasant like this one, I am myself as I am right at this moment, watching you walk away from me with a gun over your shoulder and a military uniform clothing that body that I know so well. I scream your name and beg you not to leave me, not again, but still you march, moving to join a column of the damned marching with a feverish compulsion to the depths of Hell Itself, and I can’t stop you and I can’t follow and I can’t bring you back. And then, you stop in the middle of your path, and the tiniest spot of red appears on your back, blossoming outwards like a macabre rose until your whole body is soaked in blood, and you fall to the ground, dying, and I can’t move to help you, or do anything besides scream.
And sometimes, it is different, and sometimes, I wake up before these dreams have run as far as they have, and sometimes, I continue to toss and turn in the captivity of my dreams and they play farther and farther like a play that I detest and at the same time cannot stop watching, and some nights, for fear of dreams, I don’t sleep at all.
But always I wake up screaming. And always, I wake up to you holding me like the fragile child I really am on the inside.
“Shhh, shhh, my love, it’s alright,” you whisper in my ear, dragging me from the horrific grip of my mind with every stroke of your fingers through my soft dark curls. “I’m here, it’s alright...”
My fingers curl desperately around your nightshirt, willing myself to remember that you haven’t died, and I haven’t died, and we’re together, and all is well again. “I dreamt about you again,” I whisper into your shoulder, still clinging to you like you were the last shred of hope left anywhere. Like I did when you finally came back from the war. “Please don’t leave me again.”
“I won’t.”
“Promise.”
“I don’t make promises, you know that.”
In a fit of half-awake fear, I squeeze tighter. “You’re all I have--don’t make me think I’m going to lose you.”
“You won’t.” You lay back down against the pillows with me still curled up like a child against your chest. “I’m right here, and I’m not leaving.”
I tuck my head under your chin like always and pray that time stops for an eternity or two. “Don’t leave me here again,” I mumble sleepily again, my eyes fighting not to close against the comforting repetitive strokes of your fingers against my scalp. “Just stay with me right here in this bed in this hotel room and don’t ever make me leave this ever again.”
A tired, breathy chuckle escapes your nose and ruffles my hair a bit. “I love you so much,” you whisper, sounding just as tired as I am.
Soon, the moon is playing on your skin and mine, and between the blankets and your strong arms around me, I’m about ready to drift off again, although I don’t have quite such a bad feeling as when I went to sleep the first time.
My mother used to say that nightmares are just the shadows around us that we fear the most, and maybe that’s true, and maybe it’s not. I’ve never been much of one to muse on the questions of the inner subconscious. But if it is the truth, then my biggest fear, my greatest nightmare, is losing you all over again, and not having you come back to me.
Which, incidentally, is something I could’ve told us both all along.
My Last Wish
I can’t die yet.
Not now.
I still have one more thing to do.
I push myself up against the door of the backstage loading dock. My vision’s going blurry--the sudden movement makes the room tilt dangerously.
“C’mon, you bastard,” I breathe, hazy purple eyes sinking to my watch. You were supposed to be here twenty minutes ago, jackass.
Blood pushes through my brain, pulsing in slow, deliberate drumbeats. Godamnit, you said you’d be here. You of all people follow through when you say you’ll be somewhere. You should’ve showed up by now.
I look down at my watch--a birthday present from you two years ago. I just say it’s from my brother most of the time, because how weird is it for a teenage guy to get another teenage guy a birthday present? You’ll get along with my brother at the funeral, right? For me? I know you don’t like him, but all he did was what he had to. He needed to get out somehow and that was the only way to do it. He doesn’t deserve to be hated for that of all things. Please be nice?
The booming of someone bounding onstage and across the expanse of hollow hardwood makes me wince. Is that you? Did you finally show up? I hope so. If it’s not you, and someone else, I’m really screwed here. I don’t trust anyone else with this.
“Kevin? Kevin, babe, you here?”
I want to yell at you for making me wait, but I just close my eyes and lean back against the cold metal door. “Right here,” I call, unsure my voice is loud enough to hear from the edge of the curtain.
“Kev?” You sound scared. My fading hearing traces your frantic footsteps over the stack of prop suitcases and steamer trunks and around a large wooden crescent moon, a Greek column, and a table. “Oh my god, Kevin, what--”
I feel you sink to your knees beside me as I let the empty bottle of extra-strength Advil roll out of my grip. It rolls across the concrete floor and hits my water bottle with a dull clack.
“Oh my god, Kev--” You choke on the last bit of my name. You slip your arm around my shoulders and tug me into your lap, cradling my head in the crook of your neck. “Explain this to me. Please-- Please, Kev...oh my god.” You take a shaky breath and press your lips to mine, trembling like you’re fighting back tears. Dear god, don’t do this--you’re fine, don’t cry. “No, on second thought, don’t. You can explain in the hospital. Or on the way home. I don’t care. But after you’re okay. You’re going to be okay.”
I shake my head, the simple movement exhausting. “No, I’m not,” I whisper, feeling myself grow harder to hear. “I couldn’t live here anymore. Lee--”
“Lee? Is that what this is about? Oh my god, Kevin, we could’ve got past that if you’d just talked to me! I asked you yesterday--” You cut yourself off my pressing your lips to my cold forehead desperately and choking back a sob.
“Listen to me, Ian.” God, you really can’t listen when it counts to save your life. “He tried to kill me on Saturday. I’ve been staying with Mariah and her mom all week. He said he’d kill you too. Or get Bryan to do it.”
“He--”
“Stole my phone,” I sigh. Shit. I’m having trouble breathing. Not this soon, damnit! Two more minutes, please? “Looked through my texts.”
I open my eyes a crack. The blurry version of you is trying not to cry, and failing epically. Vaguely, I can feel my face getting wet from tears dripping off the end of your nose--my favorite nose in the world, by the way. “Ian, knock it off. You’re getting me all wet and crap.”
“This is my fault, damnit!”
“No it’s not, moron. I’m the one who swallowed a whole bottle of Advil.” I try to take a deep breath and only accomplish my objective halfway. “Ian, I want you to do something for me, yeah?” My breath hitches in my chest, like a hoodie that didn’t make it off the coat hook all the way. I have to do this fast--I don’t have a lot of time left. “You know the flash drive on my keys? Play-- Play the file called ‘last wish’ on it at the funeral. Make sure--”
“No, godamnit! There’s not going to be a funeral! You’re not going to--”
“Ian.” My chest’s constricting. The drumbeat in my ears is getting slower, weaker. Almost time.
“Y-yeah?”
“Promise.”
You choke. “O-okay.”
“Promise.” Damnit, my voice is starting to slur.
I see your hand’s blurry general shape reaching for your back pocket--I make a blind grab for it. Apparently I got close, because your fingers close around mine and squeeze gently. God, you’re so warm. Can I just stay here and have this be heaven, please? Or am I going to hell for this, for you?
You kiss me again on the lips, longer than before. “Kevin, please don’t leave me. Let me help--we’ll call an ambulance, you can come live with me after you get out of the hospital. Lee lied to you--Bryan really doesn’t give a fuck if I’m gay. He won’t care if you came and lived with us. Please, Kevin...” You sigh, a few tears still dripping off your nose. “...I promise.”
“Remember last October, when we got locked up on the roof all night?” I’m feeling really sleepy. But that’s okay. “And you asked me what my last wish would be, and I said that it would be to kiss Robert Downey, Jr., because he’s sexy and no one really knows if he’s straight?” I smile faintly and nuzzle your shoulder. Because, godamnit, I’m about to die--I can nuzzle all I want to. “I lied to you, Ian. This is my last wish. Right here.”
“Kev--”
“I love you, Ian.”
“Love you too--”
And suddenly, I don’t feel anything at all.
Not now.
I still have one more thing to do.
I push myself up against the door of the backstage loading dock. My vision’s going blurry--the sudden movement makes the room tilt dangerously.
“C’mon, you bastard,” I breathe, hazy purple eyes sinking to my watch. You were supposed to be here twenty minutes ago, jackass.
Blood pushes through my brain, pulsing in slow, deliberate drumbeats. Godamnit, you said you’d be here. You of all people follow through when you say you’ll be somewhere. You should’ve showed up by now.
I look down at my watch--a birthday present from you two years ago. I just say it’s from my brother most of the time, because how weird is it for a teenage guy to get another teenage guy a birthday present? You’ll get along with my brother at the funeral, right? For me? I know you don’t like him, but all he did was what he had to. He needed to get out somehow and that was the only way to do it. He doesn’t deserve to be hated for that of all things. Please be nice?
The booming of someone bounding onstage and across the expanse of hollow hardwood makes me wince. Is that you? Did you finally show up? I hope so. If it’s not you, and someone else, I’m really screwed here. I don’t trust anyone else with this.
“Kevin? Kevin, babe, you here?”
I want to yell at you for making me wait, but I just close my eyes and lean back against the cold metal door. “Right here,” I call, unsure my voice is loud enough to hear from the edge of the curtain.
“Kev?” You sound scared. My fading hearing traces your frantic footsteps over the stack of prop suitcases and steamer trunks and around a large wooden crescent moon, a Greek column, and a table. “Oh my god, Kevin, what--”
I feel you sink to your knees beside me as I let the empty bottle of extra-strength Advil roll out of my grip. It rolls across the concrete floor and hits my water bottle with a dull clack.
“Oh my god, Kev--” You choke on the last bit of my name. You slip your arm around my shoulders and tug me into your lap, cradling my head in the crook of your neck. “Explain this to me. Please-- Please, Kev...oh my god.” You take a shaky breath and press your lips to mine, trembling like you’re fighting back tears. Dear god, don’t do this--you’re fine, don’t cry. “No, on second thought, don’t. You can explain in the hospital. Or on the way home. I don’t care. But after you’re okay. You’re going to be okay.”
I shake my head, the simple movement exhausting. “No, I’m not,” I whisper, feeling myself grow harder to hear. “I couldn’t live here anymore. Lee--”
“Lee? Is that what this is about? Oh my god, Kevin, we could’ve got past that if you’d just talked to me! I asked you yesterday--” You cut yourself off my pressing your lips to my cold forehead desperately and choking back a sob.
“Listen to me, Ian.” God, you really can’t listen when it counts to save your life. “He tried to kill me on Saturday. I’ve been staying with Mariah and her mom all week. He said he’d kill you too. Or get Bryan to do it.”
“He--”
“Stole my phone,” I sigh. Shit. I’m having trouble breathing. Not this soon, damnit! Two more minutes, please? “Looked through my texts.”
I open my eyes a crack. The blurry version of you is trying not to cry, and failing epically. Vaguely, I can feel my face getting wet from tears dripping off the end of your nose--my favorite nose in the world, by the way. “Ian, knock it off. You’re getting me all wet and crap.”
“This is my fault, damnit!”
“No it’s not, moron. I’m the one who swallowed a whole bottle of Advil.” I try to take a deep breath and only accomplish my objective halfway. “Ian, I want you to do something for me, yeah?” My breath hitches in my chest, like a hoodie that didn’t make it off the coat hook all the way. I have to do this fast--I don’t have a lot of time left. “You know the flash drive on my keys? Play-- Play the file called ‘last wish’ on it at the funeral. Make sure--”
“No, godamnit! There’s not going to be a funeral! You’re not going to--”
“Ian.” My chest’s constricting. The drumbeat in my ears is getting slower, weaker. Almost time.
“Y-yeah?”
“Promise.”
You choke. “O-okay.”
“Promise.” Damnit, my voice is starting to slur.
I see your hand’s blurry general shape reaching for your back pocket--I make a blind grab for it. Apparently I got close, because your fingers close around mine and squeeze gently. God, you’re so warm. Can I just stay here and have this be heaven, please? Or am I going to hell for this, for you?
You kiss me again on the lips, longer than before. “Kevin, please don’t leave me. Let me help--we’ll call an ambulance, you can come live with me after you get out of the hospital. Lee lied to you--Bryan really doesn’t give a fuck if I’m gay. He won’t care if you came and lived with us. Please, Kevin...” You sigh, a few tears still dripping off your nose. “...I promise.”
“Remember last October, when we got locked up on the roof all night?” I’m feeling really sleepy. But that’s okay. “And you asked me what my last wish would be, and I said that it would be to kiss Robert Downey, Jr., because he’s sexy and no one really knows if he’s straight?” I smile faintly and nuzzle your shoulder. Because, godamnit, I’m about to die--I can nuzzle all I want to. “I lied to you, Ian. This is my last wish. Right here.”
“Kev--”
“I love you, Ian.”
“Love you too--”
And suddenly, I don’t feel anything at all.
My Son
Ten tiny fingers.
Ten tiny toes.
She smiled at the newborn and whispered, "Hey, handsome. Nice to meet you."
The nurse touched her arm. "You have a visitor," she said quietly.
She nodded, knowing already who it was. "Let her in."
"Hey, baby girl," her roommate squealed, vaulting through the door as soon as the nurse opened it. "Oh, and here's the little man," she cooed. Without asking, she relieved the new mother of her burden and walked around the bed with the tiny bundle cradled in the crook of her arm. "You're gonna be a little lady killer, aren't you?" She smiled at her friend. "Not like his daddy at all, is he?"
The woman on the bed looked down at the sheet across her knees. "God, I hope not," she whispered.
Her roommate flopped on the bed and stared her down sternly, still cradling her friend's child to her breast. "You listen to me. This baby was not a mistake. You have a life on your hands that is not yours, but you get to shape it for a while. Who knows? He could be a great man. Hell, he could be the next great President. By keeping him, you could've changed history."
She took the bundle back and smiled at the sleeping newborn. "Maybe," she conceded. She looked up again. "I don't think I'm ready for this."
"I'll be right here."
"Promise?"
"Promise. You're not alone."
Author's Note: Dedicated to Jacob Moeckly, son of my favorite single mother. She did the right thing.
Ten tiny toes.
She smiled at the newborn and whispered, "Hey, handsome. Nice to meet you."
The nurse touched her arm. "You have a visitor," she said quietly.
She nodded, knowing already who it was. "Let her in."
"Hey, baby girl," her roommate squealed, vaulting through the door as soon as the nurse opened it. "Oh, and here's the little man," she cooed. Without asking, she relieved the new mother of her burden and walked around the bed with the tiny bundle cradled in the crook of her arm. "You're gonna be a little lady killer, aren't you?" She smiled at her friend. "Not like his daddy at all, is he?"
The woman on the bed looked down at the sheet across her knees. "God, I hope not," she whispered.
Her roommate flopped on the bed and stared her down sternly, still cradling her friend's child to her breast. "You listen to me. This baby was not a mistake. You have a life on your hands that is not yours, but you get to shape it for a while. Who knows? He could be a great man. Hell, he could be the next great President. By keeping him, you could've changed history."
She took the bundle back and smiled at the sleeping newborn. "Maybe," she conceded. She looked up again. "I don't think I'm ready for this."
"I'll be right here."
"Promise?"
"Promise. You're not alone."
Author's Note: Dedicated to Jacob Moeckly, son of my favorite single mother. She did the right thing.
The Right Way to Eat an Oreo
His father had eaten them straight from the package on his way to work.
His mother had always made sure they were present when hot cocoa was made.
His oldest sister had stolen half the package and a glass of milk to do her homework.
His baby cousin had licked the filling out of the middle before disposing of the cookies.
His girlfriend twisted the cookie apart and made a wish if all the filling stuck to one side.
He took the package to his bedroom when the going got rough and the bills got harder to pay, and huddled under a blanket in front of his space heater to eat them the wrong way--without the people he loved most.
Author's note: I was craving Oreos when I wrote this, if you can't tell. This should've been up last night. Damn my job. Oh well, not like anyone's reading this.
His mother had always made sure they were present when hot cocoa was made.
His oldest sister had stolen half the package and a glass of milk to do her homework.
His baby cousin had licked the filling out of the middle before disposing of the cookies.
His girlfriend twisted the cookie apart and made a wish if all the filling stuck to one side.
He took the package to his bedroom when the going got rough and the bills got harder to pay, and huddled under a blanket in front of his space heater to eat them the wrong way--without the people he loved most.
Author's note: I was craving Oreos when I wrote this, if you can't tell. This should've been up last night. Damn my job. Oh well, not like anyone's reading this.
Scars
There's a scar on the knuckles of my right hand.
I punched a brick wall outside the hospital repeatedly the night my brother died, preferring to be angry rather than grief-stricken. Angry enough to break my own hand.
There's a scar on my left shoulder blade, stretching from one side to the other.
I was pushed into a barbed wire fence the first time I went to prison. That's how I met my girlfriend--she picked me up and made sure I made it to the infirmary.
There's a scar on my hip, right where my belt sits.
I was shoved back into a Dumpster outside the nightclub where I used to work when a guy tried to rape me because of my sexuality.
There's a web of scars on my stomach, across my lower ribs and extending all the way to my belly button.
I tried to bleed to death when I was fourteen, after my mother said that gays deserved to die. I never did get up the courage to tell her.
There's a scar on my collarbone, stretching across my neck like a thin, discolored choker.
I tried to hang myself when I was sixteen, after the girl of my dreams said that people like me were disgusting and she would never even consider being friends with one. I lost my best friend that day.
There's a scar on my shin that still aches when it rains.
I was shot in my lower leg in a gang fight when I was on a marijuana run. After my leg healed to where I could use it again, I was arrested for possession of controlled substances and an illegal handgun. The sister of the man I killed that day visited me all the time in prison. We still keep in touch.
There's a smudge of lipstick on my forehead from when my girlfriend kissed me this morning.
I know that my scars will last longer than that smudge of lipstick. I know that the happiness I've found in my life right now probably won't last. But I'm choosing to focus on the smudge of lipstick rather than the scars, because every time I look at my reflection , I know that somehow, it'll be okay in the end.
Author's Note: I don't know where this came from. I was in an odd mood.
I punched a brick wall outside the hospital repeatedly the night my brother died, preferring to be angry rather than grief-stricken. Angry enough to break my own hand.
There's a scar on my left shoulder blade, stretching from one side to the other.
I was pushed into a barbed wire fence the first time I went to prison. That's how I met my girlfriend--she picked me up and made sure I made it to the infirmary.
There's a scar on my hip, right where my belt sits.
I was shoved back into a Dumpster outside the nightclub where I used to work when a guy tried to rape me because of my sexuality.
There's a web of scars on my stomach, across my lower ribs and extending all the way to my belly button.
I tried to bleed to death when I was fourteen, after my mother said that gays deserved to die. I never did get up the courage to tell her.
There's a scar on my collarbone, stretching across my neck like a thin, discolored choker.
I tried to hang myself when I was sixteen, after the girl of my dreams said that people like me were disgusting and she would never even consider being friends with one. I lost my best friend that day.
There's a scar on my shin that still aches when it rains.
I was shot in my lower leg in a gang fight when I was on a marijuana run. After my leg healed to where I could use it again, I was arrested for possession of controlled substances and an illegal handgun. The sister of the man I killed that day visited me all the time in prison. We still keep in touch.
There's a smudge of lipstick on my forehead from when my girlfriend kissed me this morning.
I know that my scars will last longer than that smudge of lipstick. I know that the happiness I've found in my life right now probably won't last. But I'm choosing to focus on the smudge of lipstick rather than the scars, because every time I look at my reflection , I know that somehow, it'll be okay in the end.
Author's Note: I don't know where this came from. I was in an odd mood.
Memory Loss
I can’t remember what my sister’s perfume smelled like.
I can’t remember the way she smiled, for real and not in pictures. I can’t remember her mac-and-cheese, except that it used to be my favorite. I can’t remember her graduation, I can’t remember her prom night (but I do remember that’s the only school dance she went to), and I can’t remember her boyfriend’s name. We don’t even try to talk to him anymore.
I remember snippets, small things that don’t matter. Like how she always kept a bag of jelly beans in the glove box of her car, or the way we’d talk about school (my middle school, her senior year) when she’d braid my hair before bed, like Mom used to. I remember her helping me with my essays for Language Arts, her straightening Dad’s tie in the mornings, and smiling sadly because she had to do it in Mom’s place. Her dancing around the kitchen to the radio whenever she baked brownies, and grabbing my hands and insisting I dance, too. I remember her getting accepted to her second-choice college, and deciding to wait to go until she could pay for herself, rather than asking for money she couldn’t pay back.
But those memories are all I have left of her, besides a box of pictures and trinkets and other things I take out when I feel like crying. And they’re fading, fast. I don’t remember what songs we danced to, or which one was her favorite. I don’t remember what college it was, until I take out the box and look at the acceptance letter that has happy and sad tears sprinkled all over it. I don’t remember what essays she helped with, or whether I did my homework in the kitchen before dinner, or in the den while she did hers. I don’t remember the feeling of her fingers working through my hair. I don’t remember which flavors were her favorite.
I suppose I should be happy that I can remember anything of her at all. Mom died when I was six, too young to remember happy things, just legs dressed in black and hands patting my head sympathetically at the memorial. All I remember of her is a headstone.
Everyone says I won’t really forget, because I loved my sister and she loved me and she’ll always be with me, no matter what. But what they don’t know is that every minute I lose a little more of her. I used to be able to remember what her favorite flavor jelly bean was, or what songs we danced to in the kitchen. I used to hear those songs on the radio and start crying, because I missed her so much and I still remembered. Now, I don’t know if I’m hearing the right songs, and I don’t miss her so much anymore. And I’m scared that it means that I don’t love her anymore.
So I take the box of things I do remember out from behind my desk every night, and I look at it while I braid my own hair, just like my sister showed me. I hold the silver locket that isn’t worth very much but I never put around my neck anyway, because I might want to never take it off. I look at the pictures of my sister and the boyfriend I can’t remember, and I wish they would’ve gotten married one day. I read the acceptance letter, and I think about applying, just because.
And for the six minutes and twenty eight seconds it takes me to braid my hair, I try to love her as much as possible.
And for six minutes and twenty eight seconds, I can almost remember what her perfume smelled like.
I can’t remember the way she smiled, for real and not in pictures. I can’t remember her mac-and-cheese, except that it used to be my favorite. I can’t remember her graduation, I can’t remember her prom night (but I do remember that’s the only school dance she went to), and I can’t remember her boyfriend’s name. We don’t even try to talk to him anymore.
I remember snippets, small things that don’t matter. Like how she always kept a bag of jelly beans in the glove box of her car, or the way we’d talk about school (my middle school, her senior year) when she’d braid my hair before bed, like Mom used to. I remember her helping me with my essays for Language Arts, her straightening Dad’s tie in the mornings, and smiling sadly because she had to do it in Mom’s place. Her dancing around the kitchen to the radio whenever she baked brownies, and grabbing my hands and insisting I dance, too. I remember her getting accepted to her second-choice college, and deciding to wait to go until she could pay for herself, rather than asking for money she couldn’t pay back.
But those memories are all I have left of her, besides a box of pictures and trinkets and other things I take out when I feel like crying. And they’re fading, fast. I don’t remember what songs we danced to, or which one was her favorite. I don’t remember what college it was, until I take out the box and look at the acceptance letter that has happy and sad tears sprinkled all over it. I don’t remember what essays she helped with, or whether I did my homework in the kitchen before dinner, or in the den while she did hers. I don’t remember the feeling of her fingers working through my hair. I don’t remember which flavors were her favorite.
I suppose I should be happy that I can remember anything of her at all. Mom died when I was six, too young to remember happy things, just legs dressed in black and hands patting my head sympathetically at the memorial. All I remember of her is a headstone.
Everyone says I won’t really forget, because I loved my sister and she loved me and she’ll always be with me, no matter what. But what they don’t know is that every minute I lose a little more of her. I used to be able to remember what her favorite flavor jelly bean was, or what songs we danced to in the kitchen. I used to hear those songs on the radio and start crying, because I missed her so much and I still remembered. Now, I don’t know if I’m hearing the right songs, and I don’t miss her so much anymore. And I’m scared that it means that I don’t love her anymore.
So I take the box of things I do remember out from behind my desk every night, and I look at it while I braid my own hair, just like my sister showed me. I hold the silver locket that isn’t worth very much but I never put around my neck anyway, because I might want to never take it off. I look at the pictures of my sister and the boyfriend I can’t remember, and I wish they would’ve gotten married one day. I read the acceptance letter, and I think about applying, just because.
And for the six minutes and twenty eight seconds it takes me to braid my hair, I try to love her as much as possible.
And for six minutes and twenty eight seconds, I can almost remember what her perfume smelled like.
Author's Note: This is up on my dA account. It's not stolen, I promise.
The Beginning
Well, hello.
If you're reading this blog, you probably know me from deviantART, NaNoWriMo, Fictionpress, or you just know me, period. If you fall into the last category, don't you dare mention this blog to my face, ever. It's shameful and I don't want to know that you know that I do this.
Anyway, I write a lot of short stories. Literally, hundreds per month. So, I'll be taking the best ones (IMO) and putting them up here for the world to see. Some of them will also be on my dA account or on my Fictionpress account, but most will be ThunderShorts exclusives.
Oh, and the title? I have a ten-year-old brother named Kyle. It's his fault.
If you're reading this blog, you probably know me from deviantART, NaNoWriMo, Fictionpress, or you just know me, period. If you fall into the last category, don't you dare mention this blog to my face, ever. It's shameful and I don't want to know that you know that I do this.
Anyway, I write a lot of short stories. Literally, hundreds per month. So, I'll be taking the best ones (IMO) and putting them up here for the world to see. Some of them will also be on my dA account or on my Fictionpress account, but most will be ThunderShorts exclusives.
Oh, and the title? I have a ten-year-old brother named Kyle. It's his fault.
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