creeping up over the blocky edges of skyscrapers and high rises, their light seeping into the smog draped over the city and illuminating the whole sky with soft dawn light. Everything feels scrunched together – sky and city, building and street, my happiness and my misery. The tiniest of fluctuations could send one crashing into the other.
Sarah and I walk into the lobby of my building, blinking away the cold-induced tears from the corners of our eyes. Our breath comes in short bursts as we clomp up the stairs and into my apartment. As soon as we enter, I collapse into a rickety chair.
The adrenaline and excitement that had fueled my night are long gone. There is nothing left but exhaustion and a cryptic knot of feelings wrapped around Garret.
My heels are aching from the absurd stilettos into which my poor, suffering feet had been crammed all night. I rip them off with a savage satisfaction. Looking down at my clothes, I stiffen slightly. I can practically hear my mother barking in my ear. Ridiculous. Clown costume. You can’t hide behind slutty skirts and swooping necklines. You’re disgusting. I had heard every version of this tirade during my teenage years, always accompanied by the harsh jangle of jewelry clacking on her skinny wrists. Now, I carry her words with me. The thrill of the evening had, for the first time in a long time, submerged my mother’s hate below the surface of my attention, but as tired and confused as I am, they are roaring back with a vengeance.
I close my eyes and slump back into the chair, trying to quiet the mental firestorm raging within me. I can hear Sarah breathing quietly across from me. I know she is worried, but she lets me calm myself before she speaks. The tick of the clock hand dominates the silence.
“He likes you, you know,” she murmurs. I know exactly who she is talking about.
“I saw the way he was looking at you when we left, and lemme tell you, I’ve seen that look a million times before. He likes you.”
“Shush,” I reply halfheartedly. “He does not. Garret Lyons has no interest in me.” Mother’s imagined voice keeps seething in my ear. Slut. Ugly. Fat. Disgusting.
“Look,” Sarah says. “There’s no way I’m wrong. Just trust me. He likes you.”
With my eyes squeezed shut, I picture Mother standing across from me, dressed like she was the night I threw up at her feet. Her wrists and voice are shaking with equal measures of repulsion and vitriol. The same word is spilling from between her pursed lips on repeat, every syllable perfectly enunciated.
Disgusting. Disgusting. Disgusting.
I picture myself in front of her. I am no longer a child, but a woman, full-grown. She keeps repeating herself.
Disgusting. Disgusting. Disgusting.
Suddenly, something wells in my chest, a rising cloud of anger and pride and countless other emotions that have been boiling in my gut for as long as I can recall. The cloud expands to fill my stomach, my torso, my throat, and when it reaches my mouth, it takes shape and explodes outward.
Fuck you, Mother! the imaginary Me screams. Fuck you for everything you’ve ever done! Fuck you! Fuck you! Our voices chorus together upwards, battling.
Disgusting.
Fuck you!
Disgusting.
Fuck you!
Disgusting!
Fuck you!
With a pop, the apparition vanishes. My eyes fly open and I'm panting heavily, like I had just woken up from a nightmare. Sarah is across from me, looking quizzically at my panicked expression.
There are so many things I want to say, so many elements contributing to the particular frenzied symphony of my life.
She is right; I think Garret does like me. There was a glint in his eyes that I hadn’t seen before, not outside of a television show, a certain gleam that communicated so little and yet so much. At least, I think I saw it. I wanted to see it. The fact that Sarah says she saw something too emboldens me.
At
Sarah and I walk into the lobby of my building, blinking away the cold-induced tears from the corners of our eyes. Our breath comes in short bursts as we clomp up the stairs and into my apartment. As soon as we enter, I collapse into a rickety chair.
The adrenaline and excitement that had fueled my night are long gone. There is nothing left but exhaustion and a cryptic knot of feelings wrapped around Garret.
My heels are aching from the absurd stilettos into which my poor, suffering feet had been crammed all night. I rip them off with a savage satisfaction. Looking down at my clothes, I stiffen slightly. I can practically hear my mother barking in my ear. Ridiculous. Clown costume. You can’t hide behind slutty skirts and swooping necklines. You’re disgusting. I had heard every version of this tirade during my teenage years, always accompanied by the harsh jangle of jewelry clacking on her skinny wrists. Now, I carry her words with me. The thrill of the evening had, for the first time in a long time, submerged my mother’s hate below the surface of my attention, but as tired and confused as I am, they are roaring back with a vengeance.
I close my eyes and slump back into the chair, trying to quiet the mental firestorm raging within me. I can hear Sarah breathing quietly across from me. I know she is worried, but she lets me calm myself before she speaks. The tick of the clock hand dominates the silence.
“He likes you, you know,” she murmurs. I know exactly who she is talking about.
“I saw the way he was looking at you when we left, and lemme tell you, I’ve seen that look a million times before. He likes you.”
“Shush,” I reply halfheartedly. “He does not. Garret Lyons has no interest in me.” Mother’s imagined voice keeps seething in my ear. Slut. Ugly. Fat. Disgusting.
“Look,” Sarah says. “There’s no way I’m wrong. Just trust me. He likes you.”
With my eyes squeezed shut, I picture Mother standing across from me, dressed like she was the night I threw up at her feet. Her wrists and voice are shaking with equal measures of repulsion and vitriol. The same word is spilling from between her pursed lips on repeat, every syllable perfectly enunciated.
Disgusting. Disgusting. Disgusting.
I picture myself in front of her. I am no longer a child, but a woman, full-grown. She keeps repeating herself.
Disgusting. Disgusting. Disgusting.
Suddenly, something wells in my chest, a rising cloud of anger and pride and countless other emotions that have been boiling in my gut for as long as I can recall. The cloud expands to fill my stomach, my torso, my throat, and when it reaches my mouth, it takes shape and explodes outward.
Fuck you, Mother! the imaginary Me screams. Fuck you for everything you’ve ever done! Fuck you! Fuck you! Our voices chorus together upwards, battling.
Disgusting.
Fuck you!
Disgusting.
Fuck you!
Disgusting!
Fuck you!
With a pop, the apparition vanishes. My eyes fly open and I'm panting heavily, like I had just woken up from a nightmare. Sarah is across from me, looking quizzically at my panicked expression.
There are so many things I want to say, so many elements contributing to the particular frenzied symphony of my life.
She is right; I think Garret does like me. There was a glint in his eyes that I hadn’t seen before, not outside of a television show, a certain gleam that communicated so little and yet so much. At least, I think I saw it. I wanted to see it. The fact that Sarah says she saw something too emboldens me.
At
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