Ladybug [h.s.]

11

Delilah

~~~~~~~~

I throw myself through the open window, panting quietly at the collision against the carpet. My mind heaves with each breath I take, throat drying out like a sandstorm erupted in the center of my bedroom. I can't be more thankful to have gotten home before my parents woke up, but that brief, quiet gratitude doesn't hold a candle to the whizzing rocketship inside my skull. Eyes landing on the paper excuse resting on my side table, I scramble to my feet, quickly changing out of last night's outfit into something more delicate, more Deli.

The more I try to push, the louder the signal gets. Alarm siren blaring more intensely, more frantically, with the pressure against it. Every sense is tuned into the deafening caw, vultures circling their prey. Dwindling spiral. Funnel eclipse. Ringing in my ears as I struggle to untangle a shirt over my head. Flashing lights prodding dappled color in my eyes as I pull on a soft skirt, unaware if it even matches. Vibrating engine hum in the tips of my fingers as they nervously run through my hair, smoothing out the kink across the back from the helmet. The helmet. Clashing pots and pans, chest-rattling firework beats, howling wolf pack, buffalo stampede of ambulances. Loud, loud, loud.

I try to take a breath, letting the cool air swirl into my mouth. It dances across my tongue, acrobat flipping to stream across the roof of my mouth. Balloon lungs inflate. Needle prick release.

I remember, when we were little, he would sometimes forget how to breathe. Just momentarily, like maybe his mind wandered off somewhere else to explore before remembering its job in this universe. Sometimes he cried, and I'd give him my childhood blanket to hold onto. Innocent ego. If it comforted me, surely it would comfort him. Other times he didn't seem sad, just...lost. Daydreaming. Skipping through the ridges of his brain in search of a new adventure. There were galaxies of realities swimming inside of Harry's imagination. Whole solar systems that I would try to rocket to, passing twirling stars and cartwheeling meteors. Desperately hoping that my ship would reach a planet. It never did; he'd come back before it did. Detour trip, off the bus three stops early. He'd come back, panting a little from his excursion, and we'd continue on in this world; in this dimension. Mortal wanderers.

It never happened when we'd feed the ducks. It never happened when we'd go on bug hunts. It happened once on the tallest branch of the tree and we never climbed that high again.

When we were little, I envied his quiet voyages; his galactic explosions. I envied his fingers wrapped tightly around my blanket, even though I was the one who offered it in the first place. As an adult, I no longer envy the way my throat feels coiled tightly around a volatile spring. I don't envy the zipper pulling my lungs shut, reducing the purse space for empty air. I don't envy my mind's donned wings, or dangerous flight. I don't envy his anxieties now that I understand them; now that I see them; now that I feel them. When I was little, I thought Harry was a great adventurer. As an adult, I know Harry's adventures were nothing more than broadcast anxiety attacks. Jack Carson narrating internalized turmoil. Radio station primetime. And, as I sit, cross-legged in the center of the floor, I wish desperately to reach for the volume dial.

My eyes stay planted in my lap, criss-crossed on the floor as I methodically fill my lungs, empty my lungs. Fill my lungs, empty my lungs. A consistent routine. Innate water cycle. As I feel myself start to calm down, I stand back up, brushing my hands down the path of my skirt. With one last breath, I open my bedroom door and slowly wander downstairs, trickling slowly like a rainfall stream. Just enough water to induce movement over the soil and rocks. And the cycle begins again.