The Pain of We (ON HOLD)

6

"I liked your poem," You said as you passed me in the hall. You were gone before I could mutter a thanks.

...
I stepped off the bus, aware that you were right behind me. I couldn't believe the bus let you get off wherever you pleased. The school is pretty fucked up.

But that's life, isn't it.

I grabbed the mail from the mail box and started walking up the drive. You walked beside me, not saying anything. Once I got to the porch I turned around the looked you in the eye. "You can't come inside."

You made a face. "Why not?"

"Because my father will kill me." I checked the time on my watch. The bus was later dropping kids off today, too much traffic and too many sleeping preschoolers. It was already five. "Come on, please go away. He'll be home any minute."

You shrugged. "So I'll meet him."

I crossed my arms. "You can't. He's not someone you want to meet. Please."

You stood still.

I glanced over your shoulder and saw his truck coming down the driveway. I started tapping my foot, biting my lip. "Please, Jarsen, you can't be here."

"Why not?"

"Because!" I watched as my dad drove half-hazardly down the gravel. I looked back to you. "Please, Jarsen," I was on the verge of tears.

You saw. "Fine. Call me, okay?"

You jogged off just as my father pulling into his parking space in front of the house. He killed the engine and stalked up to the house, his hands shoved in his pockets, his shoulders hunched.

"Who was that I passed?" He asked as he walked up the steps to the porch.

You were gone now, heading back to your home. "No one. Just a friend from school."

I unlocked the front door and held it open for Dad. He went straight for a beer. I started on dinner.

...
I opened up my English notebook and wrote.

Boom. Crash.

Not the sound of a storm.

Boom. Crash.

Not fireworks.

Boom. Crash.

Nothing fell.

Boom. Crash.

What's the sound then?

Boom. Crash.

The sound of a girl breaking.

The sound of a man hurting.

Boom.

Crash.

The Soundtrack of My Life.

I set down the pencil. My father's heavy footsteps thudded on the stairs as he slugged away to his room. I let out a breath and went downstairs, cleaning up the bottles from tonight. I grabbed the phone and sat down on the counter.

"Hello?" You answered, a hint of a smile in your voice.

"Jarsen I'm sorry about today..."

"Do you write more poetry?"

"Kind of. It's not all my own. I like to take sad poems from others and make them happy." I twirled the cord between my fingers. Outside it was so still. I liked the stillness.

"Will you read me anymore?"

"Maybe..."

"Please?"

I sighed. "Fine. But you can't laugh or anything." I took a deep breath, ready to recite from memory. "Mary, Mary, quite contrary/ How did your little girl grow?/ With razors and blades/ she'll slowly fade/ until depression takes her whole." I paused, willing you to say something. You were silent.

"Go on," You urged.

"Mary, Mary, what will you do/ to keep this from happening to someone new?/ Will you put up flyers and campaign for with flowers/ Just to feel comfort in her final hours?"

"I love it."

"I have to go."

"Read me something tomorrow."

"Maybe." I hung up.

...
I didn't know what I did this time. But he was all over me, his hands tight around my neck, stopping me from being able to breathe. He threw me to the wall, my nose connecting with the stripping wall paper. I heard a crunch and sunk down to the floor.

He lumbered over me, grabbing my collar and ready to take a swing at my jaw. "Please," I cried. "Please stop,"

My father made a face, clenching his teeth, his arm in the air, ready to swing.

And the phone rang.

His face turned to anger. "Who's calling?"

"I don't know!" I said, even though I had a pretty good guess. "I'll get it if you want."

"No." He let go of me and walked towards the kitchen. I got up, every single one of my bones and joints screaming in agony. Once I got to the kitchen I clutched the door frame,my knuckles turning white.

Why?

Why'd you have to call?

He turned to me, confusion in his features. "It's for you." He held the landline out to me.

I took it reluctantly. "Hello?" My voice cracked as my father's eyes watched me.

"Hey, Lark, how are you?"

I turned away, dropping my voice, hoping to God my father couldn't hear me. "Why did you call?"

"I thought we could talk for a while."

"You've got one hell of a timing."

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to catch you at a bad time."

"Yeah, well, for now on, I'll call you."

"Sorry, I—"

I hung up, turning to my father. "Teacher from the school. Asking a question about one of my assignments." I lied easily.

He grumbled a response and stumbled to the living room.

...
I sat up in my bed, on top of my covers, my hands wrapped tightly around my forearms, holding on to the only thing I knew I could trust. Myself. And even then, I wasn't sure how much I could rely on.

I sat in complete silence, scared to even let myself cough. I cursed how loud I was breathing—which I'm sure wasn't very loud at all. But as you discover, when you try to be as silent as the air, anything seems like a bomb of sound.

So I'd hold my breath until I felt the pressure build up in my skull, pushing on the edges until I couldn't handle it anymore. This pain distracted from the other stuff I felt.

I would glance up at the clock every once in a while, just to see the minutes and hours tick by. Little red letters read five AM, and I knew I'd never be able to sleep.

I stood up and got ready for school, pulling on my only stocking cap, a hole tearing in the side, leaving my right ear open to the elements. My gloves didn't help much either, the tips of three of my fingers missing and the bottom's elastic long stretched. My shoes were uncomfortably spacious, leaving room for the cold to creep in.

I pulled my jacket closer around me, hoping to make it seem warmer. But it was to no avail. I was cold, and the sun hadn't even risen.

Five miles.

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