Author's note: Baby chapter, just to get me through this moment that I've been longing to write. It's been a rough week. I'll be writing my way through my feelings, I think. I love you all. Your pain is my pain. (Roaa if you're reading this, it's safe :) It might hurt a little, though.)
When Mitch was very young, most grown-ups (adults, Mitch mentally corrected) believed him to be just an extremely shy boy. He hid behind his mother's leg when she would try to introduce him to other children, and he often sought out Legos, stuffed animals, and dolls to play with instead.
By the time Mitch was fourteen years old, "shy" didn't quite cut it anymore, and anxiety began to rear its Medusa head. People would throw words around like "depression" and "coping" and "socialization" and Mitch would sit there, absorb it all, and continue to be wrought with anxiety. Nervous tics like bouncing his knees and tucking his hands in his sweater sleeves became frequent occurences. The only time he could get his brain to shut down--could quiet the buzz in the back of his head or the ripple up his shin--was when he wrote.
He would snuggle up at the head of his bed, notebook in his lap, or else he'd hunch over his much-too-small desk, with the lamp with the lightbulb that got way too hot and burned him once. Twice, max.
If Mitch could get his brain to quiet down right now, it would probably say something like, I must have the ocean roaring inside me, because these tears, the drops that fall as ceaselessly as the tide, are so sharp with salt that I could almost float away.
But he couldn't, and he wouldn't. The humming in his brain was so loud and focused on a pinpoint behind him, at a spot on the door that he couldn't see but he knew was there. When he closed his damp eyes all he could imagine was that shining knocker, slamming right in front of his nose. The clank of the metal had hit him right behind his ears, made him wince. He could not tell if the ferrous tang in his mouth was from his concentration on the knocker, or his tongue turned to lead, or his blood.
Mitchell Grassi, acclaimed poet, was at a loss for words.
He leaned his face forward into his hands, stubbornly wiping at the tears he wished were not there, elbows on his knees, feet on the step.
His flesh was transparent. His heart was not.
He shuddered for his breath, counting over and over. Icy resolve crept through him, slow as a glacier, and forced him to stand up, turn around, and place his frigid fingers on the knocker once more.
Eyes closed, he struck the metallic lion three times.
