Page 10 of Alamort
How am I supposed to go on when my reason for being here is gone? Knowing I’ll never see her smile at me or laugh again? Or even roll her eyes at my paranoia and say I’m dramatic? Who is going to tell me it’s going to be okay? Even when I know it’s not.
Clinging to that thought. I push deeper on the next one.
I’m so tired. I’m tired of being here. I’m tired of waking up. A sob bubbles in my throat. I taste the salt on my lips, only to realize I’m already crying.
I want my sister. I cry harder and push deeper to form a new line on my skin.
It should’ve been me. I should’ve been the one to die.
Another cut for being here.
After everything I’ve been through, why do I have to live with this feeling of hopelessness and loss? Why me? Why is it always me?
One more for pitying myself.
A relief floods through my veins. My head much clearer than it was before. Physical pain always cancels out the mental anguish I’m suffering through. My gut churns with guilt. Guilt from cutting. For not being stronger like my sister would have wanted.
I wouldn’t wish this pain on her, I know that.
The guilt of not entirely hating what happened tonight. Did I like it? Am I mad at him or am I mad I finally felt somethingother than anger and sorrow? Who was he? It was too dark off of the path and I didn’t want to chance looking at his face in case he’d change his mind on wanting to kill me.
Or maybe I didn’t want to know.
His accent and his smell. It’s so vivid, permanently stuck in my nostrils. I decide to fully disinfect my body.
The next hour I spend washing my body repeatedly, trying to get the feeling of shame to cleanse myself of sin. My head is pounding, exhaustion hits, everything hurts, and I just want to sleep.
I am the epitome of tired. Life was tolerable, at best, when I had a reason to keep getting up every day. I’m tired of pretending, acting like I’m happy when I’m anything but. Begging for the bare minimum of being seen, loved, or cared for. I’m broken down and not even time heals the permanent wounds that never seem to stop bleeding. It’s the lack of hope that I’ll forever be stuck in this never-ending cycle no matter where I’m at.
There’s a soft tap on the door before a lock clicks. At some point I ended up back on the shower floor with my arms wrapped around my knees. Staring at red tinted water being sucked into the drain. River peeks her head around the lip of the wall that’s covering me and hesitates a second before walking over and gently gathering my hair to wet it.
“You’re getting wet.” My voice sounds as emotionless as I feel.
“That’s okay. I’ll borrow some of your pajamas.” Her voice is as gentle as her hands running through my hair and lathering it with the school’s soap. I get a lung full of coconut. River clears her throat.
“You don’t have to talk about it and I won’t pry. But I don’t think you should be alone right now. I’m not going to leave you.” She states as she conditions my hair. I’m thankful for the sprayof the water covering the tracks of my silent tears as the organ in my chest constricts.
Soon after I’m being wrapped in a fluffy white towel. I brace for the nausea that accompanies me as I look at myself in the mirror. There’s something to be said about hating myself to the point that seeing my own face makes me ill.
The left side of my face is red from the tree rubbing against it. Indents of teeth are visible, clotted with blood at the juncture of my neck.
My old bruises are on display across my back where River has a VIP ticket to the shit show of my life. I look at River through the mirror. Any hopes that she doesn’t know what happened is out of the question.
“Do you want my help getting dressed?”
I shake my head, turning on autopilot. I just want to sleep, sleep the emptiness away.
Gathering the little strength I have to not just take a nap in the shower. I wait until she walks out before digging for a bandage to keep my new wounds clean. Looking around, I spot pajamas neatly folded and laid on the counter. My eyes water from Rivers’ kindness. The pain wells up inside me once again.
After disposing of my mess, I gather myself to head to my room where I find River is propped up in the middle of my bed, surrounded by the decorative throw blankets. Her hair in a messy bun and wearing a set of my pajamas, as promised. She pats the bed in front of her, indicating for me to sit and drapes a blanket around my shoulders. River’s gentle touch begins to brush the knots out of my hair. She needs to stop being so nice before it breaks me. I don’t know if she knew my sister because they’re exactly the same person and it hurts.
It hurts so much I want to hate her.
Halfway through my hair, she breaks the comfortable silence we had.
“When I was younger, before my parents came into money. They sold weed to provide for our family, a good chunk of change.” She pauses, hesitating, before continuing. “They had a couple of regulars that came around a lot. One was around more than the others and became a close family friend. It started slowly, with a few uncomfortable touches here and there. I thought nothing of it. Rationalized it as accidental. It eventually escalated to where he started to find ways to get me alone. Hide and seek outside, store trips in the car. One night, he snuck into my room, but it didn’t stop. Not after the first time, or the second. He kept coming.” I didn’t realize she had finished my hair and already had it in one braid. As I face her, the sight of her far-off gaze in her wet eyes throw me off.
Softly, I reach for her hand and have her lie beside me, our faces close enough to feel each other's breath. There’s no way what we went through is the same. The disturbing feelings I’m emotionally digging through aren’t comparable to what she went through as a child.