Nice change of subject. But it’s too late. He’s opened Pandora’s Box inside my head that’s gotten harder and harder to close lately. It’s a shit storm of anger, regret, shame, and everything I don’t want to fucking deal with, tearing a path right through me until breathing feels like a punishment, scraping like broken glass through my lungs. I feel shitty enough without the reminders of how worthless I am. “I already told her I’d be there.”
“I know. That’s why I’m reminding you. Don’t let her down.”
Thisis the brother I know. The one who thinks about our little stepsister, although it’s more than that for him now. This guy, I understand. He always has and always will put her first, and I don’t begrudge him that, and yet, when he reverts to what I’m used to, the bitterness doesn’t recede. It grows and multiplies. Resentment, I convince myself I’m past, rears its head every time.
“Ihave never let her down,” I spit, knowing it’s a low blow and unfair, but giving absolutely no fucks. Becausefuck him. He ditched her for years. Sure, he kept tabs on her through me and whatever obsessive stalker ways he has, but he wasn’t here. I was. And he let her believe he forgot about her.
He doesn’t say anything else as he turns around and walks out the door, leaving me to deal with the emotions he’s stirred. I rub at the ache in my chest, trying to alleviate the heaviness. It all swirls around me like a living thing until I feel like I’m about to explode.
I breathe, doing whatever I can to calm the roaring thunder pounding in my ears and against my ribs.
The frustration and growing anger have only decreased marginally when my phone alerts me to a text.
M.D.: Next week is six months. We need to move forward with the termination of custody, so you can sign the papers.
I already know all of this. The psycho died six months ago, but he doesn’t know that. He thinks she’s missing, so of course, we had a few extra hoops to jump through.
I stare at the message but don’t respond. This headspace I’m in means I’ll say something I don’t know if I’m ready to confess yet.
Then another message comes through.
M. D.: Are you coming tonight? It’s his birthday, you know?
I roll my neck; the anger doubling.
Me: Tell him congratulations for surviving the year. It’s a real accomplishment in this family.
The guilt slams into me the minute I hit send. Shame that I’m taking my anger and frustration out on someone who didn’t ask for this any more than I did threatens to drown me in a current so powerful it burns my lungs.
And I deserve every second, because once again, I let my emotions control my actions.
Over the last six months, I’ve tried to move past the enmity that seeped into my bones. There has been a shift. My anger isn’t misplaced anymore. And his existence—heno longer carries my blame. He never deserved it. And on those days, I feel like maybe I can move past it all. Let go of the past, the trauma…the raging guilt and shame.
Then the nightmares return. Whether it’s sapphire eyes tormenting my dreams or the dark eyes that condemn me, theyalways find their way back, and I’m reminded all over again how I didn’t ask for any of this.
It’s not fair to either of us, but I’m supposed to be the understanding one.
I hope one day I will be, but apparently, it won’t be today.
Before he bestows me with whatever bullshit he disguises as wisdom, I shut my phone off. With a growl, I grab my shit, leaving the phone behind, and walk out, determined to do whatever it takes to make all of this go away.
Poppy
Fuck, it’s cold. I know this is New York in December, but why the hell is it so cold? It doesn’t help that it’s dark—well, as dark as a never-sleeping city can be. I should’ve had time to go home, take a shower, grab some food, and change, but rehearsal ran late—really late. Opening night is tomorrow, and the director decided none of us looked ready. Now I’m worried I’ll miss the subway to Midtown, and the next one won’t get me there in time for my audition. I’ll be late. The guy told me not to be late.
My sneakers slap the sidewalk at a relentless rhythm as I shoulder through the crowd. A few people swear at me. More toss me middle fingers. I’m pretty sure I shoved one girl to a near face plant, but the guy coming from the other direction not caught her.
This is New York. If you can’t handle it, you shouldn’t be here. Besides, I probably helped that girl meet her future husband. You’re welcome.
The sign leading down the tunnel appears, and relief slams into my chest like a truck, nearly knocking the breath out of me. I’m going to make it.
Then I hear my name called.
I try to ignore it. But when it meets my ears again, my eyes close, and my feet stop because I know that voice.
I met Casey Parsons a few months ago after our ballet class Mean Girls were being, well, mean. She looked so sad, and I noticed she didn’t talk much with the other girls. I could’ve chalked it up to her being a spoiled rich girl, but something in my gut told me she wanted to disappear, and not in the graceful pirouette exit kind of way. So, I offered to be friends, and she admitted she didn’t have many.
I’ve been a pretty shitty friend, honestly. Life keeps getting in the way, and I haven’t known her long enough to tell her all my troubles. Not that I would if I had. I’m not one for burdening others with my problems. But I need to do better, so she doesn’t think I’m brushing her off.
