Hailey Boehmer
Creative Nonfiction
Of Risks and Rollercoasters
I found myself struggling to find a reason to wake up. When my eyes finally opened in the first blades of morning, I immediately wondered if the day was worth conquering. I imagined every possible way I could avoid leaving my bed to face another bleak cycle. Perhaps I could pretend I was sick and go back to sleep. Or maybe I could hit the snooze button and enter back into my deep slumber, undisturbed. Some days, I let the daunting feeling of putting effort into my day overwhelm me. It bound me to my bed like a collection of adamantine chains suffocating any ounce of willpower that was left within me. I searched for a reason to try my best, even a reason to live on some days. I was constantly trying to find my place in the world, and failed time and time again.
Maybe if I did sports, I would fit in with the popular kids. If I did my makeup like the other girls, I would get attention like they did. I pushed myself repeatedly, like becoming a three sport athlete and resisting the urge to paint my eyelids in heavy black eyeliner, as none of the so-called “pretty” girls did that. But nothing could hide the insecurity and displacement that was boiling beneath my fragile porcelain skin. Every day felt like I was walking through fresh tar. The weariness seething in the depths of my organs was one of which I would only acknowledge behind closed doors. I knew that I was wrestling with mental illness, but the mirror kept telling me I was fine. I felt ashamed for not being normal, for not being able to wake up optimistically. So I avoided the fact that I wasn’t. I needed to find an escape–something to throw off the wet blanket I wore throughout the day.
My search lasted longer than I expected. I considered a few resources: alcohol or harder drugs, but I refused to end up like the rest of my family, who were addicts, alcoholics, or both. I grew up around these kinds of people, watching their lives be taken away from them like a candle slowly losing its glowing flame when placed under a jar. They seemed unhappy and unfulfilled which was the opposite of what I wanted. This mental process of elimination crossed out many things, and that is when I met my medicine: marijuana.
The first time I got high, I felt like I was gently being carried by a balloon into the open sky. There was nothing I had to worry about, and nothing to deal with. The burdens that once enveloped me were finally detached from my sides. My mind was only occupied by the serenity of the warmth of summer as waves quietly rolled across the sand. The feeling is what I had been craving for what felt like a lifetime. I never wanted to have to surrender my peace to be overrun by agonizing depression, but I knew that soon enough I would have to.
After my first high went away, I pursued it again. And although these euphoric feelings took me to another life, my sorrows were stronger than what they had been when I came back to reality. Had I been in therapy and prescribed medical marijuana, I probably would have never faced the challenges I subsequently endured, but I entered a world where marijuana was tabooed, fetishized. I was not a patient but a renegade. I told myself that things weren't that bad, that I wasn’t in pain, and that I was handling my problems myself. So, consequently, marijuana carved out a corner almost every day. It came to an unsurprising, unsettling point where I needed to be intoxicated to hush the intrusive thoughts screaming to slice paper cuts into my eyes.
I became reckless. I was getting high whenever I had the chance, but eventually this was not enough. I longed for a new, thrilling feeling. I longed for something to bring back the newly-found feeling of flight. My continuing mental and physical decline was now accompanied by an addiction to giving myself stick and poke tattoos. The freedom of marking up my body with whatever I wanted was exciting. At the time, I did not realize that what I was doing was considered self-harm; I was intentionally digging into my skin with fresh ink, like piercing a new drywall with millions of thumb-tacks, for the sole purpose of releasing built up emotions I was too scared to face.
I felt hopeless. I felt alone. I was now battling with an addiction to self harm and a drug induced coping mechanism. Having control over these two aspects of my life helped me feel like I had power over at least one thing. I needed the authority that I felt I lost when it came to my decisions and actions, because, most of the time, I thought I was living my life through someone else’s desires, like a puppet and its master. For a time I felt fulfilled through perilous behavior.
With getting high and blemishing my skin, I also resorted to sneaking out while the moon was the only one watching me. The night was comforting, casting the world asleep, and taking my worries with it. This was also the time I would leave my house without permission or mention. I could experience darkness and silence by myself and it was the most tranquil feeling I had ever endured. I danced with the stars without any care, something I wished would last forever. The small town I resided in was vacant at this time. I spent most of these nights on Main Street, which was near my house. Small shops occupied every angle on the left and right side of the street. It was a heavenly sight, to see such a busy town so deserted. Most would feel uncomfortable or lonely in such vacancy, but I felt at peace. I felt all cares evaporate when my feet touched Main Street. And I felt I was somehow looking into an endless series of mirrors.
I was struck down everytime I knew I had to return home, where the persona of a worn black veil must drape over my suffering pale skin. I thought to myself time and time again, what are you doing? But I had no answer. Yet again, I thought there was no way my situation could get worse. There is nothing else I can do to shatter what was already broken, until one night I was at my breaking point and I tried to take my own life.
In time, my parents found out what I was doing and saw how my depression was affecting me on a deeper level. It caused a tear in my family for a while, because I had not been vocal from the start. Whenever I seemed “off,” I was asked if I was okay, and every time I said yes, because I preferred to conceal my emotions rather than come off as looking for pity, I was met with suspicious gazes. But I did get help.
I have conquered many obstacles that I thought I would never overcome, and I still continue to grow in my emotional well-being. Some days I long for the exhilaration again, to be risky. To feel the rush coursing through my veins, like blistering coffee through a twisty straw. To face my painfully electrifying teenage life, I have remembered how perilous this period was, so I hold myself back from returning to the past. I resort to excitement through the arts and huge roller coasters. And, like these attractions, my world consisted of extreme highs and lows, twists and turns, but the experience is what I needed to realize the change that was crucial to my recovery.
Fiction
Frame Story
My family and I had just arrived at the campground that we go to every year for the fourth of July. It was customary to go strictly as the five of us, but this year my brothers and I were allowed to each bring a friend. We had to bring an extra tent because of this, but that was no issue. We had also arrived slightly later than anticipated, so a fire was a must to keep everyone warm from the cool summer breeze. Max and his best friend ventured into the woods to search for sticks for all of us to use to make s’mores. He found twelve pristine looking branches after a short amount of time, and we all picked individual one’s for each of us to use. The one I initially grabbed had a small tuft of hair on it, but I assumed it was merely a deer, so I tossed it back into the forest and grabbed another.
Everybody had grabbed a seat around the hot, popping bonfire. Marshmallows were passed around, along with graham crackers and chocolate. There was laughter, music, and smiles. The night was joyful. My older brother, Julien, had spoken up and asked, “Why don’t I tell a scary story? It’s the perfect setting.” We all shot glances at each other and agreed. Julien began to tell his story.
“There is an old tale that takes place in a familiar sight of woods that has been passed down for years. In 1917, a man named Thomas lived within the thick woodland. He lived by himself in a small cabin, the only company he had was an old golden retriever named Lucy. Thomas and Lucy lived quiet and content lives. One night, Tom went out back to cut some wood for his fireplace as the winter weather slowly rolled in. The only sound he heard was the echo of the axe blade cutting through logs, until he heard footsteps behind him. He quickly gazed over his shoulder, but saw nothing. He brushed it off and continued chopping away, when he heard steps again. This time he turned his whole body and stared in the direction of the noise. ‘Who’s there?’ He called out, but there was no answer. ‘I can hear you! Show yourself!’ He shouted once more, still with no call back. All he saw was a little bit of hair on the ground a few meters away.”
“Who is it? Who keeps walking near him?” Max impatiently interrupted.
“Shh! Don’t ask questions.” Julien barked back.
“Anyways, Tom was scared at this point. There were no houses around him for miles and most animals had gone into hibernation by now. He snatched his axe and went inside. For a few moments, he looked out his back windows and thought to himself, ‘what is going on?’ Lucy anxiously ran underneath his arm and rubbed up against his side, for she could feel the concern of her owner. Tom gave up looking around and went on with the rest of his night. He cooked up dinner for Lucy and himself and prepared to go to sleep. He had settled into bed when he heard yet another noise outside, but this time, it sounded like it was just on the outer side of his wall. Swiftly he sat up and looked out his bedroom window. His gaze was met with bright yellow eyes.”
“I’m getting scared, can you hurry this up? I want to be able to sleep tonight.” I said.
“We’re almost at the end, I promise.” Julien reassured me. “When Tom saw the eyes looking back at him, he was scared. In fact, he was terrified. The eyes were joined by a hairy body, at least eight feet tall. It seemed to have a human-like figure. ‘What is that thing?’ He whispered to Lucy. Lucy, being the dog she is, went ballistic. She started barking up a storm in an attempt to scare the creature away, but this only aggravated it. The beast began walking towards Tom’s house, specifically the window barrier between the monster and Tom. Tom didn’t know what to do, so he grabbed for his gun, cocked it and aimed. When he fired, something went wrong and the gun blew up, taking out Tom and Lucy. Legend has it, bigfoot is still here to get his revenge for being shot at. Sometimes, if you’re quiet enough, you can faintly hear Tom’s voice saying ‘Run! Run while you can!”
“Good thing that’s just a silly old story. Come on kids, let’s go to bed. It’s getting late and we have a fun hike tomorrow!” My mother said to all of us.
“I hope you’re right, mom. Anyways, Maggie and I are going to sleep. Good night. Thanks for the scary story, Julien.”
“Oh, you’re welcome.”
Everybody went to their designated tents and tried to go to sleep. Maggie and I were a little scared. We stayed up together for an hour or two after the fire spilling gossip to get our mind’s off the bigfoot story when we heard footsteps outside our tents. We fell silent and motionless. The footsteps came closer and closer, then something hit our tent and we screamed, alarming everyone at the campsite. Maggie and I sprinted out of our little shelter, as I thought I heard Kayla say, “Run!” We dived into my parents tent and I nervously yelled, “Mom, there’s something out there!”
“Kayla, stop it, you’re being ridiculous. Wait here.”
My mother stepped outside and froze in her steps. Her arm twitched as she blindly attempted to grab the tent behind her. I saw the fear in her body language and peaked my head out. I gasped, for I had locked in a gaze with bright yellow eyes.
The Mirror
You slipped off the silk nightgown that hid your imperfections. The sewn material delicately fell to the floor as you stared at the body that remained in the mirror in front of you. You felt your stomach tie into knots over the amount of hatred that welled up inside you. You knew what a female’s body was supposed to look like according to Kendall Jenner, and yet here you are, presenting yourself in such a way that would turn faces. You were disgusted with the way that you resembled a rotund piece of clay. You wondered how your boyfriend could possibly find you attractive when he liked pictures of skinny girls in tiny pink bikinis.
Stretch marks reached across the deepest crevices of your figure. You wished you could somehow erase the purple lightning bolts that reminded you of the fact that you were never really going to look right. You will never look appealing to the public eye like you used to. When you were a freshman, you were no larger than a jean size zero. All your shirts were small or extra small. There was no way you would have ever fit into a C cup. Seeing yourself in the reflective glass now sparked up the desire to lose weight in any way you could. You considered every possibility, even forcing up the food you had consumed earlier in the day. You constantly went back and forth in your own mind debating whether you should continue even taking your medicine or not with the rate your weight gain is going at. You knew that the oversized stomach and sides were majorly due to the antipsychotic medication that you had to take everyday in order to remain stable. But it felt good to be happy and to not to suffer the mania and depression that came with Bipolar disorder. So would it be worth it? To be unhappy, yet skinny again?
You remembered the way that your friends speak about your body. They always said that you looked fine, that you looked healthy. But something inside you never believed them. How could they see a misshapen figure and insist that it was beautiful? You knew that they were saying nice things because they were your friends and they had to tell you what you wanted to hear. Or perhaps they only kept you around to feel better about themselves. Maybe they remained in your life so that they could compare their sizes to yours and rejoice over being smaller than you were. You began to wonder if anyone knew the real reason why you wore oversized, baggy sweatshirts everyday. It wasn’t because you had no fashion taste or no clothes to make a cute outfit, but because of the fact that you needed to hide your true form. Your fear of rejection was overwhelming to the point that even the idea of the world saying you aren’t good enough because you’re not skinny was terrifying. Whenever you tried on clothes that were on the tighter side, you felt tears well up in your eyes. Your stomach would fall to your toes and you could sense an anxiety attack waiting to break through the dam in your mind.
You began to notice similar lines that made your skin look like a lined sheet of paper. Perfectly straight scars symbolized the darkest points of your life. Each engraving had a story behind it, although most of them focused on your never ending feeling of self -hatred. In every moment of despair, the leading thought that drove the act was “you deserve it” and you believed it. You listened to those voices and believed the twisted image that you painted of yourself because it felt right. Any small mistake you made caused you to obsess over the fact that you did something wrong. It became exhausting to live everyday with racing thoughts.
For a while, you couldn’t stop marking yourself. You wished you could, but the sense of being able to take your pain out in a way that felt satisfying and fulfilled was addicting. There were days where you would come to school with fifty or more fresh prints up and down your arms. You couldn’t show anyone because they would think you were crazy and send you away to a mental institution, but you didn’t want that. You could never live with the idea of being the girl who was so mental that she had to be sent away. So you kept your struggles a secret. It would be better that way. Easier that way. Nobody would have a reason to worry about you and therefore nobody would obsessively ask you over and over “Are you okay? How are you doing?”
But as you continue to look at yourself, you think of a tacky quote you once read on Pinterest. “Your body is made to keep you alive, not to satisfy other eyes.” It resonates with you while you turn yourself and feel your own skin overlapping itself in the form of fat. You knew that soon enough you would be out of high school and the rest of the world would be less judgmental. People wouldn’t be as quick to form ill-intended opinions just from the way you look. Your unattractive curves would no longer chase others away from being seen with you, and perhaps people would soon come to adore your vivacious figure.
You knew that your scars held stories, but they also showed your strength. It was better to have faded stripes that covered your miles of skin than to have let your suicidal thoughts envelope your mind into making an irreversible decision. They proved that even after all that you have been through, you persisted and came out alive. Even though these scars attracted judgmental glares from passing strangers, you learned to live with the fact that people were always going to find some reason to stare.
Instead of carping over what your body didn't look like, you tried to accept that no matter what models look like, it was unrealistic. You reminded yourself that models are forced into gruesome diets and extensive amounts of working out to maintain a slim shape. Not to mention, you knew that social media was overrun by an overuse of photoshop. How could you trust that what famous people are posting is even real? Women are known for accentuating the shape of their hips and narrowing down the diameter of their stomach. Calves were narrowed and glutes were enlarged. Even smiles could be manipulated into the most appealing versions they could be, regardless of their true form, but there’s the catch- they’re not in their truest form and you are.
You know now to accept yourself as beautiful because that is what you are, despite any cruel comments that could be said about how you present yourself. And so as you stare at yourself in the mirror a little longer, you desperately search for a marker. Across the top of the reflective glass you scribble, “Your body is a temple, not a magazine cover.”
The Masque of Janus
Bitter cold encapsulated me, frosting every inch of my skin. This blizzard was the worst one my small town had seen since 1964. The wind ripped at the gutters that lined every suburban roof and painted every road and driveway white. My car had broken down two blocks away from my house. It was close enough that I figured I could make it, so I chose to risk an attempt to reach my front door. I could barely make out my porch light through my squinted eyes. The wind felt like a million tiny icicles scratching my corneas.
The storm seemed to grow stronger with every step. One movement after the next, I could barely lift my leg without gusts of wind knocking me back. My arms were held so close to my body that they seemed to melt into my torso despite the winter air. My hair was ripping away from my head in wild directions, causing me to struggle even more to see my destination. My house felt dreadfully far away but I knew that it was only a few yards. Time seemed to slow down.
My hands were numb, and I couldn't feel the gloves that swaddled my fingers and palms in a protective warmth. I only sensed my long thermal sleeves that lined around my wrist, but I was quickly losing that sensation as well. Distant tendons and ligaments iced away. It hurt to move, but I had to. I had to get home before I was lost. I imagined the horrific things that could happen. If I passed out for some reason, I would die alone. The life within me would slowly be pulled away. It was a fate that howled at me through the wind.
You need to keep pushing. You’re so close, I reminded myself. I struggled, but it seemed like getting home was impossible. I couldn’t see anything. I couldn’t feel anything. But I needed to get home to my daughter, Claire, who was waiting for me to return from work. She was waiting with the babysitter, probably looking out from the kitchen window. We had an incredibly close bond. She’s a mommy’s girl – always doing everything with me, requesting that I was the one to tuck her in at night, asking me to drive her places. It made me feel special. I loved having someone who relied on me. It made me feel important.
Suddenly I realized that I was no longer moving anymore. I genuinely was frozen. I tried to move but I couldn’t. I didn’t have enough power left in me to work up the energy to lift my legs anymore. My shivering was the only form of movement I could produce. The numbness was moving closer to my heart. My forearms had lost feeling. My calves were on their way to numbness. I wanted to drop to the ground and allow the storm to consume my body, to become one with the chilled earth beneath me. It would be easier that way. I could allow myself to give up and accept death as a gift. So I did. I fell to my knees while continuing to hold my arms as close to my chest as possible. I closed my eyes and thought back to my happiest memories so that I could leave this life in my happiest mental state.
I remembered the day I married Tom. How perfect the ceremony was. He shed a tear when he saw me walking down the aisle towards him. He wrote his own vows and delivered them confidently and smoothly. I stared into his forest green eyes and fell more in love than I thought was even imaginable. I reminisced on the day I had my first daughter, Claire. Holding such a pure form of life that I had created, I fell in love all over again. Seeing her perfect face looking back at me. Feeling her tiny hand wrap around my finger. She was beautiful-- the most beautiful girl I had ever seen. The memories forced me to cry. I couldn’t compose myself. My life was perfect, more ideal than any author could capture in a romance novel. But that was all over now. I was preparing for my death.
Out of nowhere, a hand grabbed mine and pulled me out of the snow. I faintly heard a man yell “What are you doing out here?” as he dragged me through the aggressive wind and squalls of huge piles of snow.
“What?” I barely managed to get out. My lips seemed frozen together like two freezer burnt popsicles, making it hard to speak. I took a second to register the voice that spoke to me and I realized it was Tom. He was here to rescue me like the angel he is. He must have somehow seen me outside of the house. That didn’t matter right now though. All that mattered was the fact that I would live because of him. But something felt wrong. A voice in the back of my mind kept mumbling something. I tried to think of what it could possibly be; did I forget something important in the car? Did something happen to Claire that I am somehow sensing? I couldn’t think hard enough. All that was on my mind was how cold I was and how much closer to the warmth I was getting.
The door slammed shut and Tom propped me up on the couch. He frantically searched for as many blankets as he could find while he said “How did you get out there? What were you thinking? Why didn’t you call me?”
He was overflowing with obvious questions regarding my state moments ago. I wished I could answer him but I still found it difficult to open my mouth. All I could do was look at him. I think he sensed the fact that I couldn’t speak, because he sat down next to me and followed up his questions.
“I’m glad you’re okay now. I’ll make you some tea with honey, just the way you like it. Hopefully it will warm you up.”
He was so genuine, so loving. As he approached the kitchen, I looked out the window and saw that the storm had slowed down immensely. In fact, it was barely snowing now- there was no chaotic aspect of it. It was just a simple, slow, steady fall of snowflakes. I couldn’t believe the sight I was seeing. Just a few minutes ago, I wouldn’t have been able to see two inches away from the glass pane and now I could see the entire street of houses. I couldn’t even explain the way this made me feel. I couldn’t feel betrayed because it was nature. The weather doesn’t control what it does. It simply behaves the way weather always does. My shock was clearly obvious because Tom came up to me and asked “What’s bothering you? Let’s just go get some warm food and tea for you.” and he led me to the kitchen, further and further away from the sight where I almost died.
I couldn’t shake what had just happened. How could the weather have possibly changed that dramatically in such a short time? It seemed nearly impossible. My suspicions were rising and my lips seem to have thawed so I asked Tom about it.
“Honey, wasn’t there just a huge blizzard outside? It’s barely snowing and I swore it was definitely a wretched storm before.” I asked in a curious manner.
“I mean, it was definitely snowing a little harder but I wouldn’t go as far as to say it was a blizzard.” He replied in a subtle tone that seemed to mock me.
“Are you sure? Think really hard about it because I’m starting to feel crazy here, Tom.” “I’m absolutely positive dear. Just relax. Your tea is almost done, go sit back down in the living room.”
I shook my head up and down twice to signal that I had indeed heard what he said and shifted my body towards the couch. I glanced out the window again just to see if the weather had intensified but of course it hadn’t. Perhaps the snow only felt extreme because I was actually trapped out there. This seemed like a logical explanation, yeah. It just felt like it was a massive storm. I distracted myself by thinking about Tom and how wonderful he is. I never believed in soulmates as I grew up but meeting him changed my perspective. Everything about him is perfect- his smile, his eyes, his body. I thought back to a few seconds ago to the scene of him making me my favorite drink while he smiled sweetly. It was a beautiful image. Except for one thing, the coffee maker.
We had recently bought a new, flashy red Keurig to make our morning drinks. The one I saw was black though. And it wasn’t a Keurig. This was more than odd, it was almost to the point of being scary. But I once again convinced myself that the weather was messing with my mind and I’m just not remembering some things properly. Just in case, I checked the coffee machine again- still black. I must be imagining things. This was totally normal for the state I was in. I almost died. I assumed it was natural to have a foggy train of thought. I decided not to make a fuss about it. Tomorrow morning is when I would check again to confirm what I was seeing.
Tom came to me with a mug filled with steaming green tea and honey along with a medium sized bowl of soup. I took the dishes and felt the warmth soothe my frozen skin. The rising steam comforted my purple lips and rosy cheeks. I took a long sip from the cup. How good it felt to be putting something so hot into my system! “Thank you,” I whispered to Tom. He was anxiously watching me now, making sure that I really was okay. He was also probably concerned about the seemingly obscure question I asked him moments ago. Wasn’t there just a blizzard outside? Maybe he thinks that I’m going crazy, losing my mind. Regardless, he made me a meal to help me feel better.
It was late when I got inside. The first time I saw the clock after being rescued, it read 8:17. Typically, I would be getting out of the shower by now and preparing for bed. Most nights I sat up against my favorite pillow and read whichever book that was on my nightstand. I wished I could follow my typical routine, but I was exhausted. I barely had the energy to stand up, let alone shower myself and stay awake long enough to read a book. I preferred to just lay in my bed next to Tom and drift off into a deep sleep.
I finished both my soup and tea and handed the dirty dishes to Tom. He took them out of my grip without hesitation and placed them in the sink. He approached me while asking “You seem tired. Are you ready for bed?”
“Yes. Yes I am.” I replied in a low, sleepy voice. As I was standing up, my heart dropped. Where is Claire? Tom must have noticed my shift in demeanor because he took a step back and made a concerned face at me.
“What’s wrong? Did something happen?” He asked in a confused tone.
“Where is Claire? Is she in her room? Did she fall asleep already?”
“Claire?”
“Yes, Claire. Our daughter?”
“We don’t have a daughter. Did you hit your head while you were out there?”
“What?” My voice trailed off. I couldn’t help but step away from him at this point. Did he really just say that to me? Is this a joke? I needed to see her for myself. I turned to go upstairs and find her but when I twisted to walk the opposite way, I was shocked to see what was in front of my eyes.
Snow. It was snowing. I was looking at the same thing that I saw just before Tom came to save me from dying in the blizzard. I looked all around me and realized that I was back in the exact spot that I was in when I was outside by myself. How is this possible? The cold feeling that had finally gone away was coming back rapidly. I thought to myself for a moment. I had a sudden vision of Tom, my husband, lying in a casket.
I couldn’t shake the sudden feeling that Tom was dead and had been for a while now. But I saw him only moments before, I know I did. I felt him. He cooked a warm bowl of soup for me just a few minutes ago and now it feels like he’s gone. I saw flashes of an accident and felt as if my heart was broken. I don’t know why, but I started crying again. I could feel my tears stream down my face. I was surprised that they didn’t freeze in this weather. I assumed that my face kept them just barely warm enough to race across my cheeks. I needed to refocus, to find Claire who was definitely alive and anticipating me racing to pick her up. I couldn’t wait to see her and lift her and spin her around.
And then I was back in the predicament I thought I had escaped. Now, for the second time, I had to figure out a way to get home. I stood up in the blistering wind and attempted to take a deep breath, but the air made my lungs feel like two ice cubes. I somehow built up the courage to keep moving forward. I could still see the porch light ahead of me, signaling my destination. I had to stop brooding about what was going on around me. I need to just go.
It took a deep breath and reminded myself about Claire. I couldn’t die now. I hated the thought of Claire all alone, of how awful aloneness would be for such a little girl to have to live with. I pushed. Lifting my left foot first and following with my right, I moved as fast as I could. The light from the front of my house grew larger and larger. I was doing it. I was actually moving now despite the fast moving air trying to knock me over and the massive snowflakes swirling around my body. Piercing pieces of ice grazed across my skin, shocking my senses. I shut my eyes and imagined Claire. I was so close to home that I could feel the warmth of the fireplace. “Just keep moving and you’ll be there soon enough,” I told myself. “Just keep pushing.”
It all stopped. The wind, the snow, my body succumbing to the frigid world I was caught in. It was gone. I opened my eyes once again and I was on the floor in a room. A pale room decorated with a bed and a single night stand. There was one window. A door with only a small rectangle of glass to see out into the hallway. A woman was next to me and she was firmly holding my shoulders, staring at me. Her mouth was moving but I couldn’t hear her for some reason. Everything around me was silent. I looked around to try and identify where I was and wondered why I wasn’t in the snow anymore. In a split second, the environment around me changed.
I could finally hear the lady who was shaking me at this point. Her voice was somehow loud and soft at once. It crept into my ears slowly, like I was deaf, and my eardrums were gaining purpose yet again.
“Ms. Clark? Can you hear me? Ms. Clark?” She asked in a worried tone.
“What? Who are you? Where am I?” I had countless questions, but my mind was still foggy. I didn’t have the energy to become worked up.
“You're in your room at the Tamarack Center in Washington, Ms. Clark.”
“My room? Where are Tom and Claire? Are they okay? Where are they?” This place wasn’t familiar at all. I needed to see my family.
“Oh darling. Don’t you remember? They-”
“Remember what? What don’t I remember? Who are you?” I could feel my heartbeat picking up speed. I pulled away from the person in front of me. I couldn’t trust her. She knew where Tom and Claire were and was keeping it a secret from me.
“Ms. Clark, your family is dead. You killed them two years ago.”
“Dead? No, that- that’s not possible. I would remember that. I would remember killing my own family.” My voice trailed off at the end and became a mousy whisper. I couldn’t get the word killing out without having my voice break. I could see the concern swelling deep within the woman’s eyes. Her eyebrows arched to form a sorrowful look. I didn’t believe what she had said to me and without thinking, I pushed her away and darted for the door. I felt her fingertips lightly brush against my leg as she reached out in an attempt to stop me, but it was futile.
I opened the door, and Tom stood on the other side. He seemed completely normal, like I hadn’t just burst through the door like a wild animal. He gave me a stare, the same concerned look of the woman from that wretched room. I turned around to see where I had just come from and there it was, the blizzard. My body was once again encompassed in the cold, windy weather except this time I was on my front porch. I reached out for the doorknob, my eyes blinded by the light all around me.
Familiar
I woke up to the incessant sound of tapping against my bedroom window. I rolled over onto my side and saw a crow perched on the window sill. His jet black feathers were slicked back, shining in the morning sun. He looked at me and cocked his head in an “I acknowledge you” sort of way, the way birds always seem to. He began pecking at the glass pane again, tap tap tap. God, what a stupid creature. It’s like there’s no brain in his tiny head.
I stretched my arm down to the ground and grabbed a sock. I bunched it up and threw it at the window in an attempt to make the annoying feathered beast go away. Of course, with my luck, it didn’t work. The crow just jumped at the thud of the sock ball and continued staring at me. What is wrong with this thing? He should’ve flown away like most birds do when something is thrown at them. Irritated, I stood up and closed the blinds, hoping that would make him go away. I rolled back into my bed and stared at the ceiling. “Why can’t I just lay here forever?” I voiced into the emptiness of my room. Yet, I knew I should probably get ready for work. It was already 5:47 AM.
After I finished my breakfast, I shuffled back to my room to get dressed. I enjoyed eating much more than I enjoyed the pestering bird that woke me up, though I guess I’m a little glad he was there or else I probably wouldn’t have woken up on time. I took off my old pajamas and threw them across the room into the laundry basket like a basketball player taking a shot at a hoop. When I saw the bundled up clothing delicately fall into the hamper, I gave myself a round of applause and bowed to the imaginary crowd. I pulled my favorite black pencil skirt up and around my hips and smoothed it out once it took its place. I grabbed a baby pink blouse and gently put it on my torso, tucking it into my skirt. The outfit was topped off with an ivory grey, mid-sleeved cardigan and looked in the mirror. Typical teacher style, I thought to myself. Then the tapping began again.
I audibly grunted to myself and approached my bedroom window. Frustrated, I whipped the blinds open but to my surprise, the bird wasn’t there. I could still hear it like a drum playing within my head. I tried to follow the sound but it felt like it was coming from everywhere. The bathroom window is what I checked next but that was empty as well. Maybe he saw the bread in my kitchen, got hungry, and decided to break the window pane open to try to come in and steal it. I stomped into the kitchen and there he was, standing on the opposite side of our transparent barrier. I bent down to his level and glared deep into his black eyes. Don’t you have anything else to do? I whispered to him even though I knew he couldn’t hear me. All the bird did was tilt his head.
The stare down between us lasted longer than I expected. Something inside me didn’t want to lose to some measly little bird, but at the same time, he was just a bird. Why did I even care so much? I decided to walk away. After all, I did have to leave for work. I have no idea how much time I spent sitting at my window. I felt the need to say goodbye, so I did. He squaked back at me and it almost sounded like he said “get out,” but I knew I was making that up in my head. As I took my last glance through the window, I noticed something in the barely visible reflection of my apartment. My front door was slightly open.
I jolted around so that I was facing the entrance. Panic sent shivers down my spine and through my body. Why was my door open? How did I not notice before? I knew for sure that I wasn’t the one who did it, I hadn’t even been over there yet this morning. I didn’t know if I should go over there or not. What if someone broke into my apartment? Did someone rob me? My heart was racing at this point and I could barely breathe. I swung my head back and forth to search for anything out of place, but my little world seemed to be as it was.
I grabbed a screwdriver from one of the drawers in my kitchen and walked around as quietly as I could to see if there was an intruder anywhere. And then I heard a noise come from the bathroom. I knew that I had checked in there before but it dawned on me that I hadn’t thought to open the closet door that hid within the bathroom walls. I crept closer and closer to where I heard the noise and prepared my arm to swing as hard as I could. For all I know, it could be a murderer plotting to kill me. On the other hand though, it could just be a lost child. I reached for the doorknob and slowly twisted it. Once I felt it was twisted far enough, I whipped the door open and raised my arms above my head- but there was no one there. My body slouched as I let out a deep breath. I was relieved, yet confused. I still didn’t know what was going on or what had made the noise that I heard just minutes before. I turned to look at myself in the mirror. My face was red and my hands were shaking. I gave a pitiful smile to myself and set the screwdriver down on the sink. I hunched over, placing my hands on the edge of the marble counter and continued to look at myself. Have I gone crazy? First, I swear that I hear a bird talking to me and now I’m hearing things throughout my apartment. Perhaps the lack of sleep was finally getting to me.
I turned to go back to my bedroom and as I was leaving, I heard a voice. It was so quiet, much quieter than a whisper. It was barely audible. I heard it again, louder this time. “Jane, where are you going? Stay here with me.” I felt my heart beating in my chest like a rapid drummer boy. My gaze made its way over my shoulder and of course the bathroom was empty. I knew that there was nobody in there but the voice ringing in my ear was so clear. “Jane, don’t leave so soon.” The mirror began to fog up but I wasn’t sure what it was from. My name began to write itself out across the clouded glass. The world around me fell silent. All I could hear was a growing ringing in my ears and the occasional voice I heard before.
The ‘e’ finished writing itself and as it did, all I could hear was “Jane, Jane, Jane” being repeated in the air. The ringing and my name was getting louder and louder. I tried to cover my ears but it was no use. Nothing could block out what was going on. The lights started flickering and the door slammed itself shut. My name was whirling around in my head, I felt like my brain was going to explode. I closed my eyes as tight as I could and held my hands to my head like my life depended on it. There were a variety of voices saying my name now. Some sounded like a middle aged woman yelling, others sounded like children. Some even sounded like weaping men. “Please, stop” I asked, but I wasn’t sure who I was asking. “Just stop. I can’t take it” I begged. By now I was sitting in the corner with tears streaming down my face. Everything was getting louder and louder. It felt like there were hundreds of people surrounding me. I couldn’t help but to scream as loud as I could. I didn’t know what else to do. Screaming felt like my only option. My shrieking accompanied by the flooding in my head and flickering lights was too much for me to handle. It overwhelmed my body and mind. “Jane! Jane! Jane!” Over and over and over again. I wanted it to stop. The world around me was so loud. As I begged for anyone to make it stop, it suddenly did. The voices disappeared. The lights were back on as normal. The mirror was untouched. I slowly pulled my hands away from my head and my tears dried up.
Was I imagining all that? It felt so real but now the world seems quiet, just as if nothing happened. I forgot that I had work. I suppose I’ll have to go in late. No big deal. I gathered myself and stood up from the ground. I smoothed out my skirt again and fixed my blouse so that it was neat. I tried my best to ignore what I had just experienced. I felt like if I thought about it, it would feel more real. If I acted as though I had just passed out for some reason and had a bad dream, it would be easier to get over. But a lingering feeling in my chest couldn’t let me forget how it felt. Just forget about it, I told myself. Pretend like it never happened.
I pulled my long hair back into a bun so that it was out of my face. Hairspray was doused all over my head. I grabbed my favorite eyeshadow palette and covered my eyelids in a thin coat of baby pink. I just now noticed how soft the brush’s bristles were. It was like velvet dancing across my skin. I topped the pink shade off with a thin line of brown eyeliner; black always felt too harsh. Mascara hugged my eyelashes and brought my face to life. I finally finished my makeup and put it all away. I took one last look at myself. My eyes wandered from top to bottom of my reflection. And then it hit me: a feeling so intense that I nearly vomited from the sensation. My eyes went dark and my body lost its balance. I felt like I was watching myself from outside my body. Everything around me turned hazy. The only sense of realness that I could detect was my sweaty palms grasping onto the marble counter. I desperately gasped for air and tried to pull myself back into reality, but it was no use. I involuntarily cocked my head up towards the mirror once again and this time, there was a shadow behind me holding my face. The hands of this being were scorching hot. I could feel blisters forming on the skin of my face. As one hand squeezed my cheeks together, the other was wrapped tightly around my throat. It held my body above the ground effortlessly. We stared at each other through the glass in front of us. I couldn't make out a face; only a body distinctly appeared. It pulled its head closer to me and silence fell over the room once again as it whispered “Jane” right into my ear. At that moment, the mirror shattered into millions of tiny shards like crows taking flight and the light bulb above my head exploded. The burning from before covered my whole body now. The figure was gone but I could still sense its presence staring at me. I wasn’t sure where it had gone, but I knew I wasn’t alone.
Poetry
Song of the Night
The nocturnal sky illuminates
rain-covered grass, mastering hymns
by note and chord, embracing
my ears through song.
Our conductor of late hours holds
place on his throne,
commanding tides and skies
through his metronome.
The strain of our celestial nocturn
booms through somber clouds,
electrifying cicadas wings
brushing against the edges of leaves.
The winds listen to their master
dancing to the rhythm,
singing in octaves
through trees and brush.
Mother honors the
melodic darkness, only to shrink from
the smoldering blazes
that accompany day.
Sweet and Sour
Your sorbet smile
leaves droplets of honey
clinging to my mind.
Swirls of strawberry cream
seep into my memories.
The crash of lemon
cracks my bowl and strips
the vivacious extract
that was once intertwined
in my ginger hair.
Estrangement
My bright skies are mocked
by looming thunder.
Petals gasp for air
and leaves lose their pigment
while lightning strikes
the tranquil earth below.
Each raindrop
dampens my garden.
My flowers have wilted
from the continuous pouring
of spiteful rain.
