We got it. We actually got it. Signing our names was one of the longest moments of my life. I could see the tears building in his eyes as we pulled into the driveway. He’s had such a hard life, the joy made each room brighter than the one before it as we made our way slowly through the unfamiliar house. He caressed every light switch, opened every cabinet, claimed every closet, and ran his finger down every panel of all the blinds in the place. His face lit up when he felt the water warm his hand under every faucet. I’ll never forget those face crinkles.

On our very first date, he had made it clear that his childhood was different from most. He had never known a stable home, physically or emotionally. That led to an alcohol addiction. At the time he was in therapy and had been sober for a year. The first long term goal he had set in his second session was to buy a house. Not an apartment, not a condo, not a townhouse, or a mobile home. An actual house. A backyard. A basement. A Porch. A place to grow old. He wanted a future.

We didn’t have a honeymoon phase, where you spend every waking second you can together. Every once-a-month date, every midnight phone call, every shortened sunrise cuddle session has led to this. But it’s more than that. Every night I spent alone in my apartment while he stayed late at work has led to this. Every morning he moaned and groaned but still rolled out of bed has led to this. Every “little gift” for each holiday instead of dipping into his savings has led to this. I am not letting his hard work go unnoticed. We did this together and I know he wants me here more than anything, but he would have done this with or without me and the dedication and focus is what I love about him.

After the initial walk through we landed back in the empty living room and collapsed together on the carpet. I rolled into his arms and dug my face deep into his chest. We both relaxed so hard I could feel his inner child healing. With every exhale, I heard his heart whisper, “finally”. We crossed a finish line.

We picked ourselves up and began walking through different parts of the house separately. After a few minutes I heard my name from a room at the end of the hall. As I walked through the threshold, my attention was pulled toward the floor. There he was, on one knee, with a ring outstretched toward me. “From the moment I met you, you became goal number two.” And here we find, another starting line.

Alarm clock stirs. Before I even open my eyes, I reach for the noise, using my fingers to search the plastic top for silence. Wish granted. I open my eyes to the four walls of my childhood. My hand finds the wall hugging my bed; the bond stronger than my parents’ marriage. The smooth pale blue wall wraps me in a heavy comfort, begging me not to leave its side. My joints begin to scream as I move the blankets off and toward the wall, taping off my safe space. With the jagged movements of a man eight times my age, I begin to dress my personal statue. My own alien. My blood and bones. That’s when it stops.

If you’ve watched a supercell produce a tornado, this explanation will be easy to follow. It’s raining; sometimes a lot, sometimes not much. It’s very windy, with large gusts of wind like deep breaths in the sky spacing themselves a rhythmic distance from each other. The sky can be any color, most of the time I see a grayscale, swallowing the swaying tree tops. The wind is loud, but the rain is louder, popping as it— oh wait, that’s hail! It always catches me off guard. A surprise I enjoy more than most birthdays. The white of the hail feels pointy against my pupils contrasting hard against the dull pallet of the scene. That’s when the wind slows. The hail slows. The sky begins to brighten up. No, not brighten, just change color. Why is the sky yellow? Not sun yellow, why is the sky baby poop green-yellow? That’s when it stops. The whole world stops. Everything goes silent. I can’t hear the weatherman on tv. I can’t hear my dad shouting emergency directions in the background. My peripheral vision has closed and I am glued to the perpetual lack of motion outside of my living room window. The trees aren’t breathing. I’m not breathing. My heart is throbbing inside of my chest, inside of my neck, and inside of my ears. This moment is true and perfect peace. The hairs on my arms and neck stand on end. An electric sensation starts in my tailbone and races to the back of my brain blissfully numbing everything connected in between. And that’s when you feel it. The roar. The sound mimics a tsunami mixed with a humorously large runaway freight train mixed with a prehistoric lion. The pressure builds while the sound gets louder while your body releases all the adrenaline it can to keep you moving. I can finally hear my dad’s voice. Only this time, I’m the one moving my mouth.

Thank you. For messing up. For making those mistakes. For leaving me in the pit of snakes. Thank you. For criticizing everything I did. Everything I wore. Everything I was.

The morning judgments before I left the house. The rigid routines that wouldn’t let me out. The silence I sat in because, “that show makes me cry”. The bland food I ate because, “my stomach can’t take their fries”. The long dark days in bed when we wouldn’t move. The long dark nights drowning in booze.

You never bought me gifts, you said you weren’t good at it. You never tried to things, you always said “what if..?”. You always worked late because the work “had to get done” You always said no when invited to travel somewhere fun.

You never opened up, never told me how you really felt. You always expected me to give up my body, before you I knelt.

Forgotten and ignored used and broken worthless and bored a diseased token

Thank you, but I’m done. I have learned my self worth and you don’t have a say I have learned to take each week day by day I know who I am and who I want to be I know how to learn and grow, to read and be free

I don’t need you talking me through every minute of every day. I need you to stay very far away.

I know we were close, and you’ve taught me a lot But tonight I say thank you, now go on, get got.

-Letter to the version of me that no longer suits my needs

The euphoria is intoxicating. I can feel his heartbeat in my ears. His memories are flooding the insides of my eyelids. My eyes are so heavy and seeing their memories is almost a comfort at this point, letting me escape my own reality consisting of killing in order to save my life. He was just 23. Thick brown hair that hung in all the right places. Light skin, but not European light, more like a Central American who spent 13 years inside of a school building, then another 4 inside of a university library. The upside is that he consented, so in a few hours he will wake needing blood as well. With my post feeding bliss slipping away, I pick myself up and head toward the fridge. Opening it, the light shocks my pupils and my arm goes up to shade my now very sensitive eyes. I reach for a bottle and place it on the counter to let is warm. I walk my naked body to my bathroom to shower off the club, the sweat, and the booze from the night. The water pricks my face with the sting of tiny picture hanging nails, massaging the stress of the past week from the muscles guarding my skull.
My eyes shoot open. Something is missing. I can feel it in my gut. Not anything from my apartment, nothing has been stolen. I have this pit in my stomach telling me I am missing something. That something is wrong. My elbows feel weak and are tingling up to my fingers. Is this what my life has become?