The mirror stares me down with a face I don’t remember, the face of a disguise, all hidden but my eyes. The mirror stares me down, tries to tell me who I’ve been. They say that it tells lies. They say it’s in my mind.
My mind knows every detail, every part of who I am. The versions of myself that I’ve drawn across my hand. But I don’t know my mind. Or what’s left of it to find—the tattered fabric of my soul, I’ve left in days of old.
Looking at my face, the memories aren’t real. Memories of staring through the things I used to feel. Now I hide from mirrors, mirrors on the walls. But your eyes are mirrors too, and I can’t hide from them, I fall.
“NO—“ Byron hopelessly thrusts his body towards me against the grip of the guards. And now his face is wet, and his eyes are blurry.
And the arms of the guards are solid. Too solid next to the broken facade of Byron. Byron who never sheds a tear. Byron who stayed stone-faced until the end. It wrenches my gut, tears my heart into rough-edged shreds.
I sob his name as the guards wrestle him backwards and tear away my lifeline, my reason. My one reason. The reason that now is swallowing me in tears as I fight the chains digging into my skin.
The door slams with a dull thud and in that moment I am alone and afraid and for the first time after meeting Byron, I am flooded with an emptiness that digs the last shreds of my heart out of my chest. My body doesn’t belong to me. But my throat chokes out a last desperate sound.
“Be careful out there.”
“I don’t know about this.” Maisie looks uncomfortable but follows me nevertheless.
We pick our way through the worn trail, littered with uneven rocks. “I do. I want this.”
I’m ready now. I wasn’t ready, before, but now I understand that I have to do it.
The trampled dirt gives way to craggy ground and the drop off comes into view. A stab of uncertainty hits me for the first time. But I push it down, because I’m doing this. I’m doing this for my sister.
Maisie looks over at me with a steady gaze. “You’re sure?”
I meet her eyes, and it’s the only answer that we need. We’re doing it together.
I grab my sister’s hand and pull her towards the cliff edge with me. She nods slowly in my direction. Then we jump.
And we fall. Together. My stomach drops out of my body, raging instincts try desperately to reverse time, to throw me back on top of that cliff.
But I did it.
The past few months that have been like hell will never hurt me again.
I did it.
The crying, the condolences, the funeral. They will never have mattered.
I did it.
In the split second that I am still alive, I leave behind the day that my sister died.
It feels like most people want beauty. Love the things that excite the eye, that stand out, that feel unreal. For me, it’s different. The word ‘beautiful’, it feels uncomfortable to me. Newness and surprise, color and wonder, don’t comfort me. I find my comfort in the most basic things, the old, tired things, the unremarkable. The parts of the photo that eyes shift over, mine rest there. The dry grass, the dull sky, the faded tree line. The normal to me, it isn’t ugly. The ugly to me is real. Maybe, the real is what I find beautiful. Don’t pretty cry for me, with your tears in silent tracks—ugly cry, with raw emotion, unrestrained. I’d rather your body be honest, your feelings be real. It’s not ugly to me. The wrinkles that crease your face where you laughed, where you worried. The dullness of dust, the history in dirt. The real, raw, vulnerability of the unremarkable.
I stand numbly in the freezing air. The cold wind taunts me, brushing my skin with the sting of winter. My cheeks must be red, irritated. The sky might be beautiful, moonlight cast through the bare branches above, if I was looking at anything. But I’m not, really. I’m not looking at anything. My body belongs to a faded statue, rooted to the ground in the middle of the night. I feel the snow throw its weight over me, over the ground, over the barren dirt and my stone shoulders. The night stands still as I wait, alone. Wait for something to take me away. Tell me that it’s okay. I wait for the world to stop turning, to do anything that would resemble the way it is inside my chest. The way my fingers are stiff at the side of my leg. I don’t move, but it keeps on. The wind keeps turning. The snow keeps falling so gently that I want to scream and tear it down out of the sky, but I don’t. I roll my gray eyes to the clouds and stare at nothing.
The truth that I tell you is this: I got out of bed. Which took only a moment. Unless you really want to know. Want to know the weight of the metal chains that tug when I force my body from its only reprieve. A reprieve that is lost, to the abyss and to the twisted version of my life that runs through my dreams. Maybe I would tell you what it’s like to look around and realize that I’m still alive. That I will have to do it all over again, when it feels like I just finished yesterday. The way my brain has to catch up to my head when I turn, lagging behind and seeing the furniture in my room but not knowing that it’s really there. The defeat of giving in when I shift my weight to the ground and drag my feet like dead weight toward the same thing. Over and over again.
One more time.
One more time.
One more time.
My voice wouldn’t work. I’d thought about bringing it up so many times before, but actually doing it would make it all real. And I didn’t know what I would do if… he gave me the truth. I know the darkness that falls over his face when he thinks no one is watching, because it’s the same darkness that chokes me tighter every day. Maybe a different shade; the kind bred from a pit of grief. But darkness just the same. “Brock…” “What’s up?” He noticed the different tone in my voice and moved his focus to me. “I know, um… things have been bad since your grandfather died. I guess I just wanted to know if…” I focused on the arm of his long-sleeve shirt, trying to force my voice to even out, but it dipped down anyways. “How bad it’s really been.” The last word came out quiet enough that I wasn’t sure if he was able to hear it or not. I kept my gaze low, but when he didn’t respond, I raised it back to him. I don’t make eye contact with other people very often, which means that I don’t usually have time to notice the details of their face. But now I saw the heaviness of his eyelids. He didn’t answer right away. But when he met my eyes it did. He looked down again. “Rowan, I’ve—I’ve thought about it… but I wouldn’t. Not right now.” I felt my vision get blurry. Don’t tear up. I knew the answer already. I was ready for this. But it’s difficult to really ever be ready to know that my best friend knows the same things that torment me relentlessly day and night. My hands barely trembled, but I reached over to grab his. His fingers are warm. Right now he’s right here. With me. When he gripped my hand tighter, I leaned over on the couch to hug him. He wrapped his arms around me, and the warmth of his body pressed into mine is all the reassurance that I needed. I don’t know how it happened, maybe it was him, but when we started to move away he looked into my eyes and our lips met. My heart jumped and I closed my eyes for a minute. I fell into the touch of his mouth on mine and everything felt alright. When we pulled away I tightened the hug again and buried my head in the shoulder of his sweatshirt. This wasn’t what I thought would happen, but I’ve thought about it for so long. I don’t know what this means for us and I know that I’m going to worry later. But right now all I want is to stay in his arms forever.
I am but a puzzle Broken apart before the lid was lifted By unknowing hands For years the wrong parts Forced unto each other Jammed into ideas of the image on the box
Always undone or forcibly bent The empty gaps lost beneath the table
Desperately destroyed And redone And destroyed once again The ticking of the clock begins to fade And the hands are older Fingers maybe stronger But it is not wasted on what does not fit There are parts of it now That make sense when I see them The rest just to the side It’s not done and might never be finished But everything Takes time.
Maybe the best thing about him is that I don’t feel like I need to try around him. I don’t need to force words out of my mouth, or over analyze his reaction to what does make it out. I mean I’ll overthink things regardless, but it’s just… alright to overthink around him. Because he knows that I’m always doing it. And he doesn’t judge me for it. At least based on the number of times he’s said that, which is enough that I’m beginning to maybe believe it. Brock turns his head just enough to look in my direction from the side. We’ve been laying on his bed with our legs off the side, looking at the ceiling together for maybe the last five minutes. We like to do that when life is just being itself. It’s not a requirement to talk when we’re together. But honestly, I really like when he does. “I’m about to fall asleep,” he groans. When I roll my head over, I meet the darkness of his heavy-lidded eyes. “I know. I can already hear your snoring in my brain.” The look that he gives me says “Really…”. I stifle a snort but don’t say anything else. His beanie had fallen halfway off his head, letting some of his overgrown hair fluff out. Before I did anything Brock pulled it back down and over his face. My eyes didn’t leave him, the faded threads of his beanie above the straight bridge of his nose. Being in this room felt like home. Brock felt like being home. I never thought that we would become… everything that I needed. But I never feel more real than when I’m with him. “What are you thinking about…?” he mumbles. There’s a tired grain in his voice that just… What I’m thinking about—what I’m really thinking about… “Not much.” What am I supposed to do? This isn’t just about him being my best friend. But he is my best friend. My best friend. I can’t be in love with my best friend. What would I even do about it? Nothing. I wouldn’t make it to the trust fall. Because I need to be able to look into his dark brown eyes every day and know that we’re in this together. No matter what.
