Always, Abby: Freshman Year Page 5
Dawson helped me wash my face before we went back downstairs. I was embarrassed but extremely grateful that his family made no remarks about how long I had been gone. I’m sure they saw how red my face was. I caught his mom several times just watching me with a sad look on her face. Each time I caught her I would smile to try to show her I was making it. I guess that’s what I had to do, was make it.
I stopped questioning it for the rest of the dinner. I absorbed everything I could from around me. The laughs, the funny stories, the scent of the rhubarb pie that I had two servings of. I knew I deserved better. I knew.
I fucking knew.
I’d just have to work on letting myself find it and keep it.
Always,
Abby
Origami
I can be your piece of paper
Different colors when you need
Happy yellow, blue sad, maybe indigo when the day ends
You can fold me, bend me
Set me in the sun on your shelf
You make me into a hundred different shapes
You change me, molding me into things bigger than I’d ever thought for myself
December 13, 2003
Dear Heart,
You know how sometimes you reflect on everything you’ve gone through, and you think to yourself that it can’t get much worse? In my life I don’t say that anymore. That saying is like a curse that’s been given the right kind of sacrifice. It attacks and consumes.
I can unfortunately say that there’s not a lot that I haven’t witnessed in my house, within my family. From your average screaming match and drug problem to the more terrifying domestic assault and child abuse, I have seen it all. It was like if you were given a lifetime supply of movie tickets, but the catch was that you were forced to watch every single movie, frame by frame, with the worst parts slowed down. You’re strapped into your seat, eyes peeled back. There’s no escape from it.
Christmas is in a few weeks and almost daily Mom reminds me that we’re poor and there probably won’t be many presents to open. Dad leaves the room when she starts ranting about it. I wish I could, too. We’re all tired from hearing it. I’m sure he’s more upset than she is since he’s the only one that works, and she constantly complains about how much money we don’t have.
I completely understand that we can’t afford a lot. To be honest, I don’t care. I’ve never asked for much. I’d rather have a comfortable home without the stress and fighting than any amount of presents. Besides having books to read, I’m not even interested in anything else. Even if somebody did like collecting things, or just having things that they like, it doesn’t have to be a bad thing. People having an excess of things does not mean that they’re suddenly a bad person.
When I told her that, she accused me of being ungrateful and said I was as materialistic as any other kid.
You can’t argue with her, but I tried to anyway. I’m a lot of things. I’m quiet. I’m submissive. I’m emotional. I’m scared. But I’m not materialistic. I’m not selfish. I’m not greedy. It’s hard to be any of those things when I’ve barely had anything, when they’ve barely given me anything.
I said that out loud, because for once I couldn’t swallow the blood in my mouth from biting my tongue again, so instead I let it spew and paint the walls.
I shouldn’t have. I thought I had learned my lesson already. Mom is quick and explosive. I’ve been on the receiving end before, but today I just didn’t care. I’m afraid of how much I didn’t care. It was almost like it wasn’t even me talking. I felt this heat in my chest, and I couldn’t contain it.
After the words left my mouth, I knew I had messed up. I felt it through my entire body. I was frozen, watching her face contort into this horrible mask. The wrinkles around her mouth stretched while she screamed.
I had about three seconds to react before she was on me. I won’t go into that. What I will go into is that I know Dad was listening from their bedroom, and he chose to stay in there. So as far as I’m concerned, he helped her break the end table in the living room, he helped her break the angel whatnot that ended up with one broken wing. He helped her put the scratches down one side of my neck.
You know what’s bothersome? Sometimes it’s not even the pain from the slaps, the backhands, or the hair pulling. It’s the embarrassment that hurts. Like how badly I cried tears full of shame while I was crawling on the floor picking up the things that had crashed. Mom was watching the whole time, telling me that I was grounded for breaking her favorite table, the one that she threw me across, that I was going to have to clean the cigarettes out of the carpet since I was the one that forced her to throw her ashtray. That’s the worst part. She’s already hurt me, but now she’s a spectator to my shame.
I’ve been sitting in my bedroom since it happened, thinking about what it’s going to be like in a few years. My birthday is in a couple of months so that means I’m barely three years away from being eighteen. I know that I’ll still have to make it through senior year, but that’s all I’m willing to do. I’ll make it here, doing the bare minimum, until I can leave.
I don’t know what I’ll do or where I’ll go. I don’t even care if I get into college or not. I just need to escape. I’m just going to go. I’ll pack my clothes, I’ll pack you, and I’ll find a way.
That’s what I’m used to doing anyway, finding a way. Whether it’s a way to hide, a way to fight the emotions I’m forced to hide, or a way to hide a new bruise. I can always find a way. I feel like it should be terrifying that I’m more afraid of my home, of my family, than I am of being homeless.
When I was done cleaning the living room, I started to throw the glass away into the trash can, but I couldn’t. I held the broken wing in my hand, turning it this way and that. It was white glass, the feathers golden tipped. I gripped it in my hand until I got to my room. I can’t even tell you why I wanted to keep it, other than it was broken just like me. Its edges were sharp from being separated from its body. I’ve been holding it the whole time I’ve been writing, running my thumb over the sharpness.
I haven’t cut myself yet. What do you think that means? I mean, it’s glass. It’s razor sharp. But I haven’t bled from it yet.
It’s starting to feel like for once that I’m in charge of the pain that gets inflicted on me. It feels like I can balance on that edge and know when to stop. I wish other people had that control.
I could never imagine being the reason that somebody feels so rotten on the inside. I wanted to be able to say that me being a part of somebody’s life only added to it, that I never acted in a way that stripped layers off of someone.
Layers of me had been taken away too many times. It’s ironic that Mom’s favorite thing to collect were angel whatnots. They were all over the house, in every single space that was open. They were on every shelf, on top of the T.V., sitting in the floor in every corner. There were even some in the bathroom. She always claimed to treasure them, but they had spent most of their time in our house collecting dust.
Mom was not, and could never be, an angelic person. I had a feeling that even in death, she’d haunt Hell instead of gaining wings.
I stood up for myself today for the first time that I can remember. I may never get any of my original layers back, but I have this tiny, sharp piece now. I may not be very good with always protecting myself, physically or verbally, but with this new sharp piece of myself, I can have weaponized bravery. I’m holding proof in my hand that even when you think you’ve lost something, you can always find it again or make your own version. That’s what this wing is going to represent for me. And to me, that’s a good first step in finally flying away.
Always,
Abby
December 26, 2003
Dear Heart,
Have you ever watched those cheesy Christmas movies that they replay every winter? The ones where the kids spend the whole movie trying to figure out what the meaning of Christmas really is, or the ones where the lonely heroine spends the who
le movie trying to find the love of her life, only to realize he’s been under her nose the whole time? All of those movies will forever have happy endings. People wouldn’t watch them otherwise. People wouldn’t invest their time or put in the effort to try to relate to the characters, if they were going to be met with tears at the end.
That’s kind of how I feel right now. This family, this house, all of these surroundings, are pushing me to turn the channel because I can’t relate, and I already know how this is going to end. But it’s like the batteries in my remote are dead, forcing me to still pay attention. I’m trying to hold on to the hope I’ve been clutching for dear life. It wiggles and strains to break free all the time. I’m worried that the day will come where I’m not strong enough anymore.
Christmas came and went yesterday. I woke up and found my stocking full of candy leaning on the wall next to the tree. I sat down to look inside, letting the tinsel on the tree tickle my cheek. I stared up at it for a second, looking at the decorations we’d had since I was a baby. We probably should have replaced them, but we never had the money for new ones. This year I decorated the tree by myself because Mom had said it was stupid and Dad just couldn’t be bothered. He said he didn’t like that it took up so much space in our small living room. It was one of the only things I looked forward to, though.
It had a handful of presents underneath, wrapped in the same red paper. The gift tags all said they were delivered by Santa. It made me laugh because even though I still held on to the hope that things would get better, I had quit believing in magic a long time ago.
It was tradition in our family to wait until after we ate Christmas dinner, which we actually ate at lunchtime, to open presents. This year Dad told me to just go ahead and open them, because he had to go somewhere. It was odd to go somewhere on Christmas, but I didn’t say anything.
My presents consisted of a new set of pajamas that were green plaid, a box that had some new underwear and socks, a new sweater that was a pretty deep purple, a makeup set, and a stack of new books that Mom said the guy at the bookstore told her I would like. I was excited to go through them to find something new to read.
It was such a conflicting fight inside of me sometimes. Mom and Dad both tried occasionally to do good things. Dad would sneak me money to buy snacks at school. Mom, like today with the presents, would listen when I was brave enough to say I wanted something. So, I was always grateful for what they were able to give to me, but I wasn’t sure that the handful of nice things they did each year was enough to wash away all the bad things they’ve done. I wasn’t sure if there was enough water in the oceans to wash them all away.
I said thank you for all of it and carried everything to my room. When I walked back into the living room, Dad had already left. Mom was in the kitchen finishing the dinner I wasn’t allowed to help with, while telling me she knew Dad was sleeping with somebody else. I told her I was sorry. She called me a bitch. We then ate in silence because I didn’t know what to say.
Apparently even that was wrong, too, because she started yelling about how dismissive I was about her life. It was ironic to me that she was always accusing me of something that she was actually doing. No matter what I said, she just kept getting louder and louder. Eventually she took her arm and knocked everything off the table that was in front of her, before telling me I was grounded and storming away to go to her room.
The only highlight that I had for yesterday, was that I was supposed to get to see Dawson. I cried in my room, listening to him knock on our front door. I think he finally gave up after ten minutes, but him and his dad still sat in the driveway for a while. I sat there and wondered if he had ever told his parents about my family, if he was telling his dad about them now.
I kept peeking out of my bedroom window, blocked by the blanket that was tacked above it. I watched them talk back and forth. Dawson looked so upset. I don’t know what made them decide to leave, but they finally did. Dawson stared out the window the whole time, looking at our house. I put my hand on the cold glass of my window, hoping he’d see that I was at least okay.
Their tires left tracks through the snow as they left the holler. My eyes followed them as they turned onto the main road. I sat there for a minute longer before giving up and laying back down on my bed. I could hear one of the many holiday movies playing from the living room. I thought about the day I had gone through and wondered when my last happy Christmas was.
I couldn’t remember, and that brought on a new wave of sadness, making fresh tears fall. At least there had been snow last night. It may have been the only thing that made it feel truly like Christmas. Although, it blended in with my family, too. It was frozen cold and could be dangerous if not handled the right way.
I had left my door cracked a little, and I could see the tree. As the lights blinked from red to green, I tried to count them in time with my breathing. I lost count at one point and thought about how that’s what I wanted, maybe the only thing that I wanted. So many happy memories, happy moments, that I lose count when thinking about them.
I still had the moments I made with Dawson. I still had the fun times I spent with Mason. I hope that as long as I have something, I can combat the nothing I always felt at home.
I was still staring at the tree when it randomly blinked several times, faster than normal. Then it completely shut off. I bet it was so tired of trying to light up such a dark room. And all I could think of was, me, too, Tree. Me, too.
Always,
Abby
January 1, 2004
Dear Heart,
What’s your favorite fairytale?
I used to think that they all seemed pretty stupid. The ones that people talk about aren’t even the original versions. The old ones are scary and morbid. Very few of them have happy endings. It’s like when people talk about how Romeo and Juliet was one of the best love stories of all time.
Plot twist: they die.
I’d rather have a lover that was so in love with me, so determined to keep me, that they LIVED. That’s what you should want. Although, I will say that several of Dawson’s kisses really did bring me back to life.
Last night was New Year’s Eve. Mom and Dad bought liquor to make these weird fruity drinks. They told me I was allowed to have one since it was a night to celebrate. I took a sip of the one that they gave me. It was definitely sweet, but I could taste the sharp, bluntness of alcohol. I looked at Mom and Dad, and then I poured the rest down the sink. I wasn’t sure what caused them to go this way, what directions they took, but I didn’t want to end up staying on the same path as them.
I stayed in the living room with them to watch the ball drop in Times Square. I started to wonder if I would ever get the chance to see it in person. I looked at all the people on the screen, looking so happy with each other, celebrating the upcoming year. I closed my eyes and wished for something exciting to happen. When I opened them, confetti was still falling to the ground, and I wondered if each piece was a wish made in that moment. I hoped so. Each shiny piece could be somebody’s dream come true, and I wanted that for them, for me.
I left Mom and Dad passed out on the couch and locked myself in my bedroom. I changed into some pajamas and climbed under the covers. I knew I was tired, but my mind was turning with different thoughts about school and how much I missed everybody. I was still grounded according to Mom, and I hadn’t been able to call anyone. Nobody knew if I was okay, if I was alive. I was so bored with just sitting in my room all day without anybody to talk to.
It was like my thoughts alone had conjured somebody, because there was the slightest ping on my window. I laid there for a second, debating to look or not. My pulse raced a little because it was one o’clock in the morning and looking outside for the culprit was a little scary. When I pulled the blanket back, there was a face pushed up against the glass.
I almost yelped as I opened the window as quietly as I could. My window was right above my bed, so I had to scoot away to let Dawson climb in. He got s
now on my blankets.
When I asked him what he was doing, he told me he needed to check on me. He had seen my hand that day on the window, so he figured this was my room. He also said he was prepared to run if it wasn’t. For some reason I thought that was funny.
We stared at each. I watched his chest move with each breath that he took. I reached out, putting my hand over it. He put his over top of it and just held me there.
He told me that he had talked Drew into driving him because he was going crazy. I know that he’d called several dozen times, but Mom kept turning the ringer off on the phone. When I told him that, he seemed to get madder.
I peeked outside and saw a dark car parked at the mouth of the holler. He told me that it was Drew, and they both decided it was safer to not park in the driveway.
I tried to tell him I was okay, but he already knew I was miserable. He told me not to lie to him anymore. He had cupped my cheek with his hand, running his thumb on my bottom lip. I couldn’t stop his descent as his lips finally touched mine. All the warmth I had lost over Christmas break was slowly reigniting.
We had both been on our knees until then, but he used his other hand to push me back and then he laid beside me. I can still remember looking up into his eyes. I saw something there, almost like tenderness, but a little crazed like pure need, before he kissed me again. His lips were demanding, trying to take before I could give.
He shifted a little and slid one of his legs between mine. I felt his hand inch up under my shirt. I can’t even describe the noise he made in his throat when his touches made me shiver and made goosebumps dot my skin. His mouth moved from my lips to my cheek and down my neck.
I was trying to catch my breath while he buried his head in the soft dip of my shoulder. He kissed me there, and I couldn’t stop myself from thinking that I wanted him to kiss me everywhere if it would feel that good. Everywhere I had skin I wanted him to touch and to taste. It felt like too much. There were just too many feelings in my body, and I felt like they were all trying to escape, trying to tell him what I needed.