Status: back in action
Town Limits
Hollow Talk
I stand in front of the full length mirror tilted against my bedroom wall, staring at my faded black leggings and my wilted grey sweatshirt. At the dull, wavy hair that falls past my collarbones and the pallid skin. I need to convince these people that I am normal. I want them to know that I do not bear the violent tendencies of my father and the passiveness of my mother. But it is a struggle to persuade other people of this when I have trouble persuading myself.
“I want to live,” I say halfheartedly to the beige walls.
This state of mind is not something I enjoy. I do not think it is some fucked up, poetic beauty. I do not get a thrill out of witnessing the pity that glazes over peoples’ eyes and I am not satisfied by the pained looks on their faces as they walk across sharp eggshells in front of me I am tired of people being uncomfortable around me simply because I am me.
I am also terrified of myself because maybe I didn’t grieve enough after everything happened and maybe I’m too distant and I don’t know if I’m reacting in the right way or if I’m even reacting at all. I need the concreteness of knowing how I’m supposed to be feeling so that I can decide if I’m still human.
Deep down, I think I know I am. I am still the Nora Chadwick that the people knew before rumours of my family’s habits seeped through the walls of my house and leaked onto the streets of Old Shore. I am still intelligent, considerate, and able to laugh. Sometimes I see glimpses of those traits peek through and I’m taken aback by their radiance. It is something I have to learn to bottle and keep in my pocket for times when I feel like the only way to wake up is to expose myself to danger. Times like today.
***
Liam picks me up in a black minivan. It smells musty and the floor is speckled with crushed popcorn. Rusted pennies stick to the bottoms of the cup holders in the centre console. He apologizes for the mess but I hadn’t even given it second thought. I’m too busy focussing on the fact that this is my first time in a vehicle since the bus ride home. Then I begin to picture my mother in the driver’s seat, not Liam, and instead of lazily grasping the bottom of the steering wheel with one hand she is clenching it at ten and two with a muscled arm wrapped around her neck.
“Can we walk?” I blurt before Liam pulls away from the curb. My voice is firm and clear but when Liam gives me a questioning glance its volume lowers. “You can just park the vehicle here,” I say uncertainly, “And we can walk.”
“Nora,” He begins, angling his body toward mine. “You don’t have to come if you don’t want to.” He thinks I’m stalling because I don’t want to have dinner at his house. He thinks this tensity is from a completely different type of nervousness.
I backtrack. “It’s not that.” Pause. Inhale. Exhale. Don’t think about the rumble of the engine.
The boy runs his hands over his face dramatically. “Then what’s wrong?”
It’s me. I’m the one who’s all wrong. An urge to tear out of the van and leap through the blue door of the bungalow is overwhelming. This always happens around him. He asks me simple questions that have complicated answers and all I want to do is run away. My hand encircles the plastic door handle. I almost do it but then the weight of his palm settles on my other wrist, sending me plummeting back into my skull. His touch is a new sort of unpredictable danger.
“Don’t run away,” He says. “You always run away.”
“Don’t touch me,” I retort. He doesn’t argue and pulls his hand away. My skin stings. I look down at it. The pale surface is unblemished; it surprises me. I am not used to being touched without it leaving a mark.
“It doesn’t help. It doesn’t solve anything.” He mutters the words, seemingly almost to himself, but their quietness still manages to become a slap in the face.
Because sometimes it does help. Because sometimes you have to run away so that your father can’t beat you anymore. Fire erupts inside of me. “Fuck. You.” I say, suddenly enraged.
What I do not say is that I feel guilty every day for it. That me running away was selfish and it could have very well lead to my father murdering her, because he was so enraged. His need for power had to be condensed to actions towards one person, not two. That maybe me staying could’ve kept my mother alive. I know that instead of running away I could’ve run to and I could’ve told someone and they could’ve helped. And the only way to cope is to run away because I’m afraid that if I stay and try to fight, I’ll either lose or hurt someone else and no one deserves that. I am determined to not hurt anyone. “No one is forcing you to invite me to dinner or visit the coffee shop. My well-being is not your responsibility. I am not a public service project. I am a human.”
Liam’s razor stare is shocking. He barks a vicious laugh. It is so unlike him. I push myself toward the door. “Back to that argument, are we?” In this moment, Liam is frightening. It is his calmness and the way he keeps his voice even. His emerald eyes refuse to leave mine. It is not the same fear I’d experienced with my father. I am not afraid of Liam’s physical presence, but his words. Whatever he says will be true. “You choose to drown and then complain when somebody tries to resuscitate you. I am allowed to offer help. Somewhere in your twisted thought process you’ve convinced yourself that you are not allowed to accept it. And now you’re trying to convince us both that I’m the one at fault for extending a hand.
“I believed you, you know? At first, I really did. But then I got to thinking about it and I do not feel guilty for my father’s suicide. He was dealing with a monster and I see you dealing with the same one and I thought maybe, just maybe, it’d be easier if you didn’t have to do it alone. However, if you want to, be my guest and get the hell out of my vehicle.”
“I want to live,” I say halfheartedly to the beige walls.
This state of mind is not something I enjoy. I do not think it is some fucked up, poetic beauty. I do not get a thrill out of witnessing the pity that glazes over peoples’ eyes and I am not satisfied by the pained looks on their faces as they walk across sharp eggshells in front of me I am tired of people being uncomfortable around me simply because I am me.
I am also terrified of myself because maybe I didn’t grieve enough after everything happened and maybe I’m too distant and I don’t know if I’m reacting in the right way or if I’m even reacting at all. I need the concreteness of knowing how I’m supposed to be feeling so that I can decide if I’m still human.
Deep down, I think I know I am. I am still the Nora Chadwick that the people knew before rumours of my family’s habits seeped through the walls of my house and leaked onto the streets of Old Shore. I am still intelligent, considerate, and able to laugh. Sometimes I see glimpses of those traits peek through and I’m taken aback by their radiance. It is something I have to learn to bottle and keep in my pocket for times when I feel like the only way to wake up is to expose myself to danger. Times like today.
***
Liam picks me up in a black minivan. It smells musty and the floor is speckled with crushed popcorn. Rusted pennies stick to the bottoms of the cup holders in the centre console. He apologizes for the mess but I hadn’t even given it second thought. I’m too busy focussing on the fact that this is my first time in a vehicle since the bus ride home. Then I begin to picture my mother in the driver’s seat, not Liam, and instead of lazily grasping the bottom of the steering wheel with one hand she is clenching it at ten and two with a muscled arm wrapped around her neck.
“Can we walk?” I blurt before Liam pulls away from the curb. My voice is firm and clear but when Liam gives me a questioning glance its volume lowers. “You can just park the vehicle here,” I say uncertainly, “And we can walk.”
“Nora,” He begins, angling his body toward mine. “You don’t have to come if you don’t want to.” He thinks I’m stalling because I don’t want to have dinner at his house. He thinks this tensity is from a completely different type of nervousness.
I backtrack. “It’s not that.” Pause. Inhale. Exhale. Don’t think about the rumble of the engine.
The boy runs his hands over his face dramatically. “Then what’s wrong?”
It’s me. I’m the one who’s all wrong. An urge to tear out of the van and leap through the blue door of the bungalow is overwhelming. This always happens around him. He asks me simple questions that have complicated answers and all I want to do is run away. My hand encircles the plastic door handle. I almost do it but then the weight of his palm settles on my other wrist, sending me plummeting back into my skull. His touch is a new sort of unpredictable danger.
“Don’t run away,” He says. “You always run away.”
“Don’t touch me,” I retort. He doesn’t argue and pulls his hand away. My skin stings. I look down at it. The pale surface is unblemished; it surprises me. I am not used to being touched without it leaving a mark.
“It doesn’t help. It doesn’t solve anything.” He mutters the words, seemingly almost to himself, but their quietness still manages to become a slap in the face.
Because sometimes it does help. Because sometimes you have to run away so that your father can’t beat you anymore. Fire erupts inside of me. “Fuck. You.” I say, suddenly enraged.
What I do not say is that I feel guilty every day for it. That me running away was selfish and it could have very well lead to my father murdering her, because he was so enraged. His need for power had to be condensed to actions towards one person, not two. That maybe me staying could’ve kept my mother alive. I know that instead of running away I could’ve run to and I could’ve told someone and they could’ve helped. And the only way to cope is to run away because I’m afraid that if I stay and try to fight, I’ll either lose or hurt someone else and no one deserves that. I am determined to not hurt anyone. “No one is forcing you to invite me to dinner or visit the coffee shop. My well-being is not your responsibility. I am not a public service project. I am a human.”
Liam’s razor stare is shocking. He barks a vicious laugh. It is so unlike him. I push myself toward the door. “Back to that argument, are we?” In this moment, Liam is frightening. It is his calmness and the way he keeps his voice even. His emerald eyes refuse to leave mine. It is not the same fear I’d experienced with my father. I am not afraid of Liam’s physical presence, but his words. Whatever he says will be true. “You choose to drown and then complain when somebody tries to resuscitate you. I am allowed to offer help. Somewhere in your twisted thought process you’ve convinced yourself that you are not allowed to accept it. And now you’re trying to convince us both that I’m the one at fault for extending a hand.
“I believed you, you know? At first, I really did. But then I got to thinking about it and I do not feel guilty for my father’s suicide. He was dealing with a monster and I see you dealing with the same one and I thought maybe, just maybe, it’d be easier if you didn’t have to do it alone. However, if you want to, be my guest and get the hell out of my vehicle.”
♠ ♠ ♠
omg???????