A Lie, a Truth, & 157 Allergies

It sucks you into an inevitable loop, but it’s a personal choice for that loop to be finite or infinite. One that is powerful but deadly. Clashing like the opposing poles of a magnet. So painful, though even more agonizing to let go. Yet it draws me in with its mesmerizing aura, like a tide pool. It is beautiful, fun even. But deep down, I know that the waves can sweep me away at any given moment.

That’s just part of my idiosyncratic syndrome. For this reason, doctors have given me many monikers. Though over the years, I became known as “a medical anomaly.” I despise that label because of its imprecision, but it’s necessary for an individual with 157 allergies and over 100 instances of anaphylactic shock: more than any other person in history. Every now and then, I would collapse and start gagging as a vicious rash crept across my skin. Yet my skin, patch, and blood tests have always contradicted that, manifesting that I had never been allergic to, well, anything.

I was four when it first transpired. Ten when it escalated into a full-fledged, life-threatening condition. Sixteen when it became fatal. 

I return home at midnight, where all is silent besides the chirping of crickets. I step out of the car, laughing as I slam the door. I have rolls of 100-dollar bills and stolen goods from the grocery store stuffed into the pockets of my jackets and pants. Like anyone would care. There is plenty to go around anyway.

The lights are off as I enter the empty house. If my suspicions are correct, Alexis is working her night shift; Dolan is knocked out on the couch. A bright white flashes before my eyes as the lights illuminate the room. Dolan stands by the wall, his face twisted into a sneer.

"Gotcha." He says, shoving me onto the couch. He flops onto the other chair. Glowering at me as if I were vermin rather than his daughter. “Where have you been, young lady?”

I roll my eyes, stuffing my hands into my jeans, “Why do you care?”

He hisses, lowering his voice, “I said. Where. Have. You. Been?”

“Oh yeah, and why should I tell you?”

“Again, I repeat for the last darn time. Where. Have. You. Been?”

“I was at the mall, okay.” I wince as pins pierce into my skin.

“And what were you doing there?” He asks, leaning forwards.

I throw my hands down, “I was shopping okay, what’s the big deal? Chill alright.” I attempt to disregard the urge to itch the angry rash creeping across my skin. To ignore the rock that swelled in my throat, the sandbags weighing down my chest. But my chest knots as soon as the words leave my mouth. I clutch my throat, savoring whatever breath I could muster. I fall to my knees, beads of sweat running down my forehead. I struggle to stay conscious, my mind unable to form words.

“Admit it.”  Dolan’s voice echoes in my head. “You know what you did, and so do I.”

The stolen goods tumble to the ground as my pockets break and I fall to the floor. “I borrowed it.” I rasped. My chest tightens, leaving me choking on my words once again. I shut my eyes, wishing for the pain to dissipate. I know what to do; each time is the same. But something inside me does not want to let go. Something wants to keep the secrets locked in a bottle, concealed from the outer world, even if it poisons me.

I stole it; I stole it, I stole it. “I stole it,” I blurt out, unable to endure the pain any longer. The weights lift from my chest as the air flows back into my lungs, filling an empty container. Breathing could not have been more pleasurable.

A cruel sneer form on the edges of Dolan’s lips, “Well,” he starts. I do not hear the rest of it. I do not want to listen to his lengthy lecture. I choose my ego over wisdom. Trembling from the recent lack of air, or the relief of escaping my father’s wrath, I race into the shadows of jet black night. They consume my body, my mind, and my conscience. All at the same time.

I tread across the grimy streets, occasionally littered with manure; the sidewalks that resemble rigid stairs going up and down. Anger floods my veins, making my blood boil with intense heat. I kick a stray can, it flies into the air and on top of one of the houses.

Most parents teach their children not to lie, to always be honest. Mine do not bother to. They have found better ways to waste their time. Though it’s not like I would listen to their tirades anyway. Because with my lies, I am spared the shame of disappointment. With my lies, I am never late. Unless I “have an unexpected appointment.” I am always neat except when “the cleaners never came.”  And Alexis’ ugly, daisy yellow wedding dress will always be “perfect for her.” I convince both myself and others that I am perfect. Perfect enough for society to accept me. In the end, I benefit from my lies, and other people do too. That is until I have to spit out the wretched, disgusting truth before I suffocate and die.

As I am wrapped in my thoughts and conjectures, an arm seizes me from behind and yanks me down to the ground. I suppress a high-pitched scream. 

“H-h-help me,” She whispers, “Pl-pl-please.” 

I scramble back, afraid to speak. The girl is twelve, at most, and thinner than anyone I have ever seen. As if she has gone days without food. Her clothes are in rags, and a blanket of filth coats her from head to toe. Her hair is a greasy mess, and her black teeth are rotting away, looking more like misplaced bits of bone.

“What’s going on; where do you live?” I ask. She shakes her head, wiping her tear-streaked face with the back of her hand. A thought hits me. I pull a scarred pear from my pocket. Although it’s a little damaged, it should still taste good.

She digs in, the viscous juice smearing across her face. I smile sadly. Never had I thought anything could be worse than a life with Dolan and Alexis. But now, seeing the poor girl’s pitiful life . . .

I glance suspiciously at her, knowing that some of the homeless folk are just shams out for free money. This one seems genuine. “What’s your name?” I ask, cautiously approaching her.

“A-a” She stammers, struggling to speak in her weakened state.

“Aleia, Alexa, Annabelle?”

“Ar-”

“Aria, Ariel, Aretha?” She nods at the last name.

I have heard that name before. It means to trust. Trouble, maybe? Wait, truth. Yes, that is it.

“Hey!” A voice calls. I spin around, watching as lights approach me. Two men dressed in the blue uniform of a cop approach me. They wear excessive amounts of safety gear including large industrial flashlights tied around their waists, headlamps, and a bandolier packed with weapons. The cops have identical facial features, but their body types couldn’t be more contrasting. They bear a police badge. Not with the emblem of the police forces, but rather three waves crashing down. Everybody knows their motto: Veritas of Fluctus, Aestus Maritimi Viribus Autem Maximo. 

Cucumber Cop flashes his badge, “The name is Officer Milton Silow and this is Officer Winthrop Silow,” gesturing towards the squat policemen next to him, “We work with the Starlight County Police Department.” Apple Cop glances at Aretha,  “According to Section 4 of Chapter 666 of Title 13 of the U.S. Code, the homeless rogues aren’t allowed to loiter out here. She needs to be taken to the Institution.”

I cast a glance at Aretha, she shakes her head fiercely, stumbling back. “Go with them, you’ll be safe.” Fear flashes in her eyes as she cowers in the shadows. 

“It’ll be good for you. You’ll have food and shelter and you’ll be happy. What more can you ask for?”

“No,” she rasps, so quietly that if I hadn’t been standing right beside her, I’d never have heard it.

I turn to the officers, “She doesn’t want to go.”

Apple Cop grabs her wrist, “She is coming with us.” Aretha winces as she is dragged away. Her eyes are desperate, fearful, haunted. A feeling I know all too well. And for the first time, I pity a being that is not myself.

“Wait!” I shout after them, “She has a home. We were simply playing in the muddy creek over there.” I say as I point towards a ditch with mud. I am well aware of the consequences. I can already feel my chest tighten. But if things turn out the way I want, both Aretha and I will walk away alive and well.

“S-she a friend of mine.” I choke out, struggling to stay upright, “S-she’s st-staying at m-my pl-place, right d-down th-there.” I raise a shaky hand, pointing down the road. 

They look at me strangely. But most importantly, they buy my story, releasing Aretha. However, it costs me.

“Hey kid, are you okay?” Cucumber Cop asks, looming over me. At least it’s Cucumber Cop and not Apple Cop. Then the world begins to spin around me, blending an assortment of colors into one, pitch black.

‘Admit it.’ The little voice in my head whispers, as it has since I was four. ‘You know what you did, and so do I. Admit it and everybody will go unharmed, including you.’

Aretha stares down at me in horror, unsure of what to do. Get out of here, I weakly say in my mind; Not all of us have a chance to escape. Not all of us have someone there to help. Some of us are eternally trapped in a forsaken place where escape is not an option, like me.  Her eyes search my face, seeming to understand, for she vanishes into the night a moment later.

'She’s not staying at my place,' I divulge in my mind,  'She has no home.' I repeat it over and over in my head, waiting for the familiar sensation of a replenishing breath. But it does not come, and it never will. 

I feel no pain as I hit the ground which cracked my skull; I hear no sounds as I am hoisted into a truck flashing red and white.

A wave of oblivion sweeps my body out to sea, pulling me into the preying shadows. The waters of despair blind me, deafen me until the world is nothing but a blur. And all I can feel are the currents, washing me away. The waves battering me down as the light fades into serene darkness.