Fractured

You're angry.

I embarrass you, and not in the cute way always portrayed on TV. The tension hangs in the air between us, a tangible awkwardness that lingers after each of these episodes.

It didn't always feel this way. Maybe it was cute when I was young, but now that I have grown in years and inches, all that innocence has disintegrated from these situations.

I haven't changed. I have always acted this way. I carry with me an acute awareness of the awkwardness and embarrassment I project when out in public. There is a reason I have spent a large portion of my life avoiding such things.

You're staring at me, your lip pulled back and your eyes seething with distaste. I want to shrivel up and die.

“Why did you cut your hair?”

My hand reaches up to my head. There is most definitely a chunk missing from the left side. My cheeks burn, and my eyes grow heavy.

I lost myself again, my other self not so kind this time. My actions retaliate against me, stripping away something I had been proud of—the hair curler I had just purchased, now unusable.

Why do I always attack my hair? It’s as if I want my torture to be visible to everyone. It refuses to be hidden.

“Why did you cut your hair?”

You're angry.

I don’t have an answer. I don’t understand why I did that to myself. I don’t even comprehend why I couldn’t sit still when you were trying to make friends with the neighbours. I had to erupt out of my seat, announce loudly I had to leave, and then struggle almost to the point of tears with the gate to escape. All with everyone watching me.

It’s not like the neighbours won't know I did this to myself right after that little event. I will have to hide in the house. That’s okay by me. I don’t usually leave the house anyway.

You growl at your unanswered questions. Grabbing the scissors, you throw the chunk of hair in the laundry room trash.

I try not to listen to your ramblings. There is nothing you can say that I have not already said to myself.

You stomp up the stairs to go be alone. That is good; I need to be alone right now too.

I don’t blame you. No one would want to be stuck with me. My parents passed me back and forth when I was younger, unable to endure me for long. I get it.

I replay the event in my head again. The people gathering, the kids running around, the mounting fear rising inside me. I didn’t know where to look. I didn’t agree with what anyone was saying; I even know you lied by saying you agreed with it too. The headache started to tear apart the back of my forehead. I don’t understand people. Maybe that is it.

You sat at the edge of the outside couch thing that you directed me to sit on. It felt like you were scared to settle in beside me. The kids screamed as they ran in circles behind me. I should have sat where I could see where the sound was coming from. I don’t know why it bothered me so much, but it did.

We sat there, you perched on the edge giving me sideways looks, me with my feet firmly planted on the ground and my hands wound up in my sweater so they couldn’t be seen, for a good twenty minutes.

I could feel it happening. I was about to lose myself. I stood up and yelled that I had to go. No one answered, and I tried to walk calmly to the gate. Of course, it wouldn't unlock for me. I struggled, feeling everyone watching me, and then I left.

I walked down the street with my head high. Nothing was wrong; I had something to do. My mind kept showing me your face. I could see everything in that image. And you stayed behind. Tears craved release, and I tried to hold them back as much as I could. Save it till we get home, then I can break down. But no, I walk only halfway home with some measure of dignity. Then I am lost to the floods.

I guess I screamed and scratched at my face. I guess I was trying to make myself feel again. Half my hair is gone, and I lay on the cold cement of the basement cuddled up close to the furnace.

I tried so hard to hold on to myself this time. I failed.

Maybe I have failed every time.

I’m sorry.

It’s no longer cute to be like me, to lose control of yourself. It never was.

I wish I could go back to the time when we were getting serious. I wish I could warn you. Let you escape.

Back then I hid behind alcohol. I don’t think you witnessed me change; I don't think you noticed there is more than one version of me.

I am a horrid person, and I am sorry you’re stuck with me.

I know you regret it too. You wish there was a way to change past choices.

My breathing has evened out. You had turned the lights back off when you left. Maybe you thought it was a little way to get back at me, to put me back in the dark, but it helps. It helps a lot. To be in a cool, dark, quiet place soothes me completely.

Sitting up, I take stock of my hair situation. I will have to remove the other side so it's even. It will take years to grow back. Maybe the punishment I handed myself was fitting for the crime. It would stop me from being near others for a while. Was that the point?

Taking the scissors, I cut off a section of hair. I will have to even it out later. For now, this is good enough.

Slowly I fix some of the things that were toppled over. Pick up the stool, set right the bottles of soap, pick up the pieces of clothing from the floor, and the loose strands of hair. After righting my sweater and adjusting my hair, I pace the room.

He is probably upstairs fuming still. I am fine now, back to normal, but will he be?

It’s dark outside now. 

I take to the stairs. One step at a time, listening for any sound that will tell me to turn back. There’s nothing; it is silent up there.

He is on the couch, his head reclined, sitting in the dark. My breath catches as I fight with my decision.

He doesn’t move, even though I am not quiet.

There is a deep fear that he won't want to look at me. He will turn me away. Leave the room once I enter. But this is my fault, right? It is for me to make the first move, and if he does choose to leave, I will then accept it and wait for him to make a decision.

I slide onto the couch, slipping in close to him. His warmth settles across me as his arm brings me closer. Tears fight for release again, but I don’t let them fall this time. I settle in, and we sit in silence.

“I’m sorry,” I say.

“I know,” he replies.

“I wish I could change things,” I say.

“Me too,” he says, his arm gently squeezing me.