What I Needed

Staring upwards, I am consumed by the stars that seem to shine so much brighter than any of the others in the sky. The artificial twinkle they seem to have. The light seems almost man-made. I have too often questioned the nature of the lights in the sky, but I am distracting myself. 

I make my way through a foggy courtyard, defying the simple logic of using sidewalks. I have always cut through this imitation field to get home. Though later in life, that field would just be filled with more structures, more housing. I have flashes of memories of the courtyard in both images, leaving me with a fleeting, uneasy feeling. 

I pull open the heavy door to my apartment building, pausing in the entrance. Here, I will distract myself once again. I taste the spearmint candies that my uncle used to keep in his work vest. I smell berry flavored Backwoods. Images of porcelain masks swim in my mind and I am not entirely sure I want to climb the brown, steel stairs again. I think of an old woman with thin eyebrows and bright blue eye shadow. I begin my ascent towards the scene, seeking faded memories. 

Closing the door behind me, I observe for just a moment the bronze, single cylinder deadbolt fixed to the inside of the door. I haven’t seen one of these since I last lived here- over two decades ago. Looking around, I try to avoid eye contact with the creepy masks that shouldn’t be hanging on the walls here. The archway for the kitchen is dimly lit.. The hallway feels as though it is staring back at me, completely dark. There is a glow outside of the sliding glass door to the balcony that lights up a small bundle on the floor with a mess of hair. I begin making unnecessary observations; the couch morphing from one design to another, the playpen that is there one moment and gone the next- distracting again, from the purpose of me revisiting this place. I slip my shoes off, a pointless action. Making my way across the carpet, I allow the long threads to slide between my toes and under my bare feet. Sometimes, these details make me physically ill. 

I sit down on the floor, next to the sleeping shadow of my former self. There is movement around the apartment- feet scurrying from the bedroom to the corded telephone in the kitchen. Voices that just barely attempt to lower themselves to whispers. Voices that somehow seem completely void of the normal emotions associated with this kind of phone call. I know the little girl next to me is no longer sleeping, just listening. I often did this as a child to avoid spankings. I would pretend not to wake, though I never did find the crime in being woken. 

There is a veil wrapped around this curly haired child and I; we are separated from the madness that begins to fill the apartment. Somewhere distant, we hear the words “It came back, they’re transferring her right now”- my aunt speaking to my mint and tobacco scented uncle. 

Heavy sighs are heard. Soft sobs go unheard. I am here this time, though. 

I slip under the cotton sheet with this tiny version of me and rest my head on the pillow next to hers. 

In this moment, I can feel her tension vibrating all around us. I can feel the suffocation she feels in not knowing what is going to happen in the morning. She was supposed to be going back home in another night or so, sleeping next to her mother and her over-sized stuffed bear. I could almost hear her thoughts merging with mine as she wished to be sitting on the couch with our mother, watching science fiction movies and eating Ramen like she had been a few days earlier.

Through the night, I tell her everything is going to be okay; everything will be just fine. I am not lying to her. I am lying to her.

I don’t bother to tell this child that her mother's death will come years later, but still much too soon. I don’t tell her that it will be long, drawn out suffering that will end in screaming and nightmares for years to come. I wouldn’t dare tell her that after the lack of affection and the hateful words her family is bound to spew, she will for one very long point in life.. blame herself for the cancer that eats her mother. I give her what I needed. I make myself her unseen family.

As she quietly pouts and her mind explores the horrible possibilities and dreaded outcomes, I whisper lullabies she hasn’t heard since age three. I tell her bible stories that she used to beg our mother to repeat over and over each night. I hold her, the way her mother later would to calm her anxiety attacks as she grew into a teenager. I want to carry this girl into another realm. I want to take her away from the home that will never feel welcoming. I want to show her what magic she can make once she escapes, but I cannot. She falls asleep and I truly believe, could I be seen, we are the perfect image of a child and mother.

Before letting myself out, I glide around this sickening place, collecting the painted porcelain masks from the walls. I grab every one of them. I may not be able to take her with me, but she will not lose sleep again over the stares of silly decorations. Everything is morphing at a rapid rate now, even the design of the apartment has changed to reflect a mobile home from years later. The bronze, single cylinder deadbolt shows a flash of a silver chain as I pull open the door and exit. 

Outside in the field, I throw down the porcelain masks and stomp on them with my bare feet. I hear them crunching beneath me and feel I’ve found release. I collapse on the wet grass, still somehow feeling nauseous from the images I’ve forced onto myself. Looking up though, at those lights illuminating the sky, I’ve lost the concept that something so bright could be artificial. Those stars were shining brighter for me, to guide me through unwelcome memories.