Blood Unnoticed

My biggest fear is forgetting the life I’ve lived. Forgetting memories that make up who I am. Forgetting how it felt. Even small ones—what some would consider unimportant. But to me, every memory is significant. Because it’s my life that I’ve lived, and if I don’t tell my story, no one else will. I’ve always believed that the little things matter.

I’ve clung onto this old memory, especially because I can’t remember anything that comes before it. I don’t remember what happened after. I don’t know the date or what the time was. I can't even recall how old I was. But I remember the feeling. I remember the way the lamp cast shadows across my living room. The hum of the show that played on the TV that no one bothered paying attention to. The sound of laughter ringing in my ears.

My mom spoke my name softly. We were somewhat in good graces again. Her disappointment didn’t feel too heavy on my chest. Not because time had passed, but because there were bigger things to be disappointed in.

My brother turned his attention to my mother at the sound of my name. My eyes had met hers briefly before they trailed down to her extended arm holding a joint. It was my turn again.

The conversation they were having was light. My mom and brother spoke of the good times we used to have. Small laughs were exchanged during—none from me.

I couldn’t shake this feeling of dread. I couldn’t get out of my head. Anxiety was normal for me. It’s why my mom suggested smoking in the first place. Somewhere along the way, smoking had become more convenient than my pleading to go to the doctor for medication management. I don’t blame my mom for anything she’s done. She tried her hardest. It’s her first time living life too. Besides, what could go wrong with handing a 17 year old a blunt?

The anxiety had started much earlier than that though, and I didn’t know how to communicate what I was feeling and that I was struggling until I was about 15. So I learned to cope.

The weed didn’t always calm my turmoil. And since I used it as a crutch all day, every day, it stopped working for its intended use. But that didn’t stop me from using it.

“What’s wrong with you?” my brother had asked. He gave me a pointed look. Maybe he noticed my silence. Maybe it was the look on my face. Or maybe I was just hogging the joint.

I took a quick pull, sucking hard enough to burn the back of my throat so I could have an excuse to cough and not answer. I had never been confrontational. I was just like my mother.

I blew out the smoke and passed the joint along. Even though the air in the living room was stale and the smoke didn’t disperse, I did not cough. My throat was used to the burn from smoking for long enough and often enough. I mumbled a quick apology and considered an answer to his question.

What was wrong with me?

Half the time when I was anxious over anything, there was never a reason. But this anxiety felt different. It felt as though there was a cause. It was like, at that moment, I could even put it into words if I tried hard enough.

I looked over at my mother—her smiling, enjoying my brother’s company. As if he had returned from overseas alive and well after partaking in a war. Like his two and a half year absence wasn’t his fault. Like before he left, he didn’t leave a mess for us to clean up. Pretending like his return wasn’t damning us and our chances at a financially stable future.

‘What’s wrong?’ I asked myself, like the problem wasn’t staring me in the face.

The smile on my mother’s face. Her eagerness to hear every word my brother had to share. The decisions she made on my behalf that weren’t in my best interest. That wasn't in our best interest. All for him—but she would never do the same for me.

For a split second, I had felt anger and jealousy. But I pushed it away. I may not have been able to tame my anxious thoughts, but I could harbor anger. I was good at that. At the time, it was easier to make those feelings disappear than it was to figure out why I was anxious.

So I let myself push the feelings down. I made up my mind to try and enjoy this moment since it wasn’t often my mom was in a good mood.

My brother snuffed out the joint in the ashtray, his eyes on me, waiting for my answer. Somehow, he managed to make a mess and spill ashes onto the carpeted floor he and I both sat on. He had a talented way of making a mess no matter where he went.

I snuck a glance at my mom to see if she’d react to the mess he had made. To see if her good mood was quick to vanish like it always was with me.

Her eyebrows didn’t furrow. Her smile didn’t cease.

It wasn’t a reaction that I was used to. Her eyes weren’t even on the mess he had made. They were instead focused on me. Her eyelids were low and glossy. They were waiting for my response.

“You’re so quiet. What’s wrong, baby?” she asked lightly, shifting in her seat on the couch. A small smile was on her lips.

The sudden use of baby—the way it came from her mouth so easily. Like she was used to being open and affectionate. She said it as if it was my second name. I almost believed her.

A heavy weight, like a blanket, had draped over me.

“I’m fine,” I answered quickly. Too quickly. “I’m just tired.” I threw in to make it sound a little more truthful.

My answer satisfied them both and they turned back to finish talking about what they considered good times—old memories I was too young to remember. Memories that I didn’t feel a part of.

The attention was off of me. The room felt warm. My throat was dry—the cottonmouth had set in. And even though the kitchen was a few steps away, it felt like a hike I couldn’t muster the strength to take.

The anxiety was back, full force, and it was a result of being locked in my mind while high. Of course my thoughts were going to spiral. This wasn’t my first rodeo. Rule number one of getting high all day every day: Don’t focus too much on what’s going on inside your head. It leads to disaster. A bad high.

But I didn’t pull myself away from it like I usually did. I sat in it, playing with my foot and feeling small. I felt like a child.

I remembered that I had made the decision to enjoy my mother’s mood. It was rare. But something told me that with the presence of my brother, it would become something that stuck around. It seemed like something she only remembered to do when he was around.

I stood up quickly, not giving myself time to think about it. I made way for a bottle of water, asking if anyone else wanted anything out of the kitchen. Trying to come off as thoughtful and of use, because that’s when I only ever felt noticed.

Forcing a smile—because my mother always complimented me on it when I was younger, back when I was considered her favorite and her actions lined up with her words.

Upon my return, I took my mind off of my ailment.

That forced smile quickly turned into a real one when I finally joined the conversation. A funny memory I could actually recall—and the aid of the joint certainly helped.

For a while, it felt like things were normal. Like nothing bad had ever happened. Like my brother never left. Like my mom had never been cold and indifferent. It was like we were kids again and my mom was twelve years younger. All of us together in the living room in front of the TV, talking and laughing. No traces of emotional abuse. Financial stress. Late-night screaming matches in the kitchen.

Time had flown by. Good memories and feelings were recalled, and the laughing had ceased. Our high was coming down.

Right on cue, the lighter sparked, illuminating the dark wall my brother was sitting against. The small flame cast a warm light against his face. The sun had set and I didn’t even notice.

It was dark in the living room and there was nothing but the purple screen saver on the TV, giving a nostalgic aura to the room.

I felt the anxiety slowly creeping back in.

As my brother puffed on the previously lit joint, his hand cupped around the flame, I stood to turn on the lamp he sat near. The room became full with warm yellow light. My mother, looking drained, thanked me for getting the lamp. I knew she hated to strain her eyes in the dark. It gave her headaches—and headaches meant a bad mood. And while I felt that my brother did not deserve the seemingly special treatment he was getting, I also knew he didn’t deserve to experience my mother’s bad mood.

Things were different. I recall being younger and getting that special treatment. I was baby girl, sweetheart. I could do no wrong in my mother’s eyes. There was always a soft tone when addressing me. Princess was my name. I got anything I wanted—I never asked for much. I wasn't spoiled. I was a good kid. I listened. I paid attention in school.

My brother, however, suffered the same treatment I had become victim to. No matter what he did, it seemed to always be the wrong thing. He was troubled though—always in a conflict, always the one who started it. He didn’t listen, and sometimes he didn’t think. Fights in school caused fights and screaming at home. Fights at home that I was the mediator for. I rationalized my brother's actions to my mom because no matter what, she sought out to paint him as the villain. I broke my mother’s thought process down in a way my brother could understand. Of course, my efforts never really helped. Our eight-year age gap and me being the youngest child didn't really make up good communication practices.

Even though they argued—often resulting in doors being slammed—my brother retaliated in anger, breaking things. I was always left tearful in the end.

A day or three later, they would reconcile things together outside on the porch over a pack of cigarettes, and everyone would pretend like hurtful words that cut deep were never said. Like shattered glass didn’t leave small cuts during clean up. A drop of blood forgotten on the white kitchen cabinets stained and resisted any chemical.

I was never a part of the reconciliation. I would just come from my bedroom to find them together, like long-distance best friends reunited—the only thing separating them was thousands of miles. I would say that was the difference between me and my brother when it came to my mom. We never came together after an argument. There was no reconciliation. There were no apologies. There was no understanding. It was just silence between us and thick air that you couldn't cut. There was no mediator either.

Our arguments were silly and stupid. I never tried causing trouble to see how my mother would react. It would be a forgotten piece of tissue left in my pants pocket that created a mess in the dryer. A knocked over cup on the carpet, a quick response that came off as disrespectful. A missed alarm in the morning before school, a need for a box of tampons that waited until the last minute because I was too scared to ask. I wondered if my brother felt as if my mother had no right to yell at him for certain things—because I felt like she had no right to yell at me.

After the rotation of the joint was finished, I snuffed out the remains into the ashtray and took it outside to the back porch. We had grown accustomed to smoking in the house, but I kept the ashtray outside due to its strong smell. It's like the roaches had a concentrated smell—stronger than the weed that made me sick to my stomach.

Distracted on the way in from a good buzz, my mind felt hazy. I had overdone it. Even with my glasses on, my vision was blurry. My eyes were low and felt drier than usual. After smoking for so long, I didn't know it was still possible for me to overdo it.

My brother played on his phone, no longer sat on the carpet with me but now next to my mother. His phone was on a volume that was unacceptable to my ears.

He showed her a video that she obviously had no interest in. I was surprised because it was rare that she showed interest in something that I liked. I could never keep her attention. But she looked like she was all ears for him.

I took my spot back on the carpet, leaning against the couch. They erupted together in laughter before my brother turned the phone around to show me. I appreciated the gesture to make me feel included. I can’t remember what was on his phone, but it was something that was worthy of a good smile. My brother let the video replay a few times before putting his phone down and turning his attention to the remote in his hands.

We all paid attention to the TV, trying to find something that we liked. I didn’t really have an opinion—I was a big fan of cartoons and animations. They were both fans of action and thriller. My brother scrolled through genres as my mom made comments on certain titles that caught her attention.

Silence fell over the room, the only sound being the click of the remote. Then—perfectly timed—my brother chimed in, repeating the line from the video he just showed us in a funny, eccentric accent. In the same goofy manner as if we were all younger again, we laughed. We laughed hard.

My mom doubled over, her hair hanging as she laughed. My brother slapping his knee, and myself gasping for air. It truly was funny. My brother sometimes didn’t own a single serious bone in his body. That’s how he was when we were growing up.

I leaned forward, still laughing, trying to catch my breath. Tears formed in my eyes and my stomach ached. I could do nothing but laugh. My body tensed up as if I was being physically tickled. The air being stale, being high—it was a laugh that was out of control.

I threw myself back onto the carpet to hopefully get some air, but it seemed to only make it worse. All at once, as my back lay against the carpet, intense dread filled me. Laughter still rung in my chest.

As I caught my breath, tears filled my eyes, blurring my vision as I stared up at the ceiling. My eyes rested on the still fan above me. My laughter had come to a complete stop as I slowly sat up, and it seemed everything moved at a lumbering pace. My eyes shifted between my mother and brother, their laughter muffled.

Feeling as though I was ill, I finally pieced together what was wrong earlier. It wasn't anxiety. It was dread. Because this was it. This was the last time we’d come together like this and be able to laugh. This was the final time we’d come together as a family before things got too broken to mend.

My tears spilled over onto my cheeks and I quickly wiped them away before they noticed. I sat up entirely distraught at the realization, confused on how they couldn’t see it. Something deep inside told me that whatever mess my brother would make, me and my mom wouldn’t be able to clean it up. There would be no more pretending that hurtful words didn’t cut deep. Shattered glass would leave scars. No drop of blood would go unnoticed.

I snapped myself out of it before they questioned what was wrong while they were too occupied with laughing. I stood up slowly, mind still hazy from the weed. Yet I had felt more sober than I did in years.

I started towards my bedroom before my mom spoke up, “Where are you going, baby?” There it was again.

I let myself believe her, seeing as this would be the last time. I turned to speak over my shoulder, “Just to the bathroom. My stomach is upset.”

I smiled tightly before taking silent steps into my room. I quietly shut the door behind myself and sat on the edge of my bed, blocking out the softened giggles coming from the living room.

With what felt like urgency, I tried to relive the brief emotions I just experienced—before I forgot what it felt like. I wanted to sit with it, and let myself be sad about it in my own solitude. But I could hardly recall it. I wanted to remember how I felt. I couldn't bring it back and feel them again. Anxiety instead took over.

I can’t remember what happened directly after that. But later that year, life happened. And somehow, I knew it would. My brother did make a mess that me and my mother couldn’t clean. It was the last time we came together as a family. And things did end up too broken to mend. Shattered glass left scars. No drop of blood went unnoticed.