Since Alonzo

Tuesday, 

October 1^st, 2024

My closest companions are the guilt and shame that follow me around like a dark cloud, storming over the wreckage of my life. I’ve never had the chance to do more than dream about what everyday experiences would be like if those parasites had never been coded into my DNA. 

I’m the descendant of generations ravaged by misery, and that same misery claims my peace constantly, never offering a sense of relief. That turmoil consumed the person I used to be, chewed me up, and spit me out. 

I catch glimpses of myself when I can forget about the past and ignore the beast that has been living inside me for years. But she never stays for long, snatched away and locked up somewhere deep within my mind, far enough where I can’t reach. Then, that creature steps back into place, assuming the throne and ruling with an iron fist. 

The person I was has been crushed underneath the sheer weight of my sins. I’ve never been religious, but I’ve survived the last decade being haunted by ghosts from the past. Desperation can lead skeptics to search for a higher power—anything to make sense of the gruesome realities we, as human beings, face constantly. 

Simply existing can be overwhelming at times. 

A monster has found a home for itself in my stomach and feeds on everything beautiful in my life. Every breathtaking moment has been ripped from my grasp and torn to shreds, devoured viciously by whatever darkness lurks beneath the surface. That darkness has spread like cancer, infecting every inch of my world and killing me slowly. 

There’s no more light in me. I’m the walking dead, a body with no soul driving it. There’s only the monster that pulls the strings of my existence, leading me further into my demise. Not even sleep is an escape from the torment. In my dreams, the monster always finds me. 

Mom worked all hours of the day and night, balancing a minimum of sixty hours a week. Whatever she needed to put food on the table, she did. When I was fifteen, she was going back and forth between three jobs. I ate breakfast, lunch, and dinner alone.

Until one day, I had someone to occupy the space beside me. 

Out of nowhere, I was the big sister of a squishy baby boy named Alonzo. He could’ve been Mom’s twin, except he seemed perfect in a way that Mom wasn’t. 

I was never the type of kid who believed their parents were perfect. Dad spent most of his time under some influence, whether it was drugs or alcohol, moving through life in a daze.

Mom said he struggled with a lot of demons, and in the end, they won. He died of an overdose minutes before I was born. Mom needed to figure out how to find the strength to raise a baby on her own without Dad’s support. 

But she would say, “I was going to be a single parent either way. I just wished he would’ve lasted long enough to hold you in his arms. It would’ve changed everything. It did for me.” And I wondered often if there was any truth in what she said or if she needed to tell herself that to get through the day. 

She wanted to save Dad from himself and prove to him that he deserved to be happy. But I know better than anyone how easily chaos can pollute your mind and convince you that death is the only thing better than Hell. Better doesn’t exist in the minds of people like us. 

Like Father, like daughter. 

Omar stepped into our world a year before Alonzo came around. Mom seemed smitten, almost like a high school girl falling in love for the first time. Dad had been gone for as long as I had been alive, and Mom stayed single during that time, dedicating whatever energy and attention she had to me. 

From the beginning, Omar was someone I didn’t trust. There was something about him and the way he treated Mom like a possession, not a person, that made me uncomfortable. The only reason I put any effort into forming a relationship with that man was because Mom loved him, but deep down… I couldn’t stand him.

I was twenty years old when I learned the truth about what happened the afternoon Omar left. Back then, I couldn’t be too sure. The truth was hidden in the details chaotically thrown around the living room and how Mom reacted when she spotted me.

The mirror standing beside the TV in the living room was face down on the ground, broken glass sprinkled all over the carpet. The dining room table behind the couch was flipped on its side, the chairs broken in various ways and splintered all over. I followed what seemed like a war zone, leading me straight into the kitchen where Mom was standing at the sink. 

Blood speckled the back of her t-shirt, and her hair was unkempt spiked in several directions. I watched as she frantically washed blood from her arms. She wasn’t expecting to see me when she turned around, jumping a bit and leaning against the counter to steady herself. There was a bruise blossoming on her cheek and a black eye that looked more painful than anything. 

Mom took me into her arms and held me tighter than she ever had. She buried her face in my hair, and all I could hear her say was, “I’m sorry.” She hadn’t been perfect a day in her life, but she loved me, and that was something I never doubted. 

Omar didn’t take the news of her pregnancy well. He despised children on a cellular level, a hatred that ran deeper than anything I had ever seen up to that point. He pretended to be the supportive boyfriend of a single mother, taking on her fatherless daughter with enthusiasm, but the reality was different.

He couldn’t wait for me to move out and start my own life, anticipating the day he could have Mom to himself. I’m thankful Omar never got the chance to do more damage than he did. Mom was different after him; she internalized her pain and smothered it. 

She always looked drained, too exhausted to do anything more than breathe in and out. Even then, it seemed like too much for her. I didn’t know about Alonzo until Mom delivered him in the hospital. Although we would go days without seeing each other due to her hectic work schedule, I didn’t notice a baby bump at all when we were together. 

I’m not sure why she kept the truth hidden from me, and I’m sure I would’ve pushed for answers if I hadn’t been obsessed with Alonzo. He became my best friend in the blink of an eye, and I couldn’t imagine a life without him.

I never thought I would have to. 

Alonzo’s twelfth birthday is around the corner. Every year, I plan his party. My therapist wondered if maybe I was too stuck in the past, and to be honest, he wasn’t wrong. But how could I leave the past when that’s the only place he exists now? 

This year, I would’ve gone all out with a Spider-Man theme. I’d have gotten up early in the morning to bake a cake for him. Every birthday should start amazing, and what better way to start the day than with a slice of cake? Maybe his favorite color would’ve been blue. So I’d pour food dye into the cake batter, looking forward to seeing his face light up at the discovery. I’d do my best to decorate the cake with spiders and webs, most likely failing but getting a smile out of him regardless. 

It would’ve been our little secret, a small tradition between brother and sister. 

Rather than celebrating his birthday with a party surrounded by friends and family, Mom and I prepared a basket with what we imagined his favorite foods would’ve been. I baked him that Spider-Man cake, even though he’d never taste it.

Then we headed to the cemetery where he’s been since he was a few months old and had a picnic in his honor, sharing our favorite memories with him. 

Alonzo was my world, despite how brief our time together was. He became everything the second he landed in my arms, and as much as I hated Omar, I loved Alonzo more than my heart could take.

He was everything Omar could never dream of becoming, the embodiment of sunlight in every way. 

I couldn’t imagine being anyone other than his protector. It was the most important job I would ever have, and it was one I wanted to do perfectly at all times. But I failed him, and I failed Mom. I single-handedly destroyed our family. 

Mom never blamed me, but I can’t forgive myself. 

Sincerely,

Reyna

Friday, 

October 4th, 2024

The all-consuming loneliness is threatening my sanity. Nowhere feels safe enough. I’m surrounded by ghosts around the clock, and it doesn’t matter how fast I run, they latch onto my bones and keep close.

Too close.

My therapist asked about Alonzo this morning. I didn’t have the heart to breathe his name, let alone sink into the memories of my brother. 

Which angers me. Alonzo was the embodiment of sunshine, and when he died, the world went black. The thought of him should provide comfort, but those flashes of the past serve as harsh reminders that I’m drowning in an ocean of what could have been.

I want to tread through those memories with Alonzo and allow myself to feed on the joy he brought into my life during those months, not the heartache that left a gaping hole in my chest following his death. 

Therapy ended like usual. He leaned back and placed his overflowing notebook on the desk beside him. For a moment, he observed me the way a doctor would examine an x-ray. He was desperate to find the source of the issue, hoping it would be something he could treat with medication or intensive therapy, but he slumped forward the way he always did.

A sign of defeat. 

“You have the emergency line, right?” I almost wanted to laugh when he asked. 

During our first session, I was given a long list of numbers to call if I wanted to jump off a bridge or swallow a bottle of pills.

Suicide isn’t the answer; never is, but death would silence my mind in a way nothing else could. He made sure I thumbed each number into my cellphone before we continued with the appointment. 

The answer was always the same. Of course, I had the emergency line. I thought about how many people phoned in before doing something irreparable and if I would ever be one of them. Not that suicide wasn’t an option for me, but asking for help made the guilt louder than anything. 

Right before therapy wrapped up, Mom sent a series of concerning texts. She needed me, and I wouldn’t be the one to let her down, not again.

I didn’t mention the messages to my therapist, knowing how it would appear from an outsider looking in. The last thing I wanted to do was embarrass Mom and invite strangers into our mess. I should have; maybe he would’ve had the solution to helping Mom, but it was too risky. 

When I reached the house, Mom was standing on the front porch. She was covered in mud from head to toe, a few twigs poking out from her matted hair.

Since Alonzo, Mom would have moments where she would become confused and disoriented. She couldn’t separate reality from fantasy and became consumed with grief. At times, she would mumble Dad’s name. Others, she would scream Alonzo’s name over and over. She would continue until her voice was reduced to a strangled wheeze of agony. 

Those moments were becoming frequent. I never knew when I would come home to find Mom or the tormented wretch she was turning into. Death was permanent, but insanity was equally as lasting.

There was no hope once the mind was consumed by madness. 

Death claimed the lives of Alonzo and Dad, leaving me to grieve for the rest of mine. But insanity was claiming Mom, leaving me to mourn her while she stood beside me.

On a physical front, Mom was as healthy as she could be.

Mentally, the doctors speculated that she would have a few weeks before those moments transitioned into an active reality for her, with a small chance of lucidity sporadically placed in between. 

Mom stumbled backward when I approached before lurching forward and grabbing onto the front of my shirt with a fierce intensity I had never seen before. I could feel her nails digging into my skin, no doubt bringing blood to the surface. Fear pumped through my veins as she yanked me closer to her face. 

“Where is my baby?!” She screamed. “What did you do to my son?!”

I wanted to answer whatever questions she had, to give her something to hold onto, but there was no point. 

Our neighbor, Caesar, heard the commotion and helped me take Mom inside the house. He was an older man, around Mom’s age, and had been a constant presence in our lives since he moved into the neighborhood seven years ago.

I knew he was a genuine man with a big heart by the way he cared for Mom whenever she lost her place in reality and how he refused to let those moments alter his perception of her when she found her way back.

Caesar stuck around to help out with Mom, cooking dinner for the three of us and cleaning around the house before he headed home for the night. 

He was a lifesaver, truly. 

Mom calmed down enough to eat some dinner. I bathed her and made sure to thoroughly wash her hair, watching the mud and twigs drop onto the tub. She was nowhere near the woman she had once been. 

I doubt she recognized me during the episode. Mom went over what happened that morning more times than I could count throughout the years. Bad things happen for no reason sometimes, none that doctors could find. She wouldn’t allow me to shoulder the weight of his loss and told me that there was nothing I could’ve done to change what happened. 

But that wasn’t good enough. 

Sincerely,

Reyna

Sunday, 

October 6th, 2024

Mom had another episode last night. Similar to Friday’s freakout, she jumped onto me and screamed for her baby in my face. Except her hands went right towards my throat and squeezed, tightening her grip until oxygen was fleeting.

For a woman overcome with grief, Mom had almost superhuman strength. One I couldn’t compete with. 

Caesar was asleep, no doubt. It was one o’clock in the morning, and I had been stumbling into the house after a fun night out. Maxine, the only friend I’ve had since high school, dragged me out on the town, and we went bar hopping.

I can’t remember the last time I laughed that much. 

Mom was lucid before I left, had been the entire day, so I wasn’t expecting to be attacked the second I walked through our front door.

Thankfully, Mom lessened her grasp enough for me to shove her off and jump onto my feet. There was a shift in her, something hidden in her eyes that sent a chill down my spine.

I’d never questioned my safety with my mother. She loved me, and I never doubted that. But Mom was nowhere to be seen. 

I booked it down the hallway and threw myself into my bedroom, slamming the door behind me. I locked it and moved my dresser in front of it.

I listened to Mom scream obscenities and wail for Alonzo. She repeated over and over, “What did you do to my son?” And my heart shattered in my chest. 

Maybe Mom did blame me, and whatever mental illness had developed due to her immense suffering was bringing the truth to light. How could she not? I was supposed to be watching him that morning, the big sister left in charge while Mom went to work her first shift of the day. 

She repeated her usual list of demands, pressing a kiss to my forehead before she ducked out the front door. For the life of me, I couldn’t tell you why it was more important to drool over my phone than to pause the conversation and grab Alonzo from his crib. No one should’ve come before him. Not some girl, not a friend. Nobody. 

I see that now. 

An hour passed before I noticed how quiet Alonzo was. He should’ve been awake, demanding attention. 

The walk down the hallway and towards the nursery is burned into my brain, the final moment before our world fell apart. I ran my fingers along the outdated floral wallpaper, imagining what else we could put in its place, and hummed a song under my breath.

Nothing could have prepared me for what was waiting inside his room. 

I watched my bedroom door bang against the dresser as Mom continued to plead for justice to be served, that the Devil had snuck into her house and stolen her baby. But God couldn’t have been further from where we were.

I know what I’m about to do is selfish because Mom doesn’t have anyone else. Even so, the guilt has been eating me alive. 

Maybe I should've told Mom the truth, that her teenage daughter had been more concerned with a cheerleader than the safety and well-being of her infant son, but she couldn't hear me.

Not anymore.

There’s no way out, and the only thing better than Hell is death. 

I'm sorry,

Reyna