The Divine Thirty

Chapter 2

                                                                                         SNOW

I swallow it and feel it run through my esophagus. Goodness me, that was awful.

"Alright then," the words stumble out of me, "that was most certainly not a pleasant experience." But my mother snatches the rest of the apple from my hands and gives a long, cold stare at it. She mutters under her breath, sounding inhuman and strange. Suddenly, she crushes the apple in her fist, throws it on the floor, and aggressively stomps on it. A gasp, my own, rings out.

"Mom! Are you alright?"

"That apple was SUPPOSED to-" She stops herself and sucks in a mighty breath. "Daughter, let's have some dinner, shall we?"

I question nothing.

                                                                                                 ...

Sitting with my mother on the couch, takeout pizza on our plates, on our laps, watching Beverly Hills housewives fight is not a very nice experience. I gulp down my sparkling water. Everything feels so wrong, and earlier everything seemed ever so right.

Mom sits about three feet away from me, driving a fork into her pizza, eyes harsh, her dark eyebrows raised. We haven't spoken, instead letting the TV fill in the silence for us. So I let my memories keep me company.

I see me, about age three, playing in the sandbox with some neighborhood kids. My hair is in pigtails. I look like Boo from Monsters Inc. My mother watches on, and looking back at that memory, I had always seen her with a smiling, rosy face, tender, beautiful, holding all the love in the world, being everything a mother should be. But now, she looks at me with a frown, darkness behind her eyes, deadness. Maybe there had been a light once, but it was burned out long ago, with a whisper, unnoticed by me.

And now before my eyes I see all the times she's yelled, or hit me. They weren't that often, but now, before me, it seems more frequent than it should be. Was I really always this unfortunate? I remember feeling so terribly lucky in life.

"Mom," the words spill out, "what are we going to do?"

"Keep calm and carry on. Of course, there will have to be a funeral. A proper burial, a send off to his good soul. Don't worry. We should be going to bed, anyway."

Later that night, as I am about to fall into bed, realize the print on my pillowcase. Apples. Blood red apples. Why are they always here now, haunting me? Will I ever even be able to eat one again? I tear my pillow out from the pillowcase and grab the pillowcase, throwing it on my floor, bursting into tears. Everything is empty now. Everything is lost. Where am I? Who am I? I have Chris, and who else? A friend to all is a friend to none, as they say. Maybe it's true. Or am I looking at it the wrong way? What does that even mean? Who even said it? I practically stumble into the laundry room, retrieving a new pillowcase, this one with pretty feathers on it.

It's now 11:59. I haven't slept. I don't think I'll be able to tonight. My room is so dark, and frightening, and scary. It just looms over me like a monster about to attack. What monsters hide in my closet? I keep talking about how everything is dark now, but it's true. I wish I had a better vocabulary to describe it. "Dad," I whisper to no one. "I miss you." The tears start streaming down my face, contrasting my blank expression. I turn to the clock on my desk, and watch it change from 11:59 to midnight. And at that moment, something snaps.

A thousand voices are suddenly whispering in my ear, and they're strangely comforting. Low hums of majesty, old creeks flowing through the weeds, women on picnics, choirs singing, a family on Christmas. I smile, and the tears flow even harder. But then they turn nightmarish. Screams, gunshots, bodies hitting hard floors, final breaths, and it's all so overwhelming. They close in on me, swords and knives flashing before me. I'm surprised I haven't been stabbed in the eye. My cries are no longer just cries, they're sobs. And everything just builds up, and is more intense, and suddenly I'm in the middle of a battlefield, blood flowing from my bottom lip, sword in hand, world weary. What girl is this? I can't be her. I know nothing about battlefields, and I could never be quiet and wise. But then, I see a hand reach toward me. God? It's a feminine hand. Ariana Grande must have been right. If it is God. The hand seems comforting, finger outstretched, like the old painting. I reach out my own hand to touch it. Contact, yes.