Static Between The Lights | Felix Lee

I. Killing Yourself Alive

I ran away when I was thirteen. It was exactly two months until I turned fourteen. I don't know how I reasoned to myself that I should do it. But I do remember how I felt at that moment. Mom and I had gotten into a fight an hour before dinner. Next to three unchopped bell peppers was my report card. Mom did not like the things it reported. I'm sure most parents wouldn't. I was failing math and English. I thought she would empathize since English was still new to me. She didn't. I remember carrying Emilio's pudgy yet heavy little body. I remember bouncing him slightly as Mom scolded me for being ungrateful. The rhythm of heaviness leaving my arms and then returning helped steady my shaky breath. I had to put him down when he started crying. His ears had always been sensitive. I knew I should have set him down before things got too heated between Mom and me. I didn't want to run the risk of her interpreting it as me dismissing the conversation, though. I was selfish back then. When Papi lifted him out of my grasp, I saw that look in his eyes again. The look that gave me comfort yet hopelessness. It would show me that he felt for me. He didn't often agree with how hard Mom was. Although, he wouldn't stop her either. That part left me hopeless. That look told me I was on my own. I could feel my chest tightening. My arms were cold and weightless. Mom was still preaching to me that I needed to learn to be appreciative.

She wasn't always like that. A couple of years ago, she was more merciful. Back when it was just us three. Then Yvette came along, and lastly, Emilio. She had become a bit stern when Emilio arrived. Still, she was merciful. I'd say that trait died after the big move. Now that I'm older, I sympathize. She had a lot on her shoulders. At the time, though, I felt forgotten. It was almost like I died with the benevolent part of Mom. I only felt alive when she needed me for help. It's why I was standing in the kitchen with Emilio and a recipe book on the counter. I liked feeling alive. I didn't feel like that in school. I wasn't used to the methods they used. I wasn't used to the language they spoke. I felt like an outsider. I felt like a fly that had flown in with the wind by accident. I tried to pay attention, but I couldn't. It was too much for me. It all seemed too much. I thought since Mom knew what that overwhelming weight was like, she'd let the report go.

I knew I had disappointed her. I told myself that it wasn't because I was ungrateful. I told myself Mom was likely just stressed from work. But then a thought crossed my mind.

I thought to myself, "what if she's telling the truth?"

So while she was lecturing about her and Papi's efforts, I paid attention. It was too much. A sudden wave of guilt came over me. My chest tightened more. I felt like someone was holding my head underwater. The more I tried to breathe in air, the more left. As the guilt flooded my lungs, the excess leaked out of my eyes. That's when Mom became angrier. She said that I was crying out of self-pity. Maybe I was, and that terrified me. I didn't want to be selfish. I didn't want to think that I was being inconsiderate all this time. It sickened me. She wasn't letting go either. I stood there and continued to cry as she stood and continued to scold. I wasn't sure how long it went on. I only remember that it ended as soon as Grandpa and Grandma walked in.

That's when I made the decision. Looking back, it was all emotion. I should have stopped to think. I never did, though. I never stopped to question myself as I threw my favorite hoodie into my backpack. I tossed in a couple of pairs of socks too. I think the only time I paused was when I noticed Yvette's side of the room. She was spending the night at our cousin's house. You could still feel her there, funny enough. Her Star Wars Lego set was sitting there in the corner, unfinished. I had promised to help her complete it that weekend. I never got to. I recalled my favorite memories with her; us building blanket forts, smashing each other's faces in cakes, all the good stuff. That should've been enough to stop me. It wasn't. Honestly, I think I was just angry at myself.

I was so disappointed in how selfish I was. I thought I was better than that. Those were the traits I despised. How was it possible that I not only bore those qualities but let them manifest into something huge? I was beside myself with disgust. So I packed faster. I find it kind of funny now. I felt I had been cramming clothes in my backpack for ages. In actuality, I only packed my hoodie, the socks, three pairs of underwear, two shirts, and one pair of jeans- not even a week's worth. It satisfied thirteen-year-old me, however. I slung my backpack over my shoulder and opened my window. I remember I didn't even take a second to look back at Yvette and I's room. I was too scared of getting caught. So I left.