Loving Kinnick (Rewritten)

How Long Have You Lived Alone?

The cold morning that brewed outside gave Bo a reason to cuddle closer to me. At least, that is what she said anyway. Her legs tangled with mine, toes wiggling underneath my thighs as she lay at the opposite end of my couch. She perched a book on top of her chest as she read from a passage that I can only assume she continued to reread. I haven't heard her turn the page in more than five minutes.

As her toes pinched at my skin, I couldn't find it in myself to continue reading. I would always be interested in books and the authors who wrote them. How beautiful would it be to really say everything you felt or at least write it down? Because everyone knows, books are based on experience but twisted to fit the narrative.

I watched Bo and wondered what it would be like to tell her every little thought that ran through my mind. She would understand that nothing else was of importance as she was the only thing I thought about.

Then I wondered what went through her mind and what secrets did she keep; as she promised, everything was fine, even though I knew it wasn't. When I questioned what happened last night, she brushed off the truth with a simple lie. It was as if she thought I would believe her, but the look in her eyes knew that I wasn't as naive as what her mind led her to think. She remembers why she woke up screaming, but she won't say a thing -

"How long have you lived alone?"

I furrowed my eyebrows as she broke me out of thought. "Huh?"

"How long have you been on your own?"

"A few years."

"Does your mom visit often?"

I clenched my jaw as I broke eye contact. "She kicked me out. So, no. She doesn't visit at all."

Her face twisted with despair as her eyes scanned my face. "I am sorry."

My left shoulder tipped upward. "It wasn't your fault."

"Can I ask what happened?"

I sighed as I felt the toxicity fill my veins. If anyone else had asked about my past, I couldn't have stopped myself from snapping. People wanted to know why I act the way I do, but I didn't owe anyone a story that I barely knew how to tell. So, my fist would cross their face as I let my actions speak for themself.

But I stopped myself from so much as raising my voice at her as she stared at me because her question made me wonder why she couldn't open up to me as she asked me to do for her. Someone made her think it was better to stay silent. So, I would be brutally honest with every question she asked me because I wanted to teach her that it was okay to talk about things that hurt us, even if it made our voice shake.

"What do you want to know?"

"Whatever you feel comfortable telling me," she murmured.

I felt comfortable telling her everything, and that was the problem. "I shot my dad when I was ten."

I sucked in a deep breath to calm myself. "He started beating me for stupid shit like leaving the bathroom light on and forgetting to rinse off my plate after I was done eating. I think I was eight when it started - I can't remember, honestly."

It would be a lie before god if I looked Bo in the eye and told her that light and love filled my home before the abuse started. I always went to bed with tears in my eyes, wondering what I did to cause the fight unraveling downstairs between my parents. There would be moments that I felt so much confusion my head would start to pound.

My mom used to sit me on her lap and teach me how to read books. I remember she bought The Lion King from a bookstore at the shops, and we spent hours flipping through the pages and working on my annunciation.