I don’t feel much anymore. It’s not that I don’t want to, and it’s not that I’m a psychopath. But I’ve come to terms with it. I don’t complain about it to my reflection, or etch it in my desk. I don’t complain about it to myself, not anymore. It seems like it’s an equation to myself, a simple algebraic function a seventh grader could solve in a minute. I equal x, and x equals apathetic.
And what is an equation? Something equal to itself, of course. And of course, this means that, simply, x cannot equal anything without equalling a lack of feeling and empathy for oneself. This means that x, equaling my consciousness, is a line drawn parallel to that which defines numbness.
I don’t tell anyone this. I don’t tell people about how I drowse about like I contain something that I shouldn’t contain. I don’t hitchhike on others’ consciousnesses to drain their feelings into my own. I try not to dwell on these vile emotions that make me fit into nothing but a prefix. I feel like a nothing.
But it’s okay, I suppose. Maybe somewhere in my conscious, I want to not feel. There’s a feeling-picked scab that wants to be different, and it makes me believe that I’m okay living like this, confused and confusing. It doesn’t want to feel the tactile walls of human function the way other people do; it yearns to be metaphysical. Something they can’t touch. That they can’t feel.
I peel a sticker off of my new short sleeved shirt; size extra small, category M.Y., mantis green. I smooth it out over the nine-o-clock moonlit window, concealing an inward-facing patch of bloody feathers left by a bird chasing its reflection. I hadn’t really thought twice about that thing; it startled me at first, but then I began to look at it like it was sort of an omen. My mother had told me to go outside and scrape it off the glass. “It is bad luck to keep blood on a window,” she had told me, carving words through her thin Canadian accent. I pocketed her plastic knife and put her keys back in the mug we use as a key bowl.
It’s been a long time since I’ve gotten category MY. Not since I started working at a booth in the open market, some amount of Octobers ago, have I received such a low category. What did I do?
I slouch down on my bed and stretch my legs to the end, and try to extend my arms so that they reach the headboard. I’m finally tall enough to graze my fingertips on the white plywood, and the splintery texture satisfies me enough to where I can forget about category MY.
Not for long, my shaky mind assures me. I’m sure I’ll be receiving a notice soon, and then I can enjoy the splintery texture of the rotted floor at school in my bare feet. MY means lost privileges; no boots, one less gallon of milk to bring home in my wagon. I have other shoes; sandals, but they’re not allowed in the schools. It’s a uniform thing. I don’t particularly understand the fact that we have a uniform when the only clothing that we are issued are plain colored and blob-like.
The clothes we receive from the government are manufactured for faceless mannequins, rigid and square and unmalleable. It’s taken me 15 to grow into an extra small.
I pull my shirt off, scraping off the mint from my torso. My arms find the sleeves one last time, and with that I wrap the fabric in government issued paper, sealing it with my government issued duct tape, slipping it into the second pouch of my government issued backpack.
My new shirt is scratchy and not worn-in. It reeks of factory and cardboard box sealed chemicals, like everything that I own. The color reminds me of the one time that my mother allowed me to go into town by myself, when I was 11.
I rub my ring finger to my pinky, edging the jagged scar that has replaced my raw sienna skin with tiny blisters when I pick at it.
The last time I wore a mantis green shirt I was too small to fill the lining with my ribcage; it dangled over my torso like a tablecloth. My mother tied it up with a white rubber band every morning, carefully knotting it into the fabric and then tucking the tail into my belt loop. That white rubber band became sort of a talisman to me, like a physical representation of my consciousness.
It was the second full day of summer break, when we get 8 weeks off from school to do whatever we pleased. For whatever reason there was a building that was going to be demolished, and me attempting to be some sort of tomboy there was no question that I wanted to see it. I told my mother I was going to the market with a girl named Katia McPhearson, a name I pulled out of somewhere from the faceless school-wide role call.
The crowd that gathered around the consisted of a slim range of yellow tones, meaning they probably spawned out of the western part of Louisville, associated with canned meat and a lack of shoes. I silently pulled myself towards the attraction, wedging myself in between a gold boy and a girl in coordinating olive.
A crane lifted to the sky holding a man in forest green, and with a quick flick of his wrist the machine flails itself into the sun weathered building. It hit the top 10 stories with a sweeping motion, and everyone in the crowd gave about a 30 foot way for the wrecking ball to retract.
“Hey, Sara, what’d you say we get out of here?” the boy in gold shouted over the static noise of the crowd.
“Okay,” The olive shirted girl replied even louder. They pushed through the crowd together, the girl with her hand on his shoulder, running, her long dark hair trailing behind her. I slipped out of the crowd, deciding that watching a 20 story building get demolished is not a very interesting activity.
I headed down the slim alleyway I know well, the alley my mother took me through on our way to this part of town. It was long and smelled of week old garbage and cat urine. The girl from earlier slipped along the right side of the decaying brick wall, taking a right after her friend in gold. I waited for a minute, to catch my breath, to pause the sun beating down on my face. I rested on the side of a dark purple dumpster, breathing.
“Hello there,” A stout man with a 3 o’ clock shadow appeared from the far end of the alley. “What’s your name?” He was bulky and short. His uneven haircut reminded me of a feral dog.
He held my attention for three seconds, and I start gaining momentum the moment he started to approach. My eleven year old legs could’t outrun his thirty year old ones, but it never hurts to try.
His thick hand pushed me to the wall, and my back dug into the wall landing me a pile of garbage bags. My ring finger scraped into one on my left, filled with shards of bottles carelessly projected out of a third story window. I wrapped my hand around one of the bottles, breaking off a piece with my palm.
I shot to my feet. I remember the way the man’s unrelenting eyes dug into my collarbones, and I remember the movements I copied from the destructive motion of the wrecking ball. I carved lines into his arms and neck. I ripped his skin with something smaller than my ego.
As he was grasping for air I threw aside my moment of fearlessness and him along with it, running for my mother.
I ran the rest of the way home, crying on the way to save time.
I shut the door with my back and forgot that moment, that out of body experience. I clicked the lock and went to sleep on the floor.
That was the first and last time that I went into the city alone.
“Ryn! Ryyyyy-hnnn-h!”
“I’m in here, Amma. In my room.”
She opens the door with her hip and I get up to meet her, taking one of the cups of tea she has in her hands.
“Thanks,” I take a sip. “What kind is it? Smells good.”
“Is that a new shirt? Why didn’t you tell me?” She sets her stained ceramic mug down on my bedside table. “What category is it?!” She reaches under the hem to read the printed label on the inside.
“It’s M.Y., mother.” I hide my eyes from her. “I don’t know what happened, but I’m not mint anymore.”
“Neither is your tea. It’s chamomile. No, wait, it’s echinacea.”
“Actually, Amma, it’s Earl Gray, I’m pretty sure.”
She picks up her tea, and takes a sip, swooshing it around in her mouth.
“You’re right. But Aderyn, you need to find out what happened. And fix it.”
“Okay, Amma.”
She holds the tea up to her eye as a good-night gesture.
“Nos, Ryn.” She shuts the door with her spare hand.
I take my Earl Gray tea and sit against the wall, sipping and breathing as deeply as my lungs can dive.
