The Psychology of Falling in Love

XXV. December 20th into early December 21st

Somehow, I ended up in front of my mother's house— I don't recall how I got here. My car was parked slightly under a streetlamp. The yard looked controlled, the walkway and driveway were shoveled, and I could make out a faint visual of a 'Merry Christmas' sign on the door. The porch was lined with Christmas lights, prim and proper. My upper lip twitched non stop.

I lit a cigarette and staked out the house, not knowing what came next. I couldn't leave, I couldn't start the car and put it in drive. I couldn't believe that I was in front of my childhood home and it was decorated for Christmas. I snorted angrily and turned my chin upwards, taking a drag from my mood stabilizer. The lights inside the house were on, almost every window was alight— vastly different from what I would remember.

We were never supposed to keep the lights on. We ate in the dark, showered in the dark, cooked in— what? You guess it— the dark.

Bile stung the back of my throat. I rolled my eyes and flung myself back into the driver's seat. My cigarette smoke floated around my face, suffocating me. I coughed and unbuckled my seatbelt before throwing open the door.

I stepped out of the car and leaned against the side of it, making sure to be in the area where the streetlamp was not shining. My cigarette cherry smoldered brightly with each puff. My body was shivering but I felt like a fire had been lit, fueled with gasoline, on my solar plexus.

Surely it couldn't get any worse.

My eyes fell on a small blue bike leaned up against the house on the porch, covered from the elements. I gagged involuntarily, coughing up a small amount of stomach acid. A child's bike.

This can't be her house. She moved— had to.

Without looking away from the bike, I moved slowly across the street. One foot after the other. Slow, heavy feet. Inside of my head I was screaming, begging for my legs to stop. But onward they continued against my pleas.

I steadied myself on the railing before climbing each step. One foot, two feet. Pause. Up, up, pause. My lungs cried for air but I continued to withhold from breathing too deeply— the quieter, the better.

The bike was blue with green swirls. Training wheels stuck proudly on each side. My hand caressed the handlebars and seat. This kid was small.

Five years. It's been five years. But she would have to have—

A child's scream caused me to jump, flailing against the icy wood. I caught my balance and stood completely still. Any light breathing I was allowing to happen stopped in totality. I suppressed a gag, swallowing.

Laughter.

The kid was laughing. I heard their feet pummel the laminate wood floors. A larger set of footsteps chased after them and a man's voice called out, "Ollie! I'm gonna get you!" Ollie cried out and their feet passed the doorway once again. My ear was pressed against the door, listening to the joyous playtime the walls were able to witness at last.

"Derek, don't excite him so much before bed," a woman called out.

Not just a woman. My mother. I stumbled backwards and felt gravity take me in its devilish hands. Tailbone met concrete after bouncing off of two steps. The air my lungs were desperate to receive forcefully vacated, my diaphragm stuck.

I didn't cry. I didn't even let out a yell, a single sound. I sat there, my face contorted in horror as I panted. No one came to the door, which meant no one heard me fall. Before my breath returned, I scooted backwards on my ass, hissing internally at the soreness of my tailbone. I slid and slithered through the snow and ignored the cold wetness that waved over my legs.