Worship And Other Love Rituals

Chapter 23

I rushed back to the cottage with Leo in my arms- practically jogging, eager to put as much distance as possible between us and Mark. As the familiar scent of pinecones and chamomile hit my nose, I felt the tension start to drain from my body, though my mind was still reeling. I set Leo down and he immediately went off to play with his toys, seemingly unaware of the drama that had just occurred.

Really, at his age the only drama he cares about is whether there are enough blocks to build a castle taller than him.

I stood watching him for a moment, so thankful he was safe. Then the events of the morning fully caught up to me and I swear my knees almost gave out like an old lady in Walmart trying to reach the top shelf. I stumbled over to the kitchen counter, leaning heavily on it as shaky sobs wracked my body.

All those locked away fears and resentments from my past with Mark came bursting out in a big ugly messy cry. It's embarrassing really, how worked up I got. I'm not usually one for such displays of emotion. But seeing that lout again after all these years just uncorked something deep inside me. Those kinds of lingering effects from past abuse aren't so simple to stuff back in the ugly Christmas sweater you only wear once a year. Even now he still finds ways under my skin to make me question every choice and achievement, like I'm back in high school being peer pressured into trying cigarettes behind the bleachers. But not anymore, I vowed silently. I would not give him that power over me again.

As my sobs started to subside to hiccups, I scanned the room desperately for a distraction. My gaze fell on the kettle and I suddenly craved a nice warm cup of tea to soothe my frazzled nerves.

I set about gathering mugs, selecting from an array of kitschy designs like "World's Okayest Mom" and "I'd Rather Be Bird Watching." But in my shaken state, my clumsy butterfingers did me wrong. Inevitably, I fumbled and dropped a glass which shattered on the stone floor like the hopes and dreams of my 20s.

"Mama okay?" Leo called out in concern from the other room.

"I'm fine, sweetheart," I called back in a false cheery tone, not wanting to add to his concerns. But as I stared down at the Broken glass, another surge of messy feelings welled up inside. Without thinking, I grabbed one of the larger sharper pieces, squeezing until the edges pressed into my palm.

The sharp edges dug into my palm, breaking the skin.

The pain grounded me, like tree roots holding fast in a storm. A strange sense of calm washed over me, you know, anchored me back in the moment. Thin lines of red welled up around the glass, running down my wrist in rivulets. It was cathartic in a way, this controlled hurt that I had chosen, unlike the ghosts of the pain from my past.

I watched, transfixed, as bead after bead of crimson stained the white porcelain beneath my bleeding hand. It somehow made the horribleness I had experienced feel...processed, somehow, as if the bodily harm could compensate emotionally for what I'd been through. The anguish had to go somewhere, to manifest somehow, and the pain was tangible where feelings were not.

Was this madness, or self-care? All I knew was that it gave me respite, if only briefly, from the storm inside.

The sharp sting was holding me in the present but my thoughts drifted back years, to another painful moment that had brought me a strange comfort. It was during my internship at the local newspaper while pursuing my communications degree in Atlanta. Leo was just a toddler and things with Mark had begun deteriorating rapidly as his temper grew more volatile.

It was a long day spent running around the office, fetching coffee, photocopying endless reams of documents. By the time late afternoon rolled around, I was exhausted and eager to pick up Leo from daycare to collapse at home. But my editor flagged me down, dumping a last-minute assignment in my lap that had to be finished before the evening print deadline.