Mess You Made

56.

Miguel.

"Breathe Miguel—"

"Breathe."

My body bows forwards. My hands tremble as I clutch onto my knees. I need to throw up. The darkness of the car dizzies me and each breath I'm inhaling sounds wrong. I'm suddenly and all at once being undone at the seams of myself in the worst way. In front of them.

I'm still and stuck in the back corner seat of my brother's car. I'm willing my mind to stay present— I'm trying, desperately. Nothing's working. None of it's working anymore. I can feel the threads of myself falling like ribbons around my body. I can't catch the ribbons, can't untangle them, nothing is of my own volition or within my control.

"Hey."

Everest's voice is panicking. Scared almost, reaching back from the front seat to curl an arm around my shoulder as best he can.

It's all wrong. I'm all wrong. The threads of myself are being unwound.

I feel blood all over my body.

I feel it all over my hands. Every inch of my skin. Everywhere— there is so much blood stuck to my skin suddenly that I want to start clawing at my flesh like a madman. Scratch at my skin. Tear at my clothes. Get the ghosts off my skin, somehow stop letting them touch me but the only one who traces them off my skin isn't here— she's not with me, she's in danger or pain. My body bows forward again in an excruciation that I can't bear.

You killed her. You killed your own mother and you'll be the death of her too— the death of everyone.

I hunch over my knees and squeeze my eyes shut, willing the voice to quieten. Fuck, it won't stop. Nothing's stopping it.

"Fuck, we need to pull over—"

No.

Malibu.

I shake my head desperately, "Keep driving—"

"Miguel—"

"Keep driving." I beg, loud, pained.

I need a minute. I usually just need a minute for the strings holding my mind together to not snap. I know this is different, I know there is something distinct to how I am breaking— but a minute, surely I just need a fucking minute.

I squeeze my eyes shut so tight it viscerally hurts. I try to push it out of my head. I will the blood on the floor, and the wallpaper, the smell of it, I will her dying body out of my mind and tell myself— I'll come back to it later. I'll punish myself with the thought of what I did to mama— I promise I'll think about it later if I can just be free of it for a moment. 

Luca drives recklessly though I can't hear the rough engine. I drag my bleary gaze up through the window once we're nearer to East Harlem. I pray that somebody has her. That if it isn't me, if I don't make in time— I'll pray to whatever god there is and whoever may listen to please just shelter her. Bestow mercy on the only peace I've ever had. Please just shelter her in your arms for once.

Malibu.

"You aren't meant for it anyways."

I had stared. Stared at her, stared through her. I was young— I can't remember how old. I stared at Maya and then down to the pointe shoes cut up on the floor. Pointe shoes worn and battered and beautiful from overuse. There was no urgency to pick them up as I stood quietly in the doorway.