Dinner, as usual, is accompanied by the light talk of my parents and the dull roar of my thoughts. My participation in the conversation is limited to what little can be drawn out by their customary “dinner-table questions.” It’s always the same.
“How was school today, dear?” Mom starts.
“It was all right.”
“Anything new happen?” Dad’s line, like it’s right off of a script.
“No.” Salad crunching, and then I add, “I missed the bus.”
“What? How did you get home?”
“I walked. It’s not too far.”
“Did you at least have a friend to walk with you? It’s safer that way.”
Oh, the irony. “No. I was fine.”
Mom begins some spiel that I’m sure I’ve heard before, so I only half-listen and give the necessary “uh-huh” and “okay” and “sure.” My part in this is so small, I may as well not even be there. Like a promise.
I’ve wondered for a while now what it is that holds promises together. How does simply adding “I promise” to something make something more stationary than any other set of words? But I figured it out. If there’s belief on both sides that the promise will be kept, it’s there. It’s amazing how much is held together by the naïve belief that it has an effect of more than just the wagging of a tongue and lips moving. But what if one side doesn’t believe? Then the security doesn’t apply to that side anymore, and even the other side is in danger of falling through. It’s dead. Colder than Trystain’s warm blue eyes.
A series of knots gathers in my stomach as Mom laughs at another one of Dad’s stupid jokes, and I hear the coward in me grind out, Stop it. This comfortable kindness overwhelms me. It kills me, knowing I’m the only one on the disbelieving end of this promise, the only one standing back from the others absorbed in the snow-globe fantasy. Silently, I scream for them to see the lie behind the upward tilt of my lips, the flames flaring up beneath the cool mask on my face, the insane hatred driving stakes into me from the inside. I scream and thrash so hard I feel like my seams will break and I’ll burst violently from my skin, a spattering of inky tar tearing its way out of a poorly-constructed rag doll. Please, I scream, stop it! Someone, hear me!
“Dear, would you like some more fruit?” Mom asks. I look at her blankly.
“No, thanks.”
As I slowly become conscious that I’m not screaming after all, the tar begins consuming itself. Far away, the sickly-sweet promise cackles at me. And I scream again, in silence.
I’m lying listlessly on my bed spinning cobwebs out of empty air and tangled thoughts when the sun dips beneath the horizon and bleeds fire into the moon-pierced sky. The faint mumble of the television blurs in through my closed door from the other room where Dad is watching football, creating a white noise soundtrack for my spiraling musings. Through my window, a pair of headlights enters, paints a ribbon across my wall, and disappears with the sound of an engine.
I wonder how people will see me when I’m gone. Will I be that mutilated van on the side of the road surrounded by emergency vehicles, stared at solemnly as you pass by? Or maybe like one of those pairs of bright red beams in the caterpillar line of cars making their slow way ahead of you, a distant reminder that you too will eventually be a pair of taillights vanishing over the horizon, followed by but not connected or disconnected from the person behind you; just there. Turning over on top of the covers, I eye the drawer that holds the razor blade and cast a cautious glance at my door. The wheels waver on the road, ready to dodge between traffic cones. With my ears instinctively pricked for footsteps in the hall, I stand up and start towards the bureau drawers.
