how to make a mixtape :: mgc (fin.)

41. rest & christmas

For once, I'm alone. It's a strange thing to be surrounded by nothing other than your bedroom, the picture frames stripped down into your suitcase, and your wardrobe empty. I'm not used to being left alone anymore -- it's always someone nearby, making sure I'm okay, making sure I'm not having a break down. It's foreign, and I test the waters between myself and the world by pressing my toes against every small piece of visible carpet there is, seeing as my clothes are gathered around across the floor. My suitcase is a plump and heavy blue thing, with too many pockets and too little space for everything. I look through my window, behind the broken shutters, and watch the sun drown under the horizon. It's nearly nine o'clock, and nobody's home, other than Michael waiting in the kitchen for me. 

It's Christmas Eve, and one of the saddest ones I've had. Last Christmas Eve, Alejandro and I had a Christmas tree perched in the centre of our living room, despite it blocking the TV and replacing our coffee table until after the twenty fifth. We stayed up until midnight and watched films and called Mama and Papa when it was definitely midnight in Colombia. I was sixteen. We couldn't afford any hot chocolate, so we mixed some chocolate spread with milk and heated it up. It tasted disgusting, but we had a good time. I wipe a tear away from my cheek and look back down at the shirt I'm folding, throwing it down into the suitcase. I have to hurry up, Michael said that he wants us to leave by nine, and it's eight fifty-five. He told me not to rush, but I owe him to at least be punctual.

Picking up one of my jeans, I cradle it in my hands, the denim scratching my fingers. I slip my finger into the waistband, reaching my arm into the leg to pull it the right way around. I tug my hand through, and my ring catches onto a lose thread of the stitching. I bite my lip. I don't want to mess up these jeans, they're my only pair. I try and pull my hand out, but the thread keeps it in place. I sniff, looking up at the ceiling. Nothing's going in a way that's working with me. My friends overlooked me for money. They wanted the best for themselves, they didn't care who they had to push under the bus. Why is it always me? From the beginning, when the girls at school would take pictures with me because it made them look prettier -- I was the least attractive girl in class. When the boys in high school would put their hands up my skirt to make their girlfriends jealous, and I let them because I was sure nobody else liked me. When that teacher I had when I was fourteen told me to see him after class, and offered to stitch up a loose button on the bust of my shirt. I let him, because I didn't want to seem rude, and he threatened he'd tell my mother I came to school with improper uniform if I didn't oblige. He held my waist with his hand, and slipped his palm onto the curve of my behind.

Tears prick my eyes, now, and a flame races up to my chest as I tear my wrist away from the leg of my jeans. An ugly rip shreds past, and I collapse onto my naked bed, my hands over my face, and laborious, broken sobs spilled out of me. I can't take it. I'm a disgusting little girl who can't do anything right. I hate myself, I hate myself, I hate myself.

I hear a knock on my open bedroom door and purse my lips, lowering my hands and looking up. Michael stands, his shoulder pressed to the door frame, and a tray with a plate of spaghetti and a mug of something perched side by side. His red flannel is buttoned down a little, and he sighs when he sees the water in my eyes.

"Can I come in?" he asks, and I nod, sitting a bit back on the mattress and crossing my legs. He sits on the bed in front of me, picking up the mug and resting the rim below my bottom lip for me to drink. "Careful, it might be a bit hot."

I tilt the mug up with my fingers at the base of it, and taste the Té-A flooding my tongue. I haven't had it in so long, it's a relief to feel it warming me up once again. He takes the mug away from my mouth, and leans in to kiss my, now rather hot, lips. I don't resist, and keep my hand knotted in the hem of my shirt.