Blacks, Grays & Blues

2: Bearability

2: Bearability 

"I just pray that you will
love me and trust me
Laugh with me and cry with me
Spend those silent times with me
Love me evermore"

Shortly, I recall what happened, but I easily sedate myself to stop thinking about it. I quickly rise off his chest, bring my leg around to one side, and allow gravity to slide me down the rest of the way without pause. His head drops towards me and his eyes abruptly fly open. I almost flinch, not expecting him to wake so suddenly.

"Come home right after and don't talk to anyone," his quiet voice comes out. It helps so much. It's a rush. High. Instructions. Better yet, the instructions I know and have followed for years.

With a curt nod, I turn to leave. But he says, "Come here." And I do. I draw closer to him. The memory flickers vividly like a flame in the background. While it flickers in and out, he touches my bare stomach with just his fingertips so softly that it's almost worse than him heavy-hammering me deep in the gut 'till I wanna puke but can't even bare to move. Right now, I wish he would do that instead of this fragile advance. Knots form in my stomach.

His hand snakes around my waist then pulls me against the bed. Then he looks up at me with these eyes. They're terrible. Frightening. They shake with uncertainty. He has the control, he has to have it. I can't stand to look at his eyes like that. They can't be.

He lets go, finally. And I pick up my clothes in the room and leave for the laundry room. It is Monday. The worst day of the week according to many side-conversations I overhear. All the same for me though: go to school, avoid people, go home, avoid dad. There's something innately painful about having to restart that process, but I don't fare any better on weekends. Except yesterday when our routine was broken. 

My boxers I toss in the hamper, and my backpack I lug over my shoulders. Out the door and down to the dark, quiet bus stop, quivering like a rod. For warmth, I vigorously rub my hands up and down my arms over and over. My teeth begin chattering to remind me that I'm cold. It's rather helpful. All I wish is that I had a jacket or that the bus could come sooner.

The old, yellow machine turns up after ten minutes or so, I can't tell. It feels forever in the cold. Once the driver stops, I lower my arms and speed up the steps. I choose to sit three seats back, pressing myself against the window to watch blue override the black sky.

🌌

Second class of the day. I pull the strap of my book-bag over my other shoulder and walk quickly to my next class. I try to get there as fast as I can and settle in with five minutes to spare.

Ring!!!

Those last students, the same two girls and one boy, just barely make it in on time. The teacher scolds them, "My class begins at 9:30 every day. You have a warning bell." And the one brunette girl gives the same excuse she always does:

"People can't walk, swear'da god."

Mrs. Ferret shifts her focus, dismissing the issue, and tries to start her lesson. She doesn't really dwell on things, I've noticed. Still, the group tries to carry on a conversation about how the teacher 'plays too much'. I roll my eyes at that. More voices chip in, the usual ones who always—somehow, someway—manage to have something to say about any and everything. It quickly becomes a riot and she can't control it.

"Settle down everyone," her tiny voice speaks, "settle! down . . ." she wavers. Her expression is tight and panicked—eyes wide; blue discs quivering in a white sea.