My rugged, over used black doctor marten boots and filthy, hole filled, brown and white canvas book bag are the things that I find to rest my eyes on in the belly of the metal dragon. A piece of the city; many fear it, but others embrace and take advantage of it's presence. I tilt my head back hoping to maybe find something to wonder about, fiddling aimlessly with my small silver studs; a bad habit I had picked up that occurred when I was nervous, embarrassed or avoiding something. All I find is a stranger across the car with a face than I'd like to hold in my hands and a body- in my arms. God, he was handsome, with his electric blue eyes and the all too cliché, “Tall, dark and handsome” thing down to a tee. He never even looked up from his book, and for that I was grateful; there’s nothing weirder than some stranger staring at you. I smile foolishly at my thoughts, at the prospect that for maybe even a second he'd even consider talking to me, if he'd seen me too sitting across the train car this winter afternoon.
I am broken beyond repair and the thought that someone could love me was one that had been long forsaken. My own parents didn't even love me. Ha. Someone else loving me? That thought was peculiar and funny and sad all at the same time. I only had myself to depend on and that was the way I found it easiest to get along in this world. It brought a small, sad smile to my full lips as I fought back the rising fear in my heart, my eyebrows knitting together. I hated going home to my parents. I pulled my sleeves up over my palms covering the spider web of cuts and scars on my thin wrists, they were my little secret. I wrapped my arms around my body and began to rub my shoulders; not for warmth but in a weak attempt to brush the fear in my body, off. I smiled thinly at the stupidity of the thought. I, Ciara Lee was a nobody who would never be anybody except 'that weird girl' and the object of torment and maybe the one who would not even be remembered just as you would forget that man who never learned to say excuse me at 8 O'clock in the morning.
I sighed, feeling a familiar way; out of place, listening to the lighthearted small talk of the subways inhabitants, in contrast to my inner thoughts. And not a friend in the world to tell them to, my mind mocked me. You should be afraid, it said. No one loves you anyway.
"I know", I agreed muttering the words to myself, feeling alone in the crowded car. "I have no one but myself."
I turned my head to stare into the dark windows in the crowded subway car. My kinky, long black hair was pulled nonchalantly into a ponytail; or what was supposed to resemble one. My full lips were forced into a crooked frown and my button nose slightly wrinkled at the sight. My caramel skin looked flawless and clear in the cool glass. My hazel eyes were lackluster, taking in the familiarity of the face looking back but not fully recognizing or knowing who it was supposed to be. I studied the reflection a second more, taking in the bizarre reality it resembled and that which I inhabited, though I'm not sure it was as bizarre as much as it was frightening and sad. The train screeched to a halt sending passengers off balance and my nerves on edge. Squeezing my eyes shut, I took a deep breath in hopes of recovering the emotion that emulated serenity that had inhabited my body just seconds before.
I stared at the open train doors a second more, before walking through them with all the strength I could muster. I would not be afraid is what I wanted to tell myself, maybe whisper the words to myself a few times until I believed them but I knew how silly it all sounded without the need to hear the words said aloud. Swallowing the large lump in my throat, I walked up the cement stairs, staring at the bright yellow painting on their frayed edges. City erosion, I think. I absent mindedly continue up the steps, not realizing until it is too late that there are no more steps and that I shouldn't be pushing this much body weight onto one leg and that I'm about to fall in the middle of a subway station.
My hands slap hard on the ground causing the sound to ricochet and citizens to look on at me with either distaste, alarm, nonchalance or humor present on their faces. Nobody cared enough, however, to try and help me up. I scraped myself, and whatever was left of my pride up off of the ground, brushing at whatever I believed to be on the filthy cement floor. I stood and started walking through the open doors to the bustling streets; like my own personal gateway to hell. I began counting my steps to try and clear some of the fear in my heart.
1,2,1,2,1,2. I close my eyes and halt my steps, my breathing hitched. There in front of me is the large rusty door to my nightmares. I figure that my mother is watching me from the window and is going to be blowing smoke in my face at any second. I wrap my arms tight around my middle as the creaky door squeaks open. I look into the wild, red , insanity filled eyes of my mother.
"Get your ass inside this house before I kill you," I hear her spit smugly in between puffs of what must be her umpteenth cigarette for the day. "You little bitch," I hear her raspy laughter echo off of the walls in the long hallway.
"Oh, she's back again," I hear my father question in the background as if he hadn't been expected me back home in while. "Tell her to get her ass in here, Mary!" I hear him yell. His voice sounds sloppy and slurred and I could tell they were both drunk. It was evident in the way she stood leaning on the door frame for support but still managed to sway back and forth. I move up the steps quickly- not daring to look my mother in the eye. As I pass her, I feel her eyes boring into my skull and smell the cigarette smoke and booze on her rancid breath. I hear the door thud shut behind me and the locks click shut. I'm trapped.
Welcome home.
