Chapter 7 - Reach Out

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Two melatonin pills and five hours later, I feel two powerful hands shake me away from the void.

"Kingsley," a voice calls out, a familiar voice.

I make my way through the fuzz of sleep, and squint my eyes open at last. The sound of the sheets shifting over my leaden legs is too loud. The late-setting summer sun is still in the sky, and its weakened rays peak through my blinds.

"Kingsley, wake up. Now."

My mom stands to my left on the ladder. It takes me a while to notice the anguished look on her face: her jaw is locked tightly, her eyes are bright and cold.

I rub my eyes. She glances quickly at the ground, and then looks at me worriedly:

"Can't you just sleep on the bottom bunk? You know how I hate climbing up," she says, gripping the ladder so tightly her knuckles are white, even under the golden tint of her skin.
"Climb back down mom," I rasp, sitting up, "I'm sorry."

She looks away and sighs, shaking her head. It makes part of my chest cave inwards. Carefully climbing down, my mother mutters "It's time for dinner. Dumplings are ready."

Dinner does not sound good right now. My constantly uneasy stomach almost shrinks in reluctance at the idea of digestion. But even stuck with no appetite, I need to eat. If not to survive, then for my mom. Indeed, I'm sure the worry on her face isn't just about the height of her climb.

"What's dad having?" I ask, yawning the words out almost incomprehensibly. But my mom understands, from the harsh sigh that leaves her lips as she finally reaches the floor: "I don't know Kingsley, he just has what he wants, okay?"

I look at her in the eyes and nod, then and jump down after her.

She tosses her shoulder-length, ebony hair. It occurs to me that this is the first time I've seen her since yesterday's fiasco. I begin to feel guilty for leaving her alone with dad for supper last night. Although it's not like I see her often. She's always at work, and I'm always... somewhere else. But still, it matters.

She sighs, smiling sadly at me. Whenever I look at her, I see a woman with a lion heart. A woman who's powerful, even in tears or in loss of control. Sometimes I wonder if things hadn't gone so awry, if she could have taught me to be like her. To have her eyes, sharp as knifes, yet big and good. To steal her hands, generous and calloused, with a powerful touch, that can calm me in even my storms.

Those hands have held me countless night, and lifted me up. Sometimes they tore me down. But they always built me back better. They raised me and taught me. But here, where I am, they can't reach me anymore.

But that's your fault, says the voice. That's your fault for wandering too far. And now you can't turn back. You can only go ahead.

She sits on the bottom bunk, and for a short while she stares at it. I can never tell what she's thinking, though her thin brows arch together, and her fist closes tightly around the mint sheets.

"We should get you a normal bed," she says lowly, shaking her head.
"We should," I answer, though I disagree, "but do we ever?"

It's not a question. We know the answer. And I can't bear to see her like this, so helpless. Her, the woman in charge. With absolutely no idea what to do, with not a clue how she got so lost. It makes me lost; without those hands to still me, because they themselves are shaking.

"Why don't we?" she says, her features harsh. Almost accusing.

The answer floats above my tongue: For the same reason I don't sleep on the bottom bunk.
But I take a deep breath, and exhale it out. And with it, any mention of Maya.

She stares at me defiantly. Yes, if she can make me the speechless one, then she can feel alright. And I'd rather it be this way than have her feel uncomfortable.

She stares me down, and I feel small. I feel like I could snap, shatter under that hard, fiery gaze. And I don't know what to do with my hands, so I cross them behind my back like a child. I don't want to fight her. I've never had the strength to win.
After she feels it's been silent for long enough, she stands, clearing her throat.

"Come on, sweetheart. Let's go eat."

The hand she offers me feels wrong, like a glove that I fail to fill. She opens the door and walks me forward like a soldier, swinging my arm and checking my pace. We march into the hall, down the stairs like a knife cutting through air. Down into the target, into battle. And though I imitate her well, though I can keep up, I feel the exhaustion deep in the bones of me.

And when we get to the bottom of the stairs, it hits me like a wall. It pins me down and slows me, while my mom lets go of my hand. She speed-walks forwards, leaving me suspended there, frozen and slow.

I'm so tired.

The kitchen is too large, too small. I can't fit. In my chair, even as I sit on it; I don't fit. In the air my breath takes too much space.
I contaminate, I consume. I destroy too much, I am too small.

Everything from the space in between my chopsticks to the tall jug of water, from the inedible food in my plate to the tense small talk. I can't fit.

And yet, I do. Because I have to.

My mom and dad play their parts. He laughs at his own self-indulgent jokes, and she scolds him for his indiscretion. And I decide to play the part too. To chew, to swallow. To nod and smile. If only because I won't be doing this for much longer. If only because this is one of the last times.

It makes me see them differently. It makes me see right through their acts to their cores.
I see the fight mom doesn't stop putting up. She won't sink. She never will. She's strong, and generous, and kind to only me.
I see dad and his ease, his comfortableness in his food, his house, his life; payed off by his wife... I see his discomfort at the loss of his pride. I see how he treats mom and how she belittles him back. And the lines of what is whose fault blur. Until they disappear, tangled like strings into the mess.

My tongue is like a heavy rock in my mouth. It's other than me. It doesn't taste or speak. It only weighs down, as I listen, searching in our trio. Rummaging through our dinner table, waiting for something to jump up at me and give me reason to stay for longer than I plan to.

But nothing reaches out.

Dear mom,

I know that this is going to be hard for you, and I'm sorry. I didn't mean to leave you all alone. I just couldn't cope anymore, and I hope you understand. Even though I know you won't, even if you'll try.
I'm sorry for all the confusion this will cause, and for the mess I've made. Really, that wasn't my intention.
I've tried to tell you many times how I feel, and you never really understood, so I won't try again. I don't want you to understand, anyway. I never want you to understand what this feels like. Just know that I tried, that I didn't have a choice, and that I'm sorry.
Give away my clothes and my books, I trust you know what charities are best. Please don't blame yourself, because there's nothing anyone could have done. I'm happy now.
Thank you for loving me, and I'm sorry I couldn't do anything with it.
-Your daughter, Kingsley

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