spoken word. (gxg)

nineteen.

nineteen.

I tried to nap, but nightmares clouded my dreams. This nightmare, in particular, was recurring, sprouting from a childhood memory, and plagued my nights often.

In it, my mother's arms wrapped around me, warm, her face pleasant. Then the blood dripped down her face and her arms and onto me and her face would screw up cruelly, a sneer painting her bloodied lips.

Then the screaming would begin.

But today, the familiar face of my mother was replaced with June's. Her warmth around me, her lips on the top of my head, her fiery hair. But when I felt the first drop of blood trickle down me, she morphed, body changing into the faceless shape of the man who assaulted me. This time, the scream was my own.

After my sort-of-nap, the reality of my slashed tires was setting in, and my body was hit with fatigue. I had things to do— I knew I did, but instead of focusing on them I was lounging restlessly and trying to block reality out of my mind.

It was a habit I had developed young, when my mother's piercing words and bruising touch was too much to bear and I needed something, anything to distract myself.

I felt terrible. My breath was shallow and my body was doing the thing where I was probably hungry or thirsty but it was so numb it wouldn't tell me. I hadn't had breakfast or lunch, but I didn't want to get up to eat anything. Nor did I have the motivation, the pain in my stomach, to do so. I rubbed my face into my worn pillow, sighing heavily.

Curled into a fetal position on my thin futon, sheets still unwashed because laundry was too expensive, my car in a shop and draining the little savings I had, my cheeks stained with tears I didn't feel like wiping away because I was just too tired, I thought of June.

Her sort-of smile, which made the corners of her eyes crinkle as she looked down at me. Always down at me, because she was so tall, except when we were on the couch or floor together giggling about some dumb comment I'd inevitably make about a book. The way her fingers hesitated whenever they neared me, stilling cautiously as if I were a small animal, frightened at any sudden movement. The way she smelled so good, of vanilla, whenever I was near her.

I never understood why couples swapped hoodies before I met June. Right now, my hair greasy and eyes hooded and rimmed with red, it would have been really nice to have something of June's to breathe in.

I tended to spiral--one bad thing would happen and knock me out of orbit, down the path of self-pity and memories. The man who assaulted me, the tires of my car, all of them relayed to me that my attacker knew where I lived, which was freaky.

"You're an idiot," I told myself, "you've faced way worse than this before." And I had. I needed to gather the strength I had, take responsibility for what happened to me.

It wouldn't be the first time I had done so. Three years ago, curled up on the ground clutching the arm that my mother had crippled with a heavy shoe, listening to cursing and screaming as she called me the worst thing that had ever happened to her, I had wished, prayed to a God I didn't believe in for it to all go away. And when it didn't, my trembling legs stood themselves up and walked away.

I made it this far-- a penniless student who lived door-to-door until I found, thankfully, an apartment willing to split the rent for a shockingly low value. I met Jack a little over a year ago through an online forum. Because the apartment was so small, with a kitchen and community bathroom and no laundry rooms to speak of, he was struggling to find anyone who would split the cost with him. I was desperate, so I snatched up his offer almost immediately.