Dirt

29

Knox

I did what I normally do when I was too disturbed to go to school. 

First I chewed my bottom lip, laying on Grace's bed in silence staring up at the sun that stared back down. After I realized I couldn't sit there and wallow or I wouldn't be okay by the time they got home I got up, went straight to the keyboard. I didn't think, I just played whatever my fingers fell into. Whether it was Bach, John Lennon, or an original piece. A lot of it I don't remember even watching my hands. I had to scrunch up my eyes, lock them closed at points, so I could force the notes to appear in my head instead of the turmoil I've put myself into.

Music was always the first turn to. If something was up I would stay after school and play on the baby grand our school had donated. Once the school kicked me out I would go to the Boys and Girls Club to play on the piano they had painted with vibrant colors and handprints. Once that closed I would go to the music store more downtown to riff on acoustic or electric guitars. I did it often enough that all the employees knew not to tell me I had to stop after a certain point until it was time to close. 

I spent so much time in those three places that I practically had an ass print on the benches and fingerprints on the keys or strings. Occasionally Joey, the owner of the music shop, would ask me to apply to work there. Every time my stomach dropped because I wanted to work in the music so bad but had to keep a job with the biggest pay. If I had time I would volunteer at the music shop or Boys and Girls Club in the summer to help with music programs. 

I would stay out as long as possible, playing music to work up the nerve to go home where the only music that played was high laughter, drug deals, and my playlists playing in my ears.

So there I sat amongst Grace's things -that taunted me if I ever looked around- playing and playing the ingrained program from inside my head. I played just about every song I know, even trying to put into pieces of a song I haven't listened to for a bit. Some of it was frustrating. It took everything in my not to bang my fists on the keyboard. Instead, the blows went to my thighs, bruises forming right away. The rest of the time was a paradise in my head. Music bouncing off the walls of the room, ticking in my head.

Once my fingers began to hurt too bad to keep going without a break I put on sweatpants, tennis shoes, Tim's old winter jacket, and a hat I found in hallways closet. I put my earbuds in and ran around blocks, trying not to slip or get lost. 

I've always lived down far enough that I had a couple of centimeters of snow every couple of years. So it was relatively terrifying trying to run on the good fluffy inches of snow that had fallen overnight. I felt like I was watching my feet every two seconds to make sure I didn't slip or something. 

It was a very good distract. Exercise always is. It was something I could do late at night or bond with my friends over. Music and physical activity stirred you just enough to be tired and sleep well at night. I even learned you don't need a jacket that big in the snow, the heat builds you up until you're part of your own sauna. But once I began to lose feeling in my toes and fingers I had to find a way back to the house.

Once inside I ate a pop tart I had in my bedside table and began the debate whether to go into Grace's room again or not. The minute I got into the house everything came back like I didn't just spend twenty minutes running around like I had my head cut off. 

Before I could decide I hear the front door open all my thoughts start to throb in my chest. My harsh words this morning play on a broken loop, the music taunting with horror. My body is stiff like cement, the pop tart wrapper still in my hands, still leaving crumbs on my wrinkled bed.