To the stars beyond the blue || B. Hargrove

five: touches

One night, when I was 6 years old, and I remember that so vividly because it was also the day I lost my first baby tooth, I woke up to my parents fighting. I had never ever heard them fight before, at least not like that. They were yelling, both of them and it terrified me.

I never knew my parents to act like that, hostile and angry. They loved each other so so dearly. My little 6-year-old brain couldn't even begin to understand what was happening.

My dad's eyes were always filled with undeniable love whenever he would look at my mother, never malice, never anger.

So that night I crawled out of bed and I rushed towards the kitchen were they stood, faces red and eyes burning and I started crying. I started bawling my eyes out because I was so scared of this new an unfamiliar situation.

Their fighting stopped and before I knew it, my dad had me wrapped in his arms and mom was brushing my hair away from my tear-stained face. All the wrath that their words had previously held, had vanished and been replaced by the love and care and gentleness I knew so well.

I never found out why they were fighting, or maybe I did but I don't remember, I was 6 years old after all. I do remember something my mom told me though. She said " Sometimes you fight with the people you love because you love them so much and don't want to see them make mistakes. Sometimes you gotta fight with them to keep them safe."

In my slightly more developed brain, I get where she was coming from, I think she was absolutely fucking wrong though.

The Hargrove house is bigger than our small NYC apartment and yet it feels like the walls are closing in on me as I lay in bed and listen to Neil's yells echoing through the house. They're all directed at Susan. I don't hear her yell back. Not even once.

Whatever it is they have, I hope it's not love. If it is, we are all doomed.

This entire situation seems so familiar, it makes my heart ache in places I thought I had forgotten for a long time. Dave is a yeller. He's a plate-thrower. I pray to god my mother knows that what he shows her, is not love.

My mind wanders to Max and to Billy. I wonder if they've ever known it to be any different than this. Maybe, I think, it's better if they haven't. You can't miss a simpler time, a better time, if there's never been one. Right?

Back at home, when the voices got too loud and my heart started to feel too heavy, like a boulder lodged straight into my chest, I would take one of my records, put it on and turn the volume all the way up. Debbie Harry's voice or Kirk Hammett's guitar would help me drown out the fact that my life was crumbling around me with every word Dave would throw at mom.

I can't do that here, it's late at night and I am only accepted here. If they kick me out, what other options do I have? When even your own mother doesn't want you around, it really puts things into perspective and you learn to hold back on impulsive decisions. At least to a certain extend. The really dumb ones.

So I bury my head in the pillow that's not nearly as fluffy and soft as the one I had to leave behind in my own bed, in my apartment, in my home. I bury my head in the pillow and I hum a tun I don't recognize and I will my mind to wander anywhere else but the dull realisation that life is miserable everywhere and love like the movies is a god damn lie

I almost don't hear the tapping or I do but I don't realise it's there until it becomes louder and more urgent and then when I do notice it, I have a small heart attack.

" Open the window " his voice is dulled by the glass but I can just about make out Billy's words as he stares at me from outside, hands stuffed into the pockets of his leather jacket, cigarette dangling from the corner of his lips.