Cardboard Mountains

Mark- To Nothingness Do Sink

Memory is such a fragile thing. Do I remember the abuse or did I make it up? Do I remember the pain of being slammed into every available surface or do I know I have been told it occured and I made my own ''memories'' of it? Do I remember you or did I invent you?

The things I can clearly remember are the things that often mean nothing at all. Bus rides in the morning, listening to All Time Low, daydreaming about escape. The cold, the bitter cold of a moonless, starless night that remains too cold to snow.

I remember the wallpaper in your room. I remember the pattern of burns in his couch. I remember how the nights smelled that summer.

Is man just a compilation of memory? A walking scrapbook?

Waking in a hostile house is never luxurious. In fact, it's like coming from a hot bath into an arctic night, the sun having not shone in many days, the temperature cold enough to freeze your hair on contact. At first, it's agony. As you get more used to the cold, though, you begin to get numb to it, enjoy it even.

That is how I live my life. Waking to turquoise walls and terror seeping through the door cracks like the cold. My name is Mark, I'm 16 years old, and my greatest wish to die soon.

From filth I rise and begin just one more day. The sun peaks over the Sapphire Mountains and I wonder if anyone will ever bask in the sunrise like I do or if anyone will ever see my morning salute and smile. I doubt it but hope is like the colours of the sunrise after a storm, pushing me to try for just one more day.

Finding something to wear is seldom a challenge, seeing as none of it's clean anyway. I dress quickly, threading my headphone wire under my shirt to keep it from freezing, again. I yank my boots on and sprint out of the house, dashing like the hounds of hell itself are on my heels. They say not to run while you're binding, but I need the practice. I let myself get comfortable, feel safe even. I got careless and I know that someday soon someone will catch me slipping.

I slow as I reach the bus stop knowing I have plenty of time before it comes trudging down the cutoff. I stand by the power pole and let the sun burn off some of my tension. The weather is well below freezing, but in the light of the newly risen sun it feels like the cold could never happen. I wish life had a newly risen sun on a winter morning for the rest of my life. I'll take moments of happiness where I can get it, though. As the bus rumbles closer, I thank the sun, the mountains, and the trees.

On the bus, I make my way to the back, taking the very last full seat and begin my bus ride playlist. As Panic! At The Disco croons about the love between the moon and sun, I let myself imagine a way out of the screaming, the insults, the assaults. I imagine a world where someone sees the bruises, the tear stains,  the flinches and does something.

Today's daydream is about moving away to college and meeting people who don't know what my mother says about me, don't avoid me for being transgender, and don't care that I don't have a family of my own. I let myself see friendly faces, people calling me my name and not cringing. Basically, I let myself imagine my whole life is a GSA meeting. And Blessed Earth, what a soothing balm to my aching soul! I let myself imagine being loved, respected, and known until the road becomes a washboard, signaling that the highschool is right down the block.

I collect my thoughts, using the cottonwood trees to ground myself in reality. Just another day in paradise. I turn down my music and disembark, thanking the bus driver as I do. I keep my head down and follow the walkway, past the steps to nowhere and into the commons. I listen to the grunts and squeaks of some sports team practicing in the gym as I turn, taking a detour through the senior hallway, hoping to get a glimpse of Markus. As usual, I'm here before him. I shrug and continue up the two flights of stairs, sparing a quick thanks to the ghostly moon as I see it in the stairwell window.