reminiscence
Reminiscence
Clutching her father's hand, she skips through the parking lot, weaving in and out around the shopping cart and occasionally tripping into it. Bags of frozen fish shimmer under the Texas heat, condensing even on the walk from the car to the truck. The sun obliterates any chance of looking into the sky, so most days, she and her sister race their shadows on the concrete.
Today though, she thinks of death, specifically people who kill themselves. The thought puzzles her, so she asks her dad, who knows everything.
"Daddy, why do people kill themselves? It doesn't make any sense to me."
He tilted his chin up in that way he had when he was thinking about one of her questions. She liked it because she knew he was taking it seriously.
"You know how you get sick sometimes?" he finally said, glancing back down at her.
"Mhm?"
"Well, it's the same way. Sometimes people's brains get sick, and they don't like themselves and don't want to live anymore."
Her mouth drops open. "How do people not like themselves?"
"Well, it's that, or sometimes they just give up on things in life around them and they can't find a reason to keep going."
She looks up at him again, and he's staring into the distance with his superhuman sun-resistant eyes.
"Like that makes even less sense. There's people out there who don't like themselves?"
He nods. "It happens with a lot of girls when they get a little older than you. They decide they don't like the way they look or their clothes or their makeup. They don't like their body or things like that."
She shakes her head. "I'm never going to be like that," she says.
"Good for you," her dad replies.
"Like I could never! I'm never going to not like who I am or want to do any of that. Who could do that?"
She holds onto the thought a moment longer, turning it over under the blinding light before tucking it away for the future. In the moment, it's a novel concept, one that surprises and shocks her in equal measure.
In the future, the woman she will become waits for her with a heavy heart and broken mind. Hate and pride spill out like blood from gashing wounds in heart and soul. Dark rooms feel most comfortable and loneliness familiar. Bright light stings, and she cries under blankets so heavy they obscure her completely.
Coming home, she collapses into the stairs and lays there until someone calls. Sometimes, no one calls.
At night, she climbs the remainder in dread, making her way to the mirror at the back of her bathroom and studies her reflection, clawing at her face, at her skin, at this body she's been forced into.
Her childhood promise holds true - she could never kill herself. She loves herself too much.
But hate and fear? She's no stranger to them either.
The carpet is the easiest place to hide, so she lays there for an hour and a half, doing nothing, feeling nothing, thinking everything.
This memory has come to her a lot recently, a reminder of the childhood home she can never return to, the purity, the innocence, the peace she once had.
How novel a concept now, that someone could feel so perfectly at home in their own person.
Safe. Protected. Loved.
Today though, she thinks of death, specifically people who kill themselves. The thought puzzles her, so she asks her dad, who knows everything.
"Daddy, why do people kill themselves? It doesn't make any sense to me."
He tilted his chin up in that way he had when he was thinking about one of her questions. She liked it because she knew he was taking it seriously.
"You know how you get sick sometimes?" he finally said, glancing back down at her.
"Mhm?"
"Well, it's the same way. Sometimes people's brains get sick, and they don't like themselves and don't want to live anymore."
Her mouth drops open. "How do people not like themselves?"
"Well, it's that, or sometimes they just give up on things in life around them and they can't find a reason to keep going."
She looks up at him again, and he's staring into the distance with his superhuman sun-resistant eyes.
"Like that makes even less sense. There's people out there who don't like themselves?"
He nods. "It happens with a lot of girls when they get a little older than you. They decide they don't like the way they look or their clothes or their makeup. They don't like their body or things like that."
She shakes her head. "I'm never going to be like that," she says.
"Good for you," her dad replies.
"Like I could never! I'm never going to not like who I am or want to do any of that. Who could do that?"
She holds onto the thought a moment longer, turning it over under the blinding light before tucking it away for the future. In the moment, it's a novel concept, one that surprises and shocks her in equal measure.
In the future, the woman she will become waits for her with a heavy heart and broken mind. Hate and pride spill out like blood from gashing wounds in heart and soul. Dark rooms feel most comfortable and loneliness familiar. Bright light stings, and she cries under blankets so heavy they obscure her completely.
Coming home, she collapses into the stairs and lays there until someone calls. Sometimes, no one calls.
At night, she climbs the remainder in dread, making her way to the mirror at the back of her bathroom and studies her reflection, clawing at her face, at her skin, at this body she's been forced into.
Her childhood promise holds true - she could never kill herself. She loves herself too much.
But hate and fear? She's no stranger to them either.
The carpet is the easiest place to hide, so she lays there for an hour and a half, doing nothing, feeling nothing, thinking everything.
This memory has come to her a lot recently, a reminder of the childhood home she can never return to, the purity, the innocence, the peace she once had.
How novel a concept now, that someone could feel so perfectly at home in their own person.
Safe. Protected. Loved.
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