Sara Part 2

The doorbell rang. She pretended it didn’t. It rang again. And again. She stopped the music and removed her headphones. She clicked ‘save’ and closed her laptop, setting it down on the hardwood floor beside the pile of test prep books. It was 3 and the nurse was here. That means it’s been two weeks. It was windy outside and the leaves were rustling in the waves and whistled through the slits as she opened the door. It was cold. It smelled of rust as autumn does sometimes. She shuts it out but the coldness and rustling sneak in somehow. It always does in this house. She looks down and notices a drop of red on her right little toe. She smudges it with her finger leaving an orangish brown behind. It oozes red again within a few seconds but she isn’t paying attention anymore.

The nurse nods and goes up the stairs. She peaks little English. The girl followed.

She watched the nurse do the dance with the syringe and alcohol and blue tourniquet around her mother’s limp wrinkly wrist. The tourniquet wrinkles it even more. Blood always comes out somehow though it seems she should be drained dry by now. It’s darker each time. This time almost black.

The nurse packed up and nodded again, then showed herself out leaving just the girl behind. The front door slams shut in the wind leaving it with only the slits to tease.

She tucked her mother’s limp wrist back under the white sheets. The nurse always left her wrists vulnerable as though to make it more ready for the next time.

The crusted lips gasped and the girl jumped back, startled. She immediately reached for the gauze on the nightstand and dabbed fervently at the yellow glaze drizzling out. It clung to the gauze and her fingertips. She gagged, nauseated. You’d think she’d be used to this sort of thing by now.

She tossed the gauze into the basket of other gauzes like it – rusty. She breathed deeply and composed herself again beside the bed. No breaths from either of them. She was waiting for her mother. She finally breathed on her own out of desperation, but her eyes remained stuck on the horizon of the white mound’s chest. It was a game they played, seeing who would give in first.

She waited more. Breathed again. That’s twice now that her mother had won. She bent closer, held even more still. No touching, just watching. Those were the rules. Nothing. It got hot and her nose began to glisten with sweat. Her cheeks slightly flushed, her right eye tearing slightly but not giving in, her hands clenched at her sides, avoiding the white.

Nothing.

She swallowed and broke the rules, angry that her mother had cheated. She tugged the rim of the sheets to see if she would respond, which she sometimes did, sometimes not.

Nothing.

Her fingers crawled up the sheet and found the limp wrist and squeezed. It was between lukewarm and drafty like the whole damn house. She froze again bending even closer to watch the horizon. If she blinked, she could miss her chance to finally catch her.

Nothing.

An indefinite amount of time had passed. She tried to appear as though she had forgotten about the breathing, convinced that she could do such a silly thing and just disappear already. But then her eyes got foggy and sour, her nose moist and clammy. Finally she threw herself away from the mound and let out something between a scream and a grunt. Her face seethed from anger. Her mother wins again.

She backed away slowly, careful not to step on any objects or make any noise. Her eyes darted all around the mound, as though trying to pounce on any flicker. She panicked, perhaps because she was alone with a dead body or because she realized now she couldn’t win the games anymore. She reached for the gauze and picked up one, then another, until she held the one with the freshest bronzeness. She glared at it fiercely wanting justice. Her eyes traced the outline of the body before her, as though looking for when was the last breath that came and went so cavalierly, just like its owner.

Her toes curled into the hardwood floor, oozing bright red on the right. She had lost. She always loses to her mother. She is always the one left to drag her bare skin over rocks chasing after this creature that pranced unabashedly in the wind. She is the one with scars. So many scars. So many but none this time or ever now. She gasped.

She looked down at her pale wrists, unmarked and virgin. She never hated them more. They were so whole, so pure, so put together, just like her white binder with color-coded subject and sub-subject dividers. She was disgusted by the irony of her being. Suddenly in that moment she realized why the scars were necessary and appropriate. They were the only places the ugliness could get out – and there was so much of it swarming inside.

She snaked her finger and thumb around her wrist and squeezed until her hand became cold and tingly. It was up to her now to make the scars. She trembled. She breathed to gather up courage, knowing she needed to commemorate the occasion with a special scar. She took a few steps toward the desk and opened the drawer. Her movements were slow and precise. She picked up the razor blade she had routinely thought about but never used. She knew its exact place in the drawer and pictured it against her skin so many times, but it still felt so foreign. It was cold. Her fingers were colder. She touched the blade with her fingertip to test the sharpness and was satisfied.

She approached the bed and bent down to place her wrist on the mound. She wanted her to see and be proud. She chose a particularly perfect looking part of her wrist that had to go and placed the blade tip on it. She pressed, and her skin dimpled. It was thicker and tougher than she thought. She pressed harder, and harder, her heart racing faster and faster.

Then finally, it burst. It was warm and generous. It flowed freely and naturally, tracing the curve of her forearm, moistening the sheet, and sinking into the fabric. She had never seen anything so beautiful. Her face melted into a slight smile. She was relieved to be released once again, this time all on her own.

Reconstructing Sara

This is what it’s like to be afraid of the dark. I’m huddled, scooting along the floor towards one corner, then along the side of the bed, but then I realize the corners are no better. They are just as hot. Then I just stay somewhere in the middle of the room, as close to the ground as possible without surrendering my mobility, keeping my feet below me, because at least down here the sound of his voice was not as loud. I feel my weight pressing harder against the floor squeezing out the blood from the edges of my feet, making them pale. I am desperate to fuse into the ground – my only way out. But the boundaries of my skin are too strong and I stay in the room, with Him.

He stands up and takes a few steps towards the door. Although I wasn’t looking, I knew what his coordinates were. He was hot like that. I felt relief with every step he took away and intensifying desperation with every step towards me. My heart pounds with the hope that this might be the end, that he might finally walk out of the room so I could be left to tend to my wounds. But then he turns around, I dig my nails into my knees in preparation – my painted nails that made me a whore - and as though out of nowhere the familiar whip cuts through my fortress of air and cracks against my raw trembling back.

The cracking sound is the worst part. It always surprises me to hear it so soon – and then the bite sinks in, followed by the deepening with the sting. I wouldn’t look at it. It would break me. I imagined that it was pristine, pale and perfect still, although I couldn’t deny the few strokes that stayed. I was reminded of them, however, only when they were crossed again. Pain is funny like that. I imagined that they were the delicate branches of bamboo in the painting. No, I couldn’t look. I had to believe my skin fortress was still intact. It was my last stand.

Silence follows. After an indefinitely long period of time, I breathe a shallow breath and finally pluck my nails from my knees to see the marks they left behind – my relaxed state. I breathe again deeper. My back stings back. So now I know my limits and I obey.

I thought about what was happening: his anger, his love taunting me, my pitiful body, my desire for his approval, his want for my everything that I didn’t know how to give. Then it really started to hurt. My chest collapsed with my heart in it and I squeezed, pushing out a few drops of tears from one eye but not the other – the only little pieces of myself that I could get out because I had nothing else. I took a deep breath and squeezed again. Nothing this time. Nothing left.

I dig my nails into my knees again, back into the small ditches where they belong, and I press harder and harder, feeling the pain pierce into me. I feel my body tremble with life – what little there is of it, it is still there. As though by natural instinct, because it kicks in in times like these, I begin rocking slightly, in the rhythm of infancy that makes the world feel like a dream – the first step to falling asleep.

My brother and mother standing in their own corners, stared at the ground, occasionally glancing over at me – their naked creature-sister-daughter-thing. They stopped pleading a while ago when they realized the more they spoke, the harder he hit. They stood aside though and between us was a moat they couldn’t pass, because this time he chose me.

In the spaces between the slashes my mind wandered into the darkness, into the things I could do besides digging my nails into my knees. The options were of another world, I knew, and I stood at the open door. I imagined what it would be like to strangle, to cut, to burn, to amputate. I imagined seeing shadows I couldn’t touch or feeling bugs crawl that I couldn’t see. I imagined hearing voices alone in the dark that I couldn’t prove were there. The world was tempting and he was pushing me in. I clung to the edge because part of me knew it was bad somehow, but part of me believed it was where I belonged from the start. This is insanity. This is Hell. I could fall indefinitely into it. It would swallow me whole and not notice any change in its hunger. No! I don’t want it! It wouldn’t give back. At least He reacts. Hell doesn’t.

I suddenly shut It out and return to my floor, my nails, my strokes of bamboo, and I am relieved. But I know It awaits. It will always be there calling. My chest collapses again but this time it is from anger. All this time I believed it was my weakness, my degenerate little mind, my pathetic yearning heart that led me to the abyss in love and challenges, but no, I was wrong. He was the one pushing me down this path – so many times that I’ve started to walk it myself. It was too familiar, too beaten from my own footsteps, through a forest that most do not entertain entering. He will continue to push me again and again because he doesn’t realize how close I am to jumping in. Or maybe he does and believes I deserve it. Maybe I do deserve it. Maybe I’ll jump.

I collapse again at that thought. It was a self-hit. And I savored the agony it brought me. I believe I am dry now because nothing is coming out anymore. I am paralyzed. There is nothing else to do when I am dry but to stay very still. There is no purpose in any movement now. There is no more reaction to my actions from anyone, including myself.

This is it: My naked body, sitting in a small smeared pool of sweat-tears-blood-fluid. My floor. The window. My bed. My brother and mother so still like furniture. And Him. I wasn’t sure if he had been yelling earlier. I had let sounds pass me by for a while now, because there was no point in listening when I was dry. He could hit me again but I no longer felt the urge to dig my nails into my knees. I was spent.

This completes the cycle. I’ll build up again, and we’ll talk and laugh, then he’ll snap, and I’ll fight just briefly, then I’ll huddle and squeeze and tear, I’ll peer into the abyss, contemplate jumping, then get scared and turn back, then I’ll be dry again and everything will stop. And the cycle starts again. He could hit me again but he didn’t. I don’t know when he left the room. It didn’t matter.

I breathe. I hold my head a little higher. I breathe a little deeper. It stings.

And then the other kind of tears was released – these were cool, refreshing, and flowed freely without squeeze, like the mountain stream. These were the tears of the artists, the musicians, the eccentric thinkers, the persistently misunderstood, I am certain. They blurred my view of the bed frame and the sheets that draped over the edge. They were me returning, and they were beautiful.

Love Story

Life has gotten complicated for this little girl. The city is bigger and badder than she had imagined. It has always been complicated way before this moment, but now it is official. Her story has gotten difficult to tell in a passing conversation and the bullet points are no longer self-explanatory. So when the music plays now, she sits in a bed of scattered post-it notes and moves them all around and around her – until the ink is smeared by the teardrops that won’t stop coming. What is to become of the powerpoint presentation on the meaning of her life now? Poor little girl.

She remembers back when the story made sense and the way she sang it to everyone who came around. She sang it proudly like it was the only thing she knew – so what does she know now? Too many years had fallen too quickly and not enough time to decide where they ought to go.

She is used to seeing things fall apart. When they do, they almost never come back together. She glues things together for a living, and just before she sets them free she turns her back and walks away, because otherwise she knows she won’t let go. She holds her breath and waits for the sound of her heart breaking.

Her silly story has fallen apart. It was silly but true. It will be tough to find anything true now, silly or not. So she found him.

Nothing was ever too difficult for this boy. He won nearly every heart he tried on. That's why he couldn’t have her. So he spends his years unplaying the plays he spent so long contriving, to make her believe in the him that has been there all along. He was once just a sappy love song too, he really was, just like she believes she is, although neither of them are really that anymore. Love isn’t really like that anymore, nor was it ever.

He doesn’t regret what he’s been, although he knows he’s made mistakes. He’s never been one to wade in the guilt of things, because what’s the success in that? He knows where he’s going now, that’s all that matters. He’s going right into her heart.

He is one who won’t ever fall apart. He doesn’t quite know what that means so he’s not afraid. And at the end of the day when she is again in pieces, he picks them up one by one and tucks them in to sleep.

NYC

For the length of time I've lived in this city I've written remarkably little about it. I have paid attention to it though, a glance and a pause here and there. I suppose I hadn't cared to say much about it because I knew that this was just the beginning. Too early to jump to any conclusions, particularly if I knew I would stay long enough to realize how foolish they are.

But knowing I could completely change my mind about these things, I'm going to stumble forth anyway and make my statement about this city, if only to document for the future just how hasty and foolish I've been at this very moment. After all, who's to say I will only become wiser over time.

People in this city are the most unaware as I have encountered. They are the most skilled at pretending they are alone. Whether there is just one other person on the subway car or 500, they carry the same blank expression or perform the same rhythmic nod to the beats of whatever music streaming into their heads directly from their headphones. They have become experts at being alone: when to look down, when to stare, how to scratch their sideburns or do their makeup - even when they're not.

People in this city are the most aware as I have encountered. They know who to keep a distance from, who has the more expensive jeans, who's carrying a 100$ bill, who doesn't belong here - all this while doing their makeup on the subway. Most of all, they know who they are: white, black, Dominican, grunge, hipster, Jewish, rich, poor. And they know where they're going, it's either up, down, crosstown, or out. Don't know where you're going? Then get out of the way.

This is a city that knows it has made mistakes and knows it will make them again. Hell, it knows it's in the process of making a huge mistake this very second and yet carries forth unalarmed. You won't find many tears of remorse or cries of guilt around here - of course it feels such things, but there's so many things to feel and so little time.

This is a city that pretends many things but never pretends to be perfect. Flaws! it screams. That's what makes me me, that's what makes me New York City, the apple of the world's eye!

This is a city full of big dreams - dreams that dream about being bigger than all other dreams around. It is the epitome or perhaps abomination of what our forefathers envisioned when they first dared utter the words 'the pursuit of happiness.' Could they have imagined 18,696 restaurants, 13,237 taxis, or over 250 feature films produced every year in one city? So much happiness pursued annually, it might be too much to attain.

This is a city that forgives the most unforgivable sins and forgets the most unforgettable victories. No matter how atrocious your history, they've heard worse. No matter how moving your accomplishment, they've heard better. 'Don't you worry, honey,' they say, 'you're just like any other one of us now!'

This is a city in which the tracks of the train have been worn flat by protest and rebellion and life has finally become the field in which one can travel infinite directions from any given point. Nothing here will keep you confined to paths laid out for you. You can go anywhere from anywhere. But the question is, where are you going to go?

Where am I going? Who am I to be? When am I alone? Which mistakes will I forgive? Which won't I forget? What will I pretend? What will I dream? What can I attain? What the hell am I doing here?

This is a city that asks me the questions. For this, I'll be sticking around.

Mastermind

It was around 3am again. Funny, it was about the same time of night last time when the transport system was down, and I found myself taking the familiar walk over the glass-covered bridge to the lab with bags of blood samples in hand. On the bridge I get the best view I could ask for in the hospital: a straight shot down Fort Washington Avenue, for at least 10 blocks south, and I can imagine the rest of Manhattan asleep further down. Below me runs the street itself with a few gypsy cabs still parked, no longer as eagerly searching for customers.

I stared at my reflection in the glass as I walked across the bridge and noticed again my tired, stooped posture and immediately pulled back my shoulders as I always do. Then suddenly, without thinking anything in particular, I felt a familiar swelling of tension in my chest, then my throat, then finally my eyes pushing out the tears that had been resting comfortably for some time now in the bed of my sinuses. Now what is it this time? Self-pity that I had no rest tonight? Anger that I can't be understood? Sympathy for my poor patients? Disappointment that I remained selfish in such dire times? Inspiration from my mentors to become better? I had no idea...I probably could have fixated on any of the above and picked any one out from the slide-show of faces and images that ran through my head like in that corny yet annoyingly tear-jerking life insurance commercial. So for one of the first times I could decisively remember, I completely dismissed my emotions and said 'get over yourself!' I wiped my tears, dropped off my blood samples, and went back to ordering Tylenol and Ambien.

When I was younger, I believed my emotions told the future...ie. that massive crush I had on Bobby in third grade in my enchanted mind could only have meant that we were destined to be married and live happily ever after. Needless to say I learned quickly that maybe only the REALLY strong feelings ought to be used to make decisions, a rule which worked well, until recently when I saw that even that strategy could turn out badly, or even worse, the feelings themselves could simply change - too late for decisions to be undone, too soon for them to be forgiven.

So here I am at a buffet of emotions and intuitions, dazzled and perplexed by which ones I will ingest and make part of my history, fearing both that I will be poisoned by the next one I choose, and that I will bypass the elixir that leads to true happiness - a happiness that of course is itself somewhere on the buffet table amongst the forest of distractions. I have become 'that girl' who 'doesn't know what she wants' - so cliche and nauseating. Bleh.

In retrospect I've attempted to advise plenty of girls (and boys) as the one described, and I've always said, 'just try something damn it!' like it was so easy to fuck with one's life like that. But I suppose I could be much further in life at this point if I weren't so scared of fucking up, or beat myself up so much for it - as though I, unlike other poor unsuspecting folks, was somehow wise enough to know the difference between truth and a really good-looking lie.

So maybe it's time that I just try something, time to let myself be played again by the great illusions in this world, not as though I ever had a chance of escaping that in the first place. I guess what I mean is to feel like that's OK, to be satisfied in living a human life in which I will stumble and fall and make a total fool of myself every so often - not just in small ways, but in big ways, and even in way huge ways as well. (Perhaps at this point those of you reading are thinking, 'shit. she's going to shave her head.' Rest assured, I have no plans for that one.) It's just life, and my only life - why waste it on perfection?