Page 25 of Fight or Flight

I stumble into the bathroom and open the medicine cabinet above the sink. My shaking hands browse through the shelves and manage to knock down half of the objects. Making my father’s stinky bottle of cologne shatter on the tiled floor. The quick, sharp pain barely registers in my frantic mind when a flying piece of glass embeds itself in my exposed ankle. I’m on a mission. On a mission to run, run, run. Run from here and never come back.

Seeing that there’s nothing that can help me ease the pain in there, I switch to browsing through the small drawer under the sink and pause when I catch sight of my dad’s razor.

Grabbing the small plastic handle, I eye the three blades aligned in the small frame and then close the still-open cabinet to face the mirror.

My face looks unfamiliar like it’s somebody else staring at me through the reflection. An impostor taking over my body and fooling me into believing that I could have a happily ever after. That a person is able to accept me as I am, be truthful, and shower me with love.

I’ve been an unwanted fruit of a broken relationship between a mentally ill nineteen-year-old girl and a simple-minded trucker who married her on the whim while riding through Vegas one time. Did I really stand a chance in life? A life full of disappointment, abandonment, and death. How could I assume that there’s someone out there who will be above that and take me away on the wings of love?

It never ends, does it?

It will only end when you take matters into your own hands.

How long did my brain play tricks on me? Was it after I stopped taking my meds for some time? Making myself vulnerable for the illusions to wiggle their way in.

Was anything that Aidan said true? Or did he see this pathetic creature that I am and decided to toy with the broken girl? Torture her with promises of a life together.

And what about Jenny? Where was she when I was being used and manipulated? Why did she leave me here alone, vulnerable, free for bad people to prey on me?

Maybe she was relieved when she could finally leave me behind. Maybe she was playing, too.

The sad truth is I have no way of knowing for sure what is real to anyone, and it’s the most crushing feeling in the world. Why can’t I be the master of my own feelings and my own truths?

“I need to know that whatever happens, you’ll be all right. I need to know I still have you somewhere in the world. Safe and sound. Can you promise me that? No matter what?”

Well, it turns out some promises are meant to be broken; isn’t that the truth, Miss Wallace? You weren’t here. You left me to fend for myself. You left me to search for love elsewhere.

Fuck Aidan. And fuck Jenny. And fuck my pathetic excuse of a father. He’s a goddamn disappointment, too.

I’m done fighting. I’m done struggling to make sense of everything that’s around and of what’s my brain trying to conjure up all the time. I know it’s time to flee.

Still holding on to the razor, I lower myself into the empty bathtub and slowly, not to cut my fingertips, break apart the little instrument to extract one sharp blade. They’re small, but I know if I press hard enough, they will help me escape.

My brain is veiled with a heavy fog of despair, and I honestly don’t even register the pain at the first deep cut. As I switch to the other hand, I can already see the crimson stream covering my sleeves in a rapid tempo, and I smile.

There will be peace and lightness as soon as I break away from this treacherous body.

I’m trying to move to my other wrist to do the same, but the razor slips from my bloody fingertips, landing between my thighs. I stare at it and concentrate on my slowing heartbeat. My quiet intakes of breath.

My vision gets blurry with white spots, and I feel lightheaded, so I give in to the cold, numb feeling flooding me, making me feel as if I were submerged in cold, clear water.

A series of images enters my mind, playing as if in slow motion, yet passing so fast it all blurs into one.

My grandfather rocking me on his bony knee in our small wooden house back in Alaska. Him preparing me breakfast consisting of scrambled eggs and freshly baked bread every morning. His gentle smiles whenever I said something childishly funny or learned something new. Then, his last glance at me playing in the garden as he was chopping wood before he fell to his knees, his hand squeezing his chest.

My mom was crying in the corner and walking around as if she were a ghost long before she passed. The little, insincere smiles she gifted me with whenever I was trying so hard to make her laugh. I wanted to be her sunshine and bring her joy, so I pretended to be cheerful even when I was really sad. And she pretended that it took her pain away. I remember her purple toes, bent unnaturally, swinging back and forth, her body hanging from the beam under the ceiling.

“I’m coming, Mom,” I whisper, and see her smiling face. She appears in front of me, looking just as she was on her good days. The free way, she danced in the garden in her simple floral dress. Her hands reach toward me, inviting me to join her.

I was never angry with her decision to leave this world because, I guess, on some fundamental level, I always understood what needs to happen to people like us. What do we need to do to end the suffering.

I grab onto her soft palms, the touch filling me with warmth. The relief I feel is immediate, but then I notice someone else behind her. Someone who doesn’t have the right to interfere in this happy moment. I see Aidan looking down at me, his face disappointed. His mouth moves rapidly, but I don’t understand the words he’s saying. His sad eyes draw me in, and I lose sight of my mother. Then I feel the last painful tug on my heart before my eyelids close.

“Oh, my God, Claire!” I hear a bang from a distance, and then...

Silence.

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