a shrug as he makes his way down the hallway towards the bathroom.
“Taking a shower?” I ask.
“Yes, Ren. I’m taking a shower. I’ll probably have a shave too. And, I plan on wearing my red boxer-”
“Alright, smart arse,” I grumble, stomping into my bedroom and slamming the door for added effect. I hear his laugh striding away from me and the bathroom door closing behind him.
After a minute or two, I hear the pipes whine, the shower water gush and Mike’s deep voice reverberating behind it all. At first, I think he is singing, but then I realise that he is talking. My ears prick up even higher. He murmurs a few broken sentences and then he goes quiet.
Who the hell is he talking to?
That spark of curiosity is quick to ignite my resting anger. My spine stiffens, my hands clench and my teeth clamp down so hard my jaw aches.
This is total bullshit! Here I am struggling for scraps when he knows everything! Everything about me and the twelve me’s before this one: this one screwed up mess who has had a gut full of suffering from this serious case of past-life dementia.
T he titbits he threw my way used to be enough to satisfy this hunger to know it all yesterday, but now they only accentuate the fact that I’m here starving to death.
Can’t he see that , now, nothing is too tough for me to swallow? That I have become a shameless glutton for punishment? That I am still made up of more thorns than petals?
But he insists that he must keep denying me until I stop denying myself.
What the freakin’ hell does that even mean?
One slurry riddle after another ...
Truths?
Half-truths ?
Untruths?
Now e very time I try and nut it out, the only clear mental image I get is of me standing on the shadowy bank of a mucky, bottomless swamp filled with human bones bobbing on top of the sludge, as my mirror image swathed in light is happily waving to me from the lush green sunlit bank on the other side.
Completely s ick of it all and myself in general, I long for the deliriously happy thirty minutes between being told Mum is alive and sitting down on Aunt Romey’s couch. Then I find myself pining for the hours and days before that tiny window of time, back when those I chose to let into my little world could give me medicine or poison and I would take it with a hopeful heart, swallowing it in one gulp, believing that the agony or relief that came with it would at least be true.
Now m y first reaction is to slap it out of their hands.
A small p art of me understands why my ignorance is keeping me out of the loop, but now, as the loop tightens around my neck, those who vow that they are in this with me leave me blindfolded fumbling around for the knife I know is there, all because of a choice I made when I wasn’t myself.
Why c an’t they see that I am choking on every breath she took before me?
Why can’t they kick the friggin’ knife a little closer?
Then it hits me head on. It’s because they can see I am struggling. It’s because they can see my defiance. It’s because they’re not sure if I’ll use the knife to cut the rope, or cut my wrists.
But, r ope or wrists, I need to be free of where I am, of who I am this day: a terrified, scatty eighteen-year-old girl who is expected to make one mother of a choice that could make all the difference in the world.
A choice that will be made with one step: one step forward to fight or one step backward to flee?
But e ven if I decide to fight for a day or run for eternity, sitting here uselessly bound, gagged and knifeless, I’m completely screwed.
How I can I make them see that I don’t want cut myself free of my choice? That I need the damn knife to make it?
A t the very least, I need it to hack through all of the bullshit to get a glimpse of my truth.
I’m pacing. I’m seething. Mike with his huge arsenal of secrets refuses to give me the one tool I need. Instead, he’s having sneaky bathroom conversations now scheming in French is no longer an
“Taking a shower?” I ask.
“Yes, Ren. I’m taking a shower. I’ll probably have a shave too. And, I plan on wearing my red boxer-”
“Alright, smart arse,” I grumble, stomping into my bedroom and slamming the door for added effect. I hear his laugh striding away from me and the bathroom door closing behind him.
After a minute or two, I hear the pipes whine, the shower water gush and Mike’s deep voice reverberating behind it all. At first, I think he is singing, but then I realise that he is talking. My ears prick up even higher. He murmurs a few broken sentences and then he goes quiet.
Who the hell is he talking to?
That spark of curiosity is quick to ignite my resting anger. My spine stiffens, my hands clench and my teeth clamp down so hard my jaw aches.
This is total bullshit! Here I am struggling for scraps when he knows everything! Everything about me and the twelve me’s before this one: this one screwed up mess who has had a gut full of suffering from this serious case of past-life dementia.
T he titbits he threw my way used to be enough to satisfy this hunger to know it all yesterday, but now they only accentuate the fact that I’m here starving to death.
Can’t he see that , now, nothing is too tough for me to swallow? That I have become a shameless glutton for punishment? That I am still made up of more thorns than petals?
But he insists that he must keep denying me until I stop denying myself.
What the freakin’ hell does that even mean?
One slurry riddle after another ...
Truths?
Half-truths ?
Untruths?
Now e very time I try and nut it out, the only clear mental image I get is of me standing on the shadowy bank of a mucky, bottomless swamp filled with human bones bobbing on top of the sludge, as my mirror image swathed in light is happily waving to me from the lush green sunlit bank on the other side.
Completely s ick of it all and myself in general, I long for the deliriously happy thirty minutes between being told Mum is alive and sitting down on Aunt Romey’s couch. Then I find myself pining for the hours and days before that tiny window of time, back when those I chose to let into my little world could give me medicine or poison and I would take it with a hopeful heart, swallowing it in one gulp, believing that the agony or relief that came with it would at least be true.
Now m y first reaction is to slap it out of their hands.
A small p art of me understands why my ignorance is keeping me out of the loop, but now, as the loop tightens around my neck, those who vow that they are in this with me leave me blindfolded fumbling around for the knife I know is there, all because of a choice I made when I wasn’t myself.
Why c an’t they see that I am choking on every breath she took before me?
Why can’t they kick the friggin’ knife a little closer?
Then it hits me head on. It’s because they can see I am struggling. It’s because they can see my defiance. It’s because they’re not sure if I’ll use the knife to cut the rope, or cut my wrists.
But, r ope or wrists, I need to be free of where I am, of who I am this day: a terrified, scatty eighteen-year-old girl who is expected to make one mother of a choice that could make all the difference in the world.
A choice that will be made with one step: one step forward to fight or one step backward to flee?
But e ven if I decide to fight for a day or run for eternity, sitting here uselessly bound, gagged and knifeless, I’m completely screwed.
How I can I make them see that I don’t want cut myself free of my choice? That I need the damn knife to make it?
A t the very least, I need it to hack through all of the bullshit to get a glimpse of my truth.
I’m pacing. I’m seething. Mike with his huge arsenal of secrets refuses to give me the one tool I need. Instead, he’s having sneaky bathroom conversations now scheming in French is no longer an
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