3 years ago
3 notes

Eye Sockets

all that mattered

were her burning eye sockets,

because they were the only things

that were so real

that she couldn’t will them away. 

so she did her homework

so she laughed real hard

so she washed her clothes

so she slept in her bed,

and she made bad jokes

and she made a few more

and everyone around her laughed

and everyone around her smiled

and she smiled back

and laughed at her own joke,

but all she could think of

were those two holes in her skull

searing the flesh around them

and swallowing her whole. 

Laundry Room Chat

I popped myself up onto the dryer and dangled my feet off the side of it, kicking the metal surface with my heels. The thumping from my heels made a nice steady beat as the dryer underneath me made my laughter jump with vibrations. The constant warmth from the machine burned my exposed thighs.

Sam sat across from me on the countertop of my laundry room. He played with a pair of my purple tights that had been ripped at the toe; he stretched and pulled at the fabric. The air was light and comforting for him.

I carried on conversation with ease, my voice quivering with delight.

“It’s not like it would be easy,” I qualified my previous suggestion.

“I’m just saying there has got to be a better way,” Sam laughed.

I held between my fingers a silver washer, flipping it back and forth. The tips of my fingers smelt of rusty iron. It did not bother me much. 

“If I was going to be dramatic I would probably do it.”

I slid the washer’s rounded edge across the skin of my wrist. It tingled.

When I had tried talking to my other friend about this, she didn’t even humor me. She pushed me to believe that I was wrong and irrational. I had gone home nauseous and light-headed.

I liked Sam. Sam understood.

“Pills never work. You’ll throw them all back up,” Sam said matter-of-factly, “or worse, you could get your stomach pumped.”

“Guns are too messy.”

“Where would you even get one?” 

“Razors hurt.”

I questioned, “Carbon monoxide?”

Ah, there was an idea. No pain. It took time; you might chicken out.

“Maybe,” Sam smirked.

We sat in silence, the dryer purring. There was a consistent sliding and scraping from inside the machine, as the buttons on my jeans were dragged through the cycle one more time.

My laughter had long since evaporated and there was no trace of Sam’s smile.

“I just want to stop hurting, Sam,” I shrugged.

Sam looked up at me; he stopped twisting the tights. I looked down at the red marks on my skin from the silver washer.

The air seemed light and comforting. 

***My other AGS piece that I wrote for my Flash Fiction class.***

3 years ago
4 notes


I watched the fan above me without much feeling. The blades would blur, then define themselves, and blur again. There was a consistency and a reliability there that I just found absolutely fascinating. I always knew that one way or another, the brown and dusty blades would blur into one quick moving circle. It comforted me.

The tears were caked onto my cheeks. The air from the fan caught onto the dried substance and chilled my skin. Their salty residue formed a thin layer down my face.

I picked up my phone again. The light burned my eyes.

No missed calls.

With a wince, I removed the plastic bag full of ice from my calf, which was propped onto my coffee table. The numbness that had stuck to my skin now thawed and glowed with a dull pain. The ice crackled and filled up the silence. The bruise underneath the frozen therapy flared and settled; a much deeper and richer color than last time.

I fingered the bruise. I put pressure onto the brilliant purple one finger at a time. A small pinch of pain bit at my skin when I pressed with my middle finger. I pulled back and a vivid white discoloration had stained my skin where my finger had been. The purple quickly consumed it again.

I bit at my lip in reflection. My friends had stopped calling to check on me. They knew how deep I was. I’m already in it, waist deep. I’ll just keep sinking. I love him too much. I’ll tell myself he didn’t mean to. They must have thought, “What was the use? What was the point?” I didn’t really have an answer for them, but it frustrated and angered me all the same.

Molly, my most trusted worry-wart, would preach, “There are hotlines, Heather. Do you know how common this is?”

I had called the hotline, Molly. I had tried the shelter.

I closed my eyes and remembered that dull sense of being as I dialed that number Molly had given me. Maybe it will help. I knew in my gut though, it wasn’t really my choice. The fine lady on the other line was chipper; Happy. She politely informed me that teens were not accepted at their facility. I wasn’t qualified to seek treatment or care unless I was an adult, married, or pregnant. What a pity. I thanked her for her time, a weak laugh in my throat.

They did not care for me. I’m an addition to their problems. My cries only were added to the footnotes of a complicated definition.

I am not married. I am not pregnant. I am not a well-known statistic.

My mommy. She’s the one they want. But she is far too brave to call them. She is far too strong to fall to her knees. Conditioned and well-versed, she rose above it. Of course, there were days when she would stay in her room. I have those days too. There were days when she would simply cry. I do that too. We are like two peas in a pod, my mother and I. I always did see a bit of my father’s glint in my boyfriend’s eye. It was clearly meant to be.

I love my mommy. I am just her blood. Her blood is the one-in-eight.

One-in-eight girls, just like me.

One-in-eight, watching their bruises, faded and worn.

One third of use beaten by force.

Another forth beaten with words.

I laughed because I knew that my internal chatter would do me no good. I’m stuck, just like my mommy, and just like her mommy. Even if I escape, I’ll escape down a ladder into another rusted cage. I’ll carry my blackened chains with dignity.

I sometimes have days when I ask, what the hell did that one-in-eight do? What the fuck did we do so wrong?

I sat back in my chair, knowing no answer. I watched the blades blur.

***I wrote this for my social justice paper at AGS. I decided to post it. I’m not exactly in love with it by any means, I just felt the need to not hide it away.****