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cankerous laughter fills the room with the static quality, fake and hollow as it always was. it's both the only sound you can hear and so far away from you, foreign and forgotten to a mind that's running like a nightmare.
this is a nightmare, isn't it? but it's also your greatest dream, the wish that sat at the back of your tongue for every forgotten birthday wish. you wanted this, didn't you? then why are you crying so hard?
you let go. the knife handle stands erect, like a flag jammed into new lands. you don’t think soil bleeds like this, shouted like that, but what do you know, you’re just some stupid whore. you have one use. you can’t cook, you can’t clean, you don’t know as many words as you should, your handwriting is sloppy as best, you can’t fight back. your best asset is having a hole to fill, two if you could just hold back your gag reflex. otherwise, you’re just a worthless kid.
your skin is sticky with splattered red, drying tacky to your already stained shirt and bruised arms. you faintly taste iron, it just makes you gag again, heave up nothing but bile that burns your throat. you can’t stop shaking, thin limbs shivering inward, trying to shrink away from what you’ve done. you lean forward, matted hair falling and haloing your face as you look at what you’ve done.
there’s blood on his mouth, it stopped gurgling minutes ago. he’s still wearing his shades, and you don’t wanna know if his eyes are open. the white of his shirt has become like burgundy tie-dye, uneven red. you remember bernard wore a tie-dye shirt once, said he made it at school. said he would show you how to make one if you wanted, could make one for you.
you yank the knife out with all the meek strength you have and stab again. and again. and again. you can feel the buzz of sound in your teeth, but if they’re screams or whispers you can’t tell. your eyes burn, wet streaks washing off lines of blood from scarred cheeks. sometimes you hit something hard, so you just keep going. sometimes you hit something hard, and it breaks under the blade. it sounds like bottles thrown against the wall, against your brothers head when he tried to yank grubby hands off your waist. you only stop when you’re shaking too hard to pull it back out again, strength and anger and grief all escaping your eyes.
you have no idea how long you’ve been sitting there, knees aching against hard wooden, watching his body cool as you sobbed yourself dry of everything, letting yourself be wrung out by emotions you’ve hardly considered. everything’s always been so hazy, out of touch, rarely could a memory feel like more than a fuzzy dream you may’ve had. you have no idea if this moment will become another weird dream. you hope it does.
you stand up, legs like a newborn deer. you look down at him a moment. he always felt so colossal, like a statue you couldn’t escape the shadow of, a permanent structure to always be under. seeing him, laid out, limp and cold, vomit stained shirt colored red with a kitchen knife. you staggered over and coughed more bile on the couch.
you needed out. the lock to the outside finally broke, key hidden in a kitchen drawer and just sharp enough to penetrate with enough tiny force behind the plunge. the cold of the knob felt like ice under your hand, skin sticking to the metal from sweaty nerves and proof of escape. turning it takes almost as much energy as pulling back your arm to swing it in, like freedom is scarier than the body behind you. it could be, you’ve known it less than hands on your legs. but outside smells so much better.
it’s cold and dark. chill wind bites at your exposed legs, feet trying to jump away from cold pavement beneath. it seeps into hot cheeks and numb fingers, like a pat awake. you’re not sure how much you like being awake, but turning back inside feels like diving under to drown.
you walk a ghost. the door remains open, you don’t care about strangers or witnesses. you see your breath in the air. it would be a novelty were you better dressed. never have been.
you don’t know how you do it. old directions play in your mind, round cheeked gps pointing you, relaying which landmarks to turn at. you know none of them, and you don’t care to learn right now. instead, you let the grass tickle your soles, walking your body from alongside it like a dog. you like dogs. you remember reading a book once, full of dog breeds. saint bernards always looked nice. big nice fluffy dogs, you probably barely weigh more than one. you like the name bernard. it meant safety to you. protection.
you’re standing in front of a door. the house looks nice, but you have no reference aside from peeling paint and broken fences. you press the doorbell. you don't think to let go, so you let the noise ring one long hum as you stand there.
the door opens. you're not sure how long it took. there he is. he looks terrified, shocked little blue eyes flittering about the blood soaking you through. you hadn’t even considered that he may turn you away before he pulls you in, babbling out words that become fuzz to your ears. when did they start ringing? you’re not sure.
he drags you to a bathroom. it’s nice, clean. he’s rubbing your face with a rag, it’s wet and warm against cold skin. the fuzz of words ends when you lean into it, see the conflict in his eyes when you look into them, the blush in his cheeks and the worry in his eyes. you can finally hear again.
“lisa, what happened?”
you smile.
“i’m free.”