Two blinks

“Do you have everything Molly? Your ticket, yes, oh and your passport, where’s your passport, you’ve lost it, haven’t you?”

“It’s right here, Mum.” I pulled the red leather bound booklet out from my jacket pocket, waving it in front of her face, close enough to wipe away the tears that stained her cheeks.

“Alright well, be safe now, call us as soon as you get there okay... make sure the administration knows who you are and check that the dorm is clean and everything-” I wrapped my arms around her, squeezing until her words turned into heavy breaths. “See you at Christmas, darling.”

Dad held his arms across his chest, the collar of his shirt sticking up and out of place. I reached over with one arm, ready for a light embrace. As he pulled me up into his arms my suitcase thudded to the polished airport floor. He lifted me up until my feet hovered. He spun me around like the little girl he still saw me as, the way we used to twirl together at my childhood birthday parties, getting tangled in my pale pink tutus. My friends would stand in the corner, jealous looks painted over their faces.

“You’ll be fine, chick.” Another childhood tradition.

“Kailee...” I ran my hand over my little sister’s face, her eight year old hands clinging onto mine.

“Don’t leave. Who’s gonna braid my hair in the morning?”

I crouched down and gazed into her deep hazel eyes as I spoke. “Mum can do it.” She shook her head with such force; I couldn’t hold back the tears. Strands of her dirty blonde hair stuck to the sweat on my palm as I stroked her. We didn’t say anything, neither of us had the words. As I pulled away, I planted a single kiss on her forehead and ran my finger over her cheeks. My hands absorbed her tears like a memory that I’d never be left without. I looked at her for the last time and blinked twice. In those two blinks, I wanted to let her know that I’d still be there. I’d still be there to help her choose the perfect hairclip to match her outfit and I’d still be there to help her reach the cookie jar when Mum had hidden it out of her reach. I’d still be there for all the friendship struggles and I was just a phone call away for all the boy troubles that were bound to come sooner rather than later. She mirrored my actions, blinking twice to show me that understood.

And, with that, I checked my passport for the last time and got swallowed up by the security scanners. By the time I’d turned around, I couldn’t see them anymore. 

Four minutes and thirty nine seconds

That’s enough. That’s enough time for me to find her. To let my eyes brush over every other person waiting by the conveyor belts, desperation washing over their faces with each passing minute. I find her by the benches, but she isn’t sat in the one empty spot. Her hands are clasped around her book but it isn’t open, she isn’t reading. She is waiting. Her cheeks are rosier than they ever had been and her lips seem lonely. My sprint turns into a wander as I embrace her, resting my nose in her hair. It still smelt like apples.

 ***

That’s enough. That’s enough time for her final words. “Just keep working hard, okay? That’s what will get you places. Make me proud.” That’s enough time for the heart monitor to find one low drone and hum it through for the rest of the night. The machines start to beep and red lights flash, slicing across my face, slicing through my heart. The tears don’t come, not yet. Her pale, wrinkled body drowns in the white sheets. They ask me to stand up while they pull the bed away. I can’t stand up. I can’t move. I can’t leave her; I can’t let the strongest woman I ever knew see me as weak. I can’t walk away from my grandmother.

***

That’s enough. That’s enough time for me to fall in love. I hold him in my arms and I understand that, for the first time, our family will feel whole again. His mouth stays open and his wails echo around the room but the tears never come. He isn’t crying because he’s hungry, or because he needs to be in his new mother’s arms, he’s screaming out to the world, “I’m here”, he’s making himself known, he’s begun the incredible journey of his life and he’s building it up any way he can. And I stroke his forehead, not telling him to be quiet, because I want my brother to know that I will be there – with him. Whenever he needs me. 

Helpless

I watched him beat my brother. Watched his fist sink into his stomach, watched the agony strike across my brother’s face. I heard the yelling, so close, yet so distant somehow. Useless, embarrassment, idiot, words I’d heard being said of my brother too many times. His eyes were bloodshot and blurred, the way a traffic light would look to an intoxicated driver. My father’s face was crimson, his breathing heavy. He clung onto my brother’s shirt and pressed him up against the living room wall, next to the rips and tears in the wallpaper, memories of previous fights. Blood stained the side of the carpet. When people came over, we’d lie and say it was red wine. I was sick of all the lies. Dad kicked back the sofa to get even closer. I sat on the armchair across the room, helpless. My mouth opened and I tried to force the word out. Stop. That’s all it took. But I couldn’t say it. It wouldn’t come.

“Get out of my house! Get out and don’t come back, you hear me?” As he pushed him through the door, my brother’s jacket caught on the side of the mantelpiece. Bad move. A glass vase toppled to the floor, shattering into a hundred tiny pieces, just like my family, just like my heart. My brother turned as if he were about to apologise, but instead he smirked, a mysterious twinkle in his eyes. And, with that, he rounded the corner and thrust open the door. The house shook as he slammed it behind him. His shadow faded from behind the pale beige curtains. He was gone. He didn’t even look back, no sympathetic look, no it’ll be alright. Things were different this time. He didn’t even say goodbye.

“Molly, have you done your homework darling?” Dad stroked my hair with his faded red palm. I could only nod. “Good girl, go study for next week’s test then. We want to make sure you’re first in the class. Make me proud, alright kiddo?” I nodded again.  

Society

You know what's sad? It's sad that the girl everyone is envious of can't even find the words to call herself beautiful. She looks in the mirror and wipes the floor with her sock as the tears drop down. She finds comfort in her bed and wails into the pillow, cursing the blemishes only her eyes are cruel enough to reveal. It's sad that the other girls cry just as hard, wishing more than anything for boys to turn their heads in the street instead of walking straight by. They long for just a glance, a chance to prove their worth. But no one looks past the physical these days.

It's sad that the girl with the brightest smile and the loudest laugh is the girl who has to fight through the worst pain every day when she gets home. She laughs off the idea that she could ever be worthy, remembering the thoughts that fill her mind every night, reminding her she is anything but. You're not good enough. Stop trying.

It's sad that nobody will ever understand. It's sad we can't make a change. 

It's sad that the voices in our heads slowly grow louder and louder until they deafen us with their harsh words. It's sad that the girl who everybody labels as "large" starves herself. She binges on Sunday mornings and carries pounds of guilt on her shoulders for the rest of the week. She knows it's wrong but she is in so deep, it's become out of her control.

It's sad that the boy who gets straight A's and has tried every sport on offer still gets criticised by his very own father the minute he gets home. Work harder, be stronger, do better. There's always something. It's sad that he can never feel good enough for his own family. 

It's sad that the girl with wide rimmed crimson glasses who reads in a corner at recess, who trips on her way to the next class, who can't open her locker and feels too embarrassed to ask anybody for help, it's sad that no one will even give her a second glance. It's sad that her appearance defines her. It's sad that nobody would even think to see past the physical and get to know the real her. Learn about her obsession with musicals and her favourite ice cream flavour. Her quirks and talents. Her dreams.

It's sad that we compare every part of ourselves to somebody else, as if that were a way to define your own success. 

You know what's the saddest part? This is the way society is, this is what our life has become. This is it. 

Goodbye

“Megan, come and meet your new foster parents.”

I crept from behind the doorframe, panic rising within me. It couldn’t be my turn. Not yet. A middle aged couple stood before me. Normal, at first glance. They both had matching smiles plastered onto their faces, just like all the hopeful couples who came by the place in search for a new piece to add to their incomplete collection. Upon closer inspection – with my head lifted just an inch – I examined the man’s rough fingertips: bruised, damaged. A sign of hard work – possible bravery. The woman stood beside him, the violet velvet sleeve of her coat not quite touching his - keeping a distance she felt would be appropriate, close enough to show their united front, to hide the conflict and disagreement that went on behind closed doors. A pang of guilt shot through me like the raindrops striking at the window. I watched the children leaning on the doorframe as if it were all they had – their, our, last form of protection. And it was. Without it, we wouldn’t have a home; we wouldn’t have our own room with a pillow to cry into or toys to punch when the frustration got too much. Without this place, we wouldn’t have each other; we wouldn’t have to roll our eyes over the cracks in the floor when asked about our family. We wouldn’t feel the tension rising inside as the memories flowed back, blurry images of our actual parents. Months ago the screams would echo in my mind as I fought to sleep at night. Being here, things had gotten better.

Tears tore from my eyes as I dragged a single suitcase behind me. All I had to show for seven years of my life. The rest glimmered inside of me like the glazed looks of my eighteen brothers and sisters. Some waved, others hung their heads to the floor, puddles forming below them. I opened my mouth, but the words wouldn’t quite come out.

“I’ll miss you.” 

Change

Stomach tingling, excitement whirled inside of me. His hands felt firm on my waist. Firm, yet safe somehow. Deep hazel eyes glared into mine. They twinkled like the flashes of the spectator’s cameras, all waiting for the perfect shot. I didn’t look at them – couldn’t take my eyes off of his. His lips parted into a crooked smile and I felt my cheeks flush crimson as he held me close. My head fit into his chest and, in that moment, nothing else seemed to matter. I forgot about the looming coursework and jobs applications. I forgot about trying to balance two jobs in a desperate attempt to dig up money to pay the rent. I forgot about the never-ending questions and countless decisions I was forced to make. His familiar scent lingered on my skin long after we’d finished dancing.

***

He still smelt the same, a faint mix of vanilla and autumn leaves. Wrinkles were carved into his face, each telling a different story, a new tale – one I’d never been a part of. His eyes flashed through mine, but they didn’t look at me the way they used too. The longing was gone. He just passed by, cane tapping the ground like his dancing shoes used to all those years ago. A pang struck at my heart. I missed those days. But, I walked on, syncing the tapping of my own walking stick with his. Time changes everything.   

Perspective

(Her)

Damn you thighs. I tried hovering my legs above the ground slightly. Anything to make them look thinner. Anything to stop them from expanding the way they always seemed to, anything to stop the repulsive fat from spilling over onto the bench of the bus stop. As I caught the crimson stain on my faded jeans, I watched it grow bigger before my very eyes, just like the insecurity, the self-consciousness that invaded me every day, strangled my happiness, trapped my freedom. My hand found a rip in the denim, shielding my pale skin from the autumn wind. Countless cars were at a standstill on the road before me – rush hour, all the more pairs of eyes, watching, staring, judging. I made an attempt to flatten out my hair, feeling the harsh knots as my fingers got stuck in the curls. As I stood up to check the time the next bus was coming, I made sure to suck in my stomach as far as it would possibly go. It never went in far enough. Never as far as the other girls. I envied their flat stomachs, their effortless abs. I noticed a boy about my age sitting at the next bench over. Feeling his eyes pore through me, I sat back down again. Cheeks burning, palms dampening, I ignored his gaze, wishing more than anything that he’d stop staring. He didn’t. I could hear the judgemental thoughts spinning around his mind; feel the disbelief in his eyes. I brought my hand to my face, rubbing my eye as if to force back the tears that wanted ever so desperately to dampen my cheeks. My bare eyelashes fluttered - I’d forgotten I wasn’t wearing any makeup. Ashamed, I hung my head, going over every flaw, every slight imperfection, jabbing an agonisingly large hole through my already broken heart.

(Him)

Car honks exploded from drivers that grew more and more frustrated at the lack of movement on the road. I waited for the bus, tapping my foot on the ground to count the seconds that went by. She was the only other person at the bus stop. It was her shoes I saw first – original, quirky. As she stood up, I eyed her full figure. A yawn escaped my mouth and tears blurred my vision. As I blinked them away, I couldn’t help but stare. She was beautiful. The lack of colour in her clothes was such a contrast to her pale face, her fair skin. It dazzled in the late afternoon sunlight. She sat back down and my eyes followed the line of her hips as I imagined the curves underneath the black leather jacket she wore. She looked down as if in discomfort, but I couldn’t tear my eyes away. Not yet. My gaze got lost in her curls, each strand of her chestnut hair hiding a different secret. She looked like a girl who had many secrets, little things locked up inside – things she never told anybody. The lack of makeup on her face was surprising, yet refreshing. She stood out from the girls with carrot-like skin and eyes that were painted so black they looked burnt. She’d stand out anyway. There was a sense of uniqueness about her, something that made me desperate to initiate conversation, but something that trapped the words in my throat at the same time. Eyeing her jeans, I admired the rips and tears – they symbolised adventure, spontaneity. As I watched on, I could feel her trembling. The slight glimmer of a single teardrop forming in her eyes caused mine to find the ground again. She didn’t look at herself with pride. And, for just a brief second, I was overwhelmed with the wish that she could one day see herself the very same way I saw her.