Bully

 “Why do you bully?”

She’d been taught to stare like that. She’d copied another school counsellor’s stone like gaze, the ruler-measured line of her lips. I stared back at her in the same way. She was a statue – almost. Aside from our breaths, mine faster than hers; she moved her fingers, nails drumming against the table Slowly, as if the sounds were different and each needed to be heard. My mother did that.

She’d do it right before she opened her mouth. It was an introduction, a way of leading me into the insults, softening my fall. She’d feel my body tense, my skin harden. Idiot, liar, good for nothing. She’d pace around the kitchen and drum her nails on the knives as if they were rose petals. Her pupils were bullets and I was not immortal. Her yells pierced my ears – they never became familiar. Worthless, pointless. They hurt. They stung like injections at a doctor’s office, when the needle doesn’t hurt as much as the nurse’s lies. My mother’s shouts wouldn’t crack glass, but shatter it until the pieces resembled nothing other than disappointment – what I’d become to her. I regret you.

I hear snippets of her in my voice. The insults I hand out are mirror reflections of her, likes replaying tapes of my evenings.

“Well?” The counsellor’s robotic voice became a melody, more comforting than any I’d ever known.

“It’s the only thing I know how to do.”

Anyway

She was the type of girl who stacked her pancakes higher than her plate would allow. As she coated them in a thick layer of syrup, the tower would topple and she would laugh. Her laugh sent shivers through my body. She was the type of girl whose eyes twinkled as she flipped the pages of her favourite paperback. My hoodie drowned her body as she pushed her glasses up to the top of her nose. She couldn’t hide her giggles as she knew I was watching her. I couldn’t stop. She was the type of girl who woke up in the middle of the night and went down to the kitchen. Her footsteps were wind chimes on the stairs. When I woke up in the morning, remains of chocolate would lick the bottom of the mug and the marshmallows would dot the marble counter. She was the type of girl whose cheeks turned the colour of her lips when I whispered “I love you.” She was blind to her own beauty, when it was all I could see. She was the type of girl who painted the sunset, her eyes shimmering in front of the canvas, like the ocean under the evening light. She wouldn’t show me the paintings, hiding them away. She didn’t know I looked at them later. My breath caught in my throat without her, and I’d forget to breathe when I was with her. She was the type of girl you couldn’t argue with. You’d watch her face fall and feel your heart tear away from your body. “You’re right, I’m sorry,” I’d say every time. She was the type of girl who cried when she left. Even her tears were crystals. Her eyes wouldn’t meet mine, her breaths drowning my begs. Men don’t cry, my father’s words rung in my ears. I ignored them. I held out my arms but I could no longer reach her. She told me it was over, she was that type of girl. I loved her anyway. 

Empty

“I’m so sorry about what happened.”

“You poor thing, I’m always here to talk if you need.”

“If there’s anything you need give me a call.”

Meaningless words flooded the room as if to fill the space, as if to colour in the hole that grew in the pit of my stomach. They weren’t really sorry. That was just what they said – what everyone said, what they had to say. Were they sorry for the black dress that hung like a cloak from my slouched shoulders? Or were they worry for the lack of tissues because I’d use them to wipe my tears? They asked me to talk, to give them a call if I ever needed anything. But would they be able to give me the one thing, the only thing, I needed? Would they bring him back? Would they even listen to my guilt-filled words, my cracked sentences and my deep breaths in an attempt to keep everything locked inside of me? The sorrow, the anger, the constant wishing that I could rewind that night. Would they listen to the whole story or tune out at the parts I needed to say the most? Would they believe me when I told them it was my fault? Would they comfort me or convince me that the truth wasn’t really true? I needed their words even less than they needed mine. They knew nothing. They didn’t know that I’d been the one to suggest late night smoothies. That was me. Would I tell them? The street was busy, too busy. Would I tell them that I’d been sitting in the back seat? I didn’t see the car. Neither did he. He didn’t swerve. He didn’t even scream. Would I tell them about the hospital and the lingering scent of coffee on every corner? I’d start telling them what it felt like to explain, to explain what we were doing, to explain why. I’d wanted blueberry and apple flavour that night. The thought did nothing but sicken me now.

They would hear, but they wouldn’t listen. Not really, not the way I needed them to. Their words meant nothing. Their apologies shot right through me. Just like the car shot through my father. 

Stop

Stop. Don’t look at her hair, don’t watch the way the curls bounce over the back of her black striped t-shirt. Walk away. See that girl over there? Don’t look at the curves of her body. Stop. Run your hands over your own hips and see yourself for what you really are. Worthy. Her legs might not touch, but yours do. That’s okay. It’s okay to have acne scars over your face and it’s okay to find a stretch mark or two on the sides of your body. I promise. Listen to me, you matter. Show people your perks. Stop and show everyone your rosy cheeks and the way your face flushes whenever you get a compliment. Listen to the compliments. Show people your favourite songs and the way that they tickle your body with goose bumps at 1am. The freckles that decorate your face as soon as the sun kisses your skin. Stop, don't look at her. Admire yourself. You're worth that. Show people your hobbies, your talents, your favourite words and the way they roll off your tongue. Show people what really matters. And, one more thing – smile. Open up that mouth and take pride in your white teeth. Show people the way they gleam. Smile, it makes the envy, and the embarrassment, disappear. Make it all disappear. 

Role reversal

“... oh and I picked you up a magazine, it’s over there somewhere.”

The bag crinkled as I reached inside, my fingers sliding over the jam jars and plastic wrappers. The magazine was this week’s edition, the latest of all things celebrity related, the rumours that are made up without a second’s thought and the pictures that required hour’s worth of stalking to snap.

She stood tall and proud, hand on the line of her hip, fingers pressed against the silver sequins that someone had taken the time to sew into her dress. I ran my palm down the silk of the page, outlining the curves of her figure. The dress was short enough to reveal the length of her legs, thighs touching down to her knees. Her golden tan glistened. I flipped the page and the palm trees waved to me, ocean water sparkling like her eyes. A full body picture lit up the page. I had to blink before I understood that the stretch marks that wove their way up her stomach and legs were real. I couldn’t even see her ribcage through her body. Countless pictures filled the sheets, women with hips that curved outwards like a wine glass, smiles that hinted at the idea of a double chin, stomachs that flaunted rolls.

I threw the magazine to the side and eyed my reflection with a blurred vision. I pressed my feet together until they were numb, but the gap between my thighs was still there. I ran my hands down the sides of my body, waiting for a curve that would never come. "There's nothing to grab onto," the boys would say. I shook my arms and expected them to jiggle. They didn’t. I searched for stretch marks but all I could see were the tears that stained my cheeks.

Why couldn’t I look like them? Why couldn’t I be like the girls in the magazines?

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.