Battle Cries and Vulgar Lies
by Anonymous
As the seemingly serene ray of sunset sunlight strikes the neighbor’s house, a surge of anxiety seizes my soul. The air has started to chap my skin, leaving me to flake away, frozen, in my state of stress.
“Why can’t you understand what I’m saying?!”
The old ‘60s window, although shut, lets the cool evening breeze take refuge in my railroad-wallpaper-ed room. My hairs are like cold, piercing nails, standing straight up on my ashy, itchy 17-year-old legs. With the wave of 45-degree air enveloping my entire body, I reach across the bed. No, not that scratchy one. That ombre-blue one with the frills on the ends. Those frills are a gasket between me and this old, tattered piece of fabric that someone once called a blanket. Wrapping myself tighter than the Chipotle burrito I ate 30 minutes ago, I decide whether I should listen or distract myself.
“I am asking for an apology, not an excuse!”
Muffled battle cries. Panicked sobbing sighs. Shouted vulgar lies. Anxiety makes me breathe through a straw—the lack of oxygen dizzying me. I try to distract myself by rubbing the bottoms of my sleeping feet against the cream-cheese-colored carpet—hoping that the millions of half-inch strands glued to the floorboards would provide some comfort against that one man in the other room. Back aching from the cold, hard, black metal of my bunk bed, I readjust my posture on the floor, burying my head in the cavity of my spread, frog legs and that blue throw. Butt on the ground, knees pointed up, back against the bed. Squeezing my eyes shut as hard as I can, all I can smell is the burnt static from my plain white t-shirt and the fuzz of my blanket. And for a brief moment, I can’t hear anything from my parents’ room either. Static. The sound, smell, and sight of tiny static lightning bolts is my entire world. And I am OK with that.
“But you are telling me a different story EVERY TIME!”
As my anxiety grabs me by the shoulders, feet, and hands, I freeze—just barely vibrating out of the fear that somehow their conflict would leak in through the narrow space between my shut door and the ramen-noodle-like carpet. That somehow the screaming, gritting of teeth, and tears would spill in through the keyhole. That somehow those little attacks against my mother would make their way through the hinges. That somehow this one-sided fight—massacre, rather—would never end.
“Just say it: I WAS WRONG. Why is that so hard?”
The intense mental white noise is quickly paused and replaced by a track of the latest “Nausea’s Greatest Hits.” I’m sure that if anyone were to take a picture of me right now, I would show up as that cartoon character with a green face and frown that suggests that any moment now, they might wretch. With the abuse of the adjacent room filling my intestines with a hundred pounds of disgust and worry, I hug my stomach—as if applied pressure might yield some amount of relief. I shut my eyes harder than I’ve done all day, hoping in a very nonsensical way that it will silence the noise as well. That theory is soon disproven.
“Why are you always like this, honey?!”
Breathe in. Breathe out. He always told me to: Breathe in. Breathe out. He says to Breathe in. Breathe out. When I am stressed. He doesn’t know that I have to Breathe in. Breathe out. Because of him. All I am left with is Breathe in. Breathe out. I wish he would just Breathe out.
“You are acting like a child!”
After all of my breathing, I hold my breath in defiance. As my urge to hurl kicks back in, I hug my stomach a little tighter. I squeeze my eyes a little tighter. I wrap the blanket little tighter. My attention is taken away from my stomach and onto my tongue. The unforgivable, later-forgiven offenses have layered on top of that little chunk of flesh that lies in my closed mouth. That thin, gross film paralyzes it. Pinning it down from saying: Help.
“I cannot deal with this anymore tonight!”
The stink of my tongue inside my shut mouth reminds me. Not sure why. But it reminds me. Reminds me of my hatred. How I hate his gritted, coffee-stained teeth. How I hate that mine have begun to turn the same color from my morning cup. How I hate his gravelly voice. How I hate that mine sounds the same when I yell at the football game. How I hate his cylindrical, fattened index finger. How I hate that mine have started to fill out that same way. But most truthfully and most painfully, I hate how she hasn’t left him.
“I need some air!”
Bedroom then front door slams. The whirring of the attic fan fills the void which was previously the shouting’s domain. As I uncoil my accidentally pretzeled limbs and untense my shoulders, knuckles, and ribs, my eyes follow suit, gradually opening up to a darker room, just in time to see his gold Honda pull out of the driveway. As he drives past the stop sign with a speed clearly indicative of his mood, my anxiety is taken with him. The minute his car is out of my sight, my rib cage opens up again, allowing a full breath to enter my lungs for the first time in hours. My dry skin doesn’t seem to flake so violently now. Now, my fingers and toes don't feel so icicle-y cold. The last few rays of seven o’clock sunlight warm my pale shins and forearms. Although the sun beams have dimmed from the shadow of the early evening, in a backwards sort-of-way, they seem a little brighter than they were before.
by Anonymous
As the seemingly serene ray of sunset sunlight strikes the neighbor’s house, a surge of anxiety seizes my soul. The air has started to chap my skin, leaving me to flake away, frozen, in my state of stress.
“Why can’t you understand what I’m saying?!”
The old ‘60s window, although shut, lets the cool evening breeze take refuge in my railroad-wallpaper-ed room. My hairs are like cold, piercing nails, standing straight up on my ashy, itchy 17-year-old legs. With the wave of 45-degree air enveloping my entire body, I reach across the bed. No, not that scratchy one. That ombre-blue one with the frills on the ends. Those frills are a gasket between me and this old, tattered piece of fabric that someone once called a blanket. Wrapping myself tighter than the Chipotle burrito I ate 30 minutes ago, I decide whether I should listen or distract myself.
“I am asking for an apology, not an excuse!”
Muffled battle cries. Panicked sobbing sighs. Shouted vulgar lies. Anxiety makes me breathe through a straw—the lack of oxygen dizzying me. I try to distract myself by rubbing the bottoms of my sleeping feet against the cream-cheese-colored carpet—hoping that the millions of half-inch strands glued to the floorboards would provide some comfort against that one man in the other room. Back aching from the cold, hard, black metal of my bunk bed, I readjust my posture on the floor, burying my head in the cavity of my spread, frog legs and that blue throw. Butt on the ground, knees pointed up, back against the bed. Squeezing my eyes shut as hard as I can, all I can smell is the burnt static from my plain white t-shirt and the fuzz of my blanket. And for a brief moment, I can’t hear anything from my parents’ room either. Static. The sound, smell, and sight of tiny static lightning bolts is my entire world. And I am OK with that.
“But you are telling me a different story EVERY TIME!”
As my anxiety grabs me by the shoulders, feet, and hands, I freeze—just barely vibrating out of the fear that somehow their conflict would leak in through the narrow space between my shut door and the ramen-noodle-like carpet. That somehow the screaming, gritting of teeth, and tears would spill in through the keyhole. That somehow those little attacks against my mother would make their way through the hinges. That somehow this one-sided fight—massacre, rather—would never end.
“Just say it: I WAS WRONG. Why is that so hard?”
The intense mental white noise is quickly paused and replaced by a track of the latest “Nausea’s Greatest Hits.” I’m sure that if anyone were to take a picture of me right now, I would show up as that cartoon character with a green face and frown that suggests that any moment now, they might wretch. With the abuse of the adjacent room filling my intestines with a hundred pounds of disgust and worry, I hug my stomach—as if applied pressure might yield some amount of relief. I shut my eyes harder than I’ve done all day, hoping in a very nonsensical way that it will silence the noise as well. That theory is soon disproven.
“Why are you always like this, honey?!”
Breathe in. Breathe out. He always told me to: Breathe in. Breathe out. He says to Breathe in. Breathe out. When I am stressed. He doesn’t know that I have to Breathe in. Breathe out. Because of him. All I am left with is Breathe in. Breathe out. I wish he would just Breathe out.
“You are acting like a child!”
After all of my breathing, I hold my breath in defiance. As my urge to hurl kicks back in, I hug my stomach a little tighter. I squeeze my eyes a little tighter. I wrap the blanket little tighter. My attention is taken away from my stomach and onto my tongue. The unforgivable, later-forgiven offenses have layered on top of that little chunk of flesh that lies in my closed mouth. That thin, gross film paralyzes it. Pinning it down from saying: Help.
“I cannot deal with this anymore tonight!”
The stink of my tongue inside my shut mouth reminds me. Not sure why. But it reminds me. Reminds me of my hatred. How I hate his gritted, coffee-stained teeth. How I hate that mine have begun to turn the same color from my morning cup. How I hate his gravelly voice. How I hate that mine sounds the same when I yell at the football game. How I hate his cylindrical, fattened index finger. How I hate that mine have started to fill out that same way. But most truthfully and most painfully, I hate how she hasn’t left him.
“I need some air!”
Bedroom then front door slams. The whirring of the attic fan fills the void which was previously the shouting’s domain. As I uncoil my accidentally pretzeled limbs and untense my shoulders, knuckles, and ribs, my eyes follow suit, gradually opening up to a darker room, just in time to see his gold Honda pull out of the driveway. As he drives past the stop sign with a speed clearly indicative of his mood, my anxiety is taken with him. The minute his car is out of my sight, my rib cage opens up again, allowing a full breath to enter my lungs for the first time in hours. My dry skin doesn’t seem to flake so violently now. Now, my fingers and toes don't feel so icicle-y cold. The last few rays of seven o’clock sunlight warm my pale shins and forearms. Although the sun beams have dimmed from the shadow of the early evening, in a backwards sort-of-way, they seem a little brighter than they were before.