1/5/17

You are at a family function: it's Christmas Eve dinner at your parents's house, the place where you grew up, but you're not allowed to say the night. So when the house is distracted as it is being filled with family, cookies, and presents, you take the screen out of your old bedroom window, hide it in the closet under some blankets, and prop it open so you can climb through later in the night unnoticed. Just like a year and a half ago when you snuck in, stole mom's gold necklace, sold it for money, and shot that into your veins. She always told you each piece of jewelry held a memory, and you murdered that one.

It still bothers you.

You are a murderer.

You understand why, but you just can't sleep in your car tonight.

Not tonight.

You think about yesterday and tomorrow, instead of savoring today, as you say hi and make small talk with your cousins, uncles, aunts, and grandmother, before you dart outside, snagging a bottle of bourbon and a couple cans of beer. They slosh around in the pockets of your coat as you walk through the backyard to the patio by the swimming pool.

You don't drink.

You try to forget.

It isn't working.

Your depression is amplified along with the loss of your motor skills as your stomach fills and mind drowns.

You tumble inside trying to avoid humanity because you feel so alone around the people you love, but your house is full so trying to camouflage yourself is impossible.

The room is spinning.

You vomit some Manhattan clam chowder onto the living room wall, but are able to keep the rest in your mouth before swallowing it back down your throat. Then you fall into another wall. Unable to stand, your family can't ignore you any longer, as the tears start to stream down your face.

Your cousin's kids: scared.

Your cousins: disgusted.

Your aunt, who has taken care of you like a second mother sits in her wheelchair: betrayed.

Your sister and her husband: embarrassed.

Your grandmother: heartbroken.

Your father: beyond pissed.

And your mother.

Your mother.

She rushes over with a glass of water, and a plan to gather you up into a bed. She hands you the glass and tries to pick you up, but she doesn't have the strength after all the years you put her through. You start to really cry like you used to when your were an infant as you're both stuck to the floor on your knees in the center of the room. You drop the glass and the water pools on the hardwood floor then soaks into each of your pants.

Wake up.

It is 4:30 am.

You are in a Dunkin Donuts in South Philly in front of your laptop with an empty brown paper bag and a flat half dunk can of diet vanilla cola on the table with a film of powdered sugar smeared into your black work pants. Under your hood the tears are still streaming down your face, as the Indian lady, who you trade pizza for doughnuts with, laughs and takes an order for a poppy seed bagel with cream cheese and a caramel coffee from a man in a teal tie and navy suit with white piping who is holding a brown leather satchel bag.

It was all a dream, but, for some reason, you can't stop crying,