Six.

A scream and a crash. Something wasn’t right. The pitch was higher than normal, filled with more fear than anger, and the silence that followed was a nightmare in and of itself.

Six.

She held her eyes tight. If she just kept her eyes closed she couldn’t see. If she couldn’t see then nothing would happen. And naturally, if nothing happened then she couldn’t relive it in her sleep later.

Six.

Glass broke. Her delicate fingers curled into small, fretful fists. More screams. And then the crying in her closet. She squeezed her eyes just a bit tighter to hold back the burning salt water before opening them.

Six.

Her tiny irises slowly focused on the gentle light pouring from the shelf over her bed. A miniature castle all softly lit, light streaming through the rose window panes. Her whole room blushing in the night as it watched her dream.

Six.

Her gaze hung in the sparkling castle windows. If she slept in that castle, it would probably be quiet. Like the world had breathed in and would hold it until the morning. She’d fall to sleep to dream with a rose flush covering her and the walls, and wake to the pale yellow of the sun bathing her in daybreak. And as her eyes opened the world would exhale and she’d take in her first morning breaths.

Six.

Volume poured in from the room down the hall and the crying in the closet picked back up. A heavy sigh and dainty footsteps carried her to the small voice.

Six.

She held onto the petite hands and smiled. Her finger drug gently across the bridge of the nose and her mouth shushed and hushed. The tears slowed and the breathing calmed. And as the storm slowly seemed to quell and pass, the tiny faces began to rest.

Six.

Wood split. Screams echoed through their dreams. Booming, foreign voices tearing into the night. And she woke with a start. And she must see what calamity exploded just past her almost closed door.

Six.

Mama?

Six.

And he sat. Tears streaming. Feet planted squarely on the carpet to the side of the bed. Glittering puddles of glass strewn across the floor. Clothes hung from the drawers in front of him, tangled around each other from being dug through in haste. The tv box playing static, and the lighting low.

Six.

And all around were the men in black. Bright lights held at their waists. Slow, deep voices dangling in the air where there should be the steady, quiet breathing of sleep.

Six.

Mama?!

Six.

And the tears pinched at her eyes. And her voice hung up somewhere in her throbbing chest.

Six.

Six.

No, baby! Go back to your room! Take your sister back, baby! It’s not safe!

Six.

Six.

Six.

Six.

Six.

And with his eyes vacant and staring, he sat. Feet planted squarely on the carpet to the side of the bed. And his hand rested on cold metal, held as tightly as a lifeline, pushing deep into his temple.

Six.

Six.

Six.

Six.

Six.

Six.

And that’s when the dreams ceased and the nightmares became unending.

Her head presses against cool glass, stomach still turning. She doesn’t know why, but one of his favorite games is scaring them. Too many drinks and too late in the night, he pulled the three girls from the party. He woke her violent from her already restless sleep. Too many drinks and a loud, showy repeat of a previous fight. All eyes on him. And him, voice blasting across the party. And mama pulls at his wrist, but he can’t even feel her there. He’s all name calling and feet stomping. Broken bottles and cards strewn across the floor. And she’s all forced laughs, begging, and pleading. Because nothing is wrong. And none of them have ever seen a storm. And nothing is wrong. And he yanks them all past the whispers and pushes them into the car. And too many people watch from the driveway as the car screeches away into the night. Too many drinks, and too cold a night, and he purposefully throws the car in dizzying, lurching circles. Snowbanks dislodge and explode outside her window as the tires tread them, too quick. And she mustn’t cry. Her mama is crying. Her sister is crying. But she mustn’t cry. If she doesn’t cry, the storm will never come. And so she lets the glass ease her turning stomach. And when he asks if she thinks it’s funny, she stares straight into his eyes, silent, wordless. And he laughs like they’re party to a private joke. And she rests her head back against the glass. And she watches the snow rise and fall again like it’s been given a second chance to hit the ground. And she thinks how life is always just repeating. Pounding, angry snowfalls turning to dirty piles, too heavy to hold. And her mama is crying. And her sister is crying. And he’s still shouting and laughing. Great, joyous cries whooping into the bright, white night. And a little prick of her fear slips away as she realizes there’s no stopping the storms. And she can’t help but to laugh at the joke as well.

When I was 15 I used to hang out at this collective called the Pit House. It was probably one of the most interesting points in my life. It was in the slums, so we got away with a lot of chaos for a long time. They would do folk-punk shows there every night. A lot of the time no one would even have instruments. I once saw someone add to the rhythm section by sweeping the ground with a broom aggressively. It was pots and pans bands. On Saturday nights they’d host panty parties. We’d all mosh and skank in our underwear outside or in the basement. I’d leave covered in sweat and sneak into a private beach where I’d pass out until I knew my dad was in bed. There were four bedrooms and 26 people living there. Not to mention the people like me who would pop in whenever they felt like they needed a safe place. Sometimes there was food. Sometimes not. The backyard was fenced in, but there was a cliché fence board that could swing out so the residents could sneak into the neighbor’s yard and steal food off the grill. Most of the time the water was turned off and we would run the neighbor’s garden hose to a kiddie pool in the backyard. The cops were called all of the time. We were loud. We were wild. There were too many people coming and going. At one point during the summer there were two dogs, a squirrel, and 18 cats living in the house. Plus chickens outside. The bathroom and kitchen were constantly covered in feathers and fur and with the lack of running water every surface was filthy. I didn’t eat there even when there was food. I never wore shoes then, and there were animal droppings everywhere. I caught E Coli that summer, and it made sex painful. That was the first time I was raped. It never stopped after that. I spent more time in the safe haven these kids had created, avoiding the rest of my life. Towards the last days of summer the cops were being called on us every day. The landlord finally said no more when some of the guys staged a protest in front of the house to “riot for the right to noise.” They had a week to evacuate. I was there the day they broke all the windows. We spray painted every wall. Three bands played in the living room simultaneously and we moshed through every room. We threw each other into walls in order to break them down. People were crowd surfing to get a better angle to punch the ceilings down. Three girls swung from the ceiling fan to pull it down to the floor. We lit fireworks in the kitchen and bedrooms and fireplace. They set the animals free. They took lighters and spray paint to scorch the walls and floors. And when everyone was worn out and had released their wild, we climbed on the roof to watch the sun set. Some of the guys took turns jumping from the roof to the kiddie pool. We threw the rest of the fireworks from the roof, already lit. They’d explode too close to the ground, and some of them caught in the grass. I left early and slept on the beach. The police came that night and everyone who was left was held over night. They never got the deposit back on the house.

*disclaimer - name of collective has been changed to avoid revealing any participating parties.

His knee is on my chest, and his left hand holds both of mine pinned above my head. And for a second as his eyes meet my wet ones I think he’ll loosen his grip. His mouth comes close to mine, and I think that he’ll remember everything I’ve ever made him feel. I think that I can feel his heart beating in time with my own. I think he must feel it too. He’ll remember that I am already his. He’ll remember that I’m his, and it’s unnecessary to take. Instead his right arm wraps around my waist and flips me onto my stomach. I struggle to pull away without hurting his feelings. I love him deeply. Insatiably. Irrevocably. I want to be able to give him everything he wants. Even when it’s not what I want. And though I pull away my confusion limits my strength. My face buried in the pillow limits my breath. He yanks me from the bed and onto the floor pulling a down comforter with me. It wraps around me straight-jacket like. And even if he wasn’t stronger, I love him. And no one tells you how much harder it is when you want to be able to say yes even though your insides are screaming out to say no. My voice is broken. And my eyes must be too. Because the tears never stop. And I swear I say no. And he swears that I didn’t. All I know is a white blanket wrapped around me holding me down, a wooden floor bracing against me, and an open window sending snowy air into the warm room. All I know is I cry until I vomit. And he strokes my sweaty forehead with confusion etched on his handsome face. His mouth trying to kiss away all of the pain he’s caused me. And I want to run. But terrified and exhausted I sleep in his arms. Terrified and exhausted I wake in his arms. Terrified and exhausted I return over and over. Terrified and exhausted. And I think I’ve forgotten how to sleep now.

#EndTheSilence

I wore bruises to my wedding.

No dress.

I wore my blood as chains around my wrists.

I wore a pregnant belly and dark circles beneath my eyes.

I wore my hopelessness like a scarlet letter.

I wore my white flag of surrender.

I wore ink on paper as a prison cell.

Or at least that’s how it felt.

All I know is that there was never any dress.

#EndTheSilence

It was the peeling paint on the garage door

It was the new windows in the big, old house

It was the snow on the ground and the snow on the table

It was the foreign breath that condensates on my lips

It was the car crash in the spring

It was the smoke that hit the ceiling and danced and twirled through the car

It was the mattress that belonged to no one

It was the razor blade beneath a tongue or behind an ear

It was the picnic table with carved initials

It was damp T-shirt’s

Sand between toes

Tattooed limbs in summer sun

The fight in the basement

Bikes hung from ceilings

The tears and the deep, calming breaths

Unspoken words

And too hot skin left out in the cold

I remember our skin pressed together hot at seventeen. I remember long nights in your basement room. Lazy days in my bed behind a locked door. I remember the sun bringing your freckles out to play and toasting my skin to your favorite shade of me. I remember your fingers creeping inside of me playful on train rides to the city. Your mouth sleepy on my own and your arms pulling me into the cradle of dreams. And I remember waking from the dream in a desperate fever. Dead phone lines. Unanswered letters. Lonely sheets. And bruised love thrown to its knees. The floor its only brace. The snow drifting in as summer disappeared.