and I recall the push more than the fall
I've been on the island for more than a month now and I don't understand much of anything anymore. The days bleed into each other, and some mornings I wake up staring at a wooden roof and panic because I don't know where I am. Some nights I crawl under the thin sheets and can't remember what it felt like to watch the dim glow of a bare lightbulb switched off, fading into darkness. From one moment to the next, I don't know which one's the dream and which one's real life, the world I grew up in or the one I'm living in now, or if any of it's ever been real. I know it all could be, but it feels more likely that all of it's in my head, every minute of it, and then I don't even know who I am.
It's easy some days. Sand under my feet, good food in my gut, Ellen soft and warm under and around me, it all feels real enough that I can slip into a kind of pattern, wary and relaxed at the same time. I start to think I could learn to live like this and it'd be okay, even if it turns out I made it all up. I think sometimes I'm about as happy as I've ever been.
And then there are the days when I want to claw my own damn skin off. My grip on sanity is almost gone, I know it, and I don't know what to do to keep hold of it. I want to shout at everyone passing by to fucking help me already, but I don't want them to know I need it, and they're probably not real anyway.
I close my eyes and I see them. Amber, Misty, Jody, Mom. Callie. The endless parade of bikini-clad starlets out on the beach. Misty was here last night, sitting on the edge of my bed, purple shadow glittering on her eyelids, moonlight catching the sharp glint of her bracelet. I sat up with a start and stared at her. In the near-darkness, I couldn't even really make out her eyes, just the hint of purple between strands of blonde hair. "Aren't you supposed to be at work?" she asked, impassive as ever, examining her nails. She'd been in Amber's make up again. I don't know if she lends her the stuff or gives her what she doesn't want anymore or if Misty just helps herself to what she wants.
"I don't have a job." I wasn't really sure anymore if that was true. I had to be doing something to take care of them, even here. They won't let me go on doing nothing forever, no matter what anyone says. I won't let me.
"Is that why you left? Amber says it is. She says you don't care about us. But that's not true. She just doesn't understand it. It's okay to come home."
I shook my head at her, suddenly afraid to move my head much but fervent, and suddenly I was choking. "No," I insisted, "no, it's not." I didn't know why I was crying. I don't know why I told her that.
I don't know why she didn't already know.
When I wake up, she's gone. I expect her to be there, asleep in the living room, and to have to carry her to bed, but then I remember she was never there to begin with. All there is instead is the distant chatter of birds and the roll of waves outside. I don't know how long I stand there in the living room, fingers digging into my wrist, Misty's silhouette imprinted on the back of my eyelids.
I'm not even sure when it is I leave the house, but I have my dad's jacket pulled tight around me as I head down the beach. It's not the most direct route to the Compound, but I kind of don't care. I'm not really in any kind of a hurry now, my throat raw and the wind whipping my face red. I don't know when or why I stop either, only that I'm walking and then I'm not, sitting on a big piece of driftwood lodged in the sand, hunched over and watching the waves come and go over and over again.
It's easy some days. Sand under my feet, good food in my gut, Ellen soft and warm under and around me, it all feels real enough that I can slip into a kind of pattern, wary and relaxed at the same time. I start to think I could learn to live like this and it'd be okay, even if it turns out I made it all up. I think sometimes I'm about as happy as I've ever been.
And then there are the days when I want to claw my own damn skin off. My grip on sanity is almost gone, I know it, and I don't know what to do to keep hold of it. I want to shout at everyone passing by to fucking help me already, but I don't want them to know I need it, and they're probably not real anyway.
I close my eyes and I see them. Amber, Misty, Jody, Mom. Callie. The endless parade of bikini-clad starlets out on the beach. Misty was here last night, sitting on the edge of my bed, purple shadow glittering on her eyelids, moonlight catching the sharp glint of her bracelet. I sat up with a start and stared at her. In the near-darkness, I couldn't even really make out her eyes, just the hint of purple between strands of blonde hair. "Aren't you supposed to be at work?" she asked, impassive as ever, examining her nails. She'd been in Amber's make up again. I don't know if she lends her the stuff or gives her what she doesn't want anymore or if Misty just helps herself to what she wants.
"I don't have a job." I wasn't really sure anymore if that was true. I had to be doing something to take care of them, even here. They won't let me go on doing nothing forever, no matter what anyone says. I won't let me.
"Is that why you left? Amber says it is. She says you don't care about us. But that's not true. She just doesn't understand it. It's okay to come home."
I shook my head at her, suddenly afraid to move my head much but fervent, and suddenly I was choking. "No," I insisted, "no, it's not." I didn't know why I was crying. I don't know why I told her that.
I don't know why she didn't already know.
When I wake up, she's gone. I expect her to be there, asleep in the living room, and to have to carry her to bed, but then I remember she was never there to begin with. All there is instead is the distant chatter of birds and the roll of waves outside. I don't know how long I stand there in the living room, fingers digging into my wrist, Misty's silhouette imprinted on the back of my eyelids.
I'm not even sure when it is I leave the house, but I have my dad's jacket pulled tight around me as I head down the beach. It's not the most direct route to the Compound, but I kind of don't care. I'm not really in any kind of a hurry now, my throat raw and the wind whipping my face red. I don't know when or why I stop either, only that I'm walking and then I'm not, sitting on a big piece of driftwood lodged in the sand, hunched over and watching the waves come and go over and over again.