Super Smash Bros

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When I was seventeen, my friends and I would gather on the weekends. Usually, Squee, Korin, and me. We would order pizza and soda and sit around my flat screen t.v. Most importantly was the weed.

“Tapey, you ever try purple cush before?” Korin asked.

“No, I don’t think so. Why? Is it good?”

Squee laughed, “Oh, you’re in for a treat.”

We sat on my red leather couches, passing the bong around. When the bong came to me, I lit it and inhaled deeply but coughed it up immediately when my hair started to sizzle.

Korin burst out in laughter, “Tapey, how do you do that? Your hair isn’t even long enough to reach the flames!”

I sputtered between coughs, “Shut up, I’m just that kind of lucky, okay?”

“Hey,” korin said, looking serious.

“Hey,” I smiled.

Korin made dramatic eyebrows, “Super Smash Bros?”

“Oh,” I giggled, “yes!”

We started up the game and shuffled through the characters, picking who to play.

“What? Tapey, you can’t pick Kirby. He’s like, the most bullshit out of all of them,” Squee scoffed.

Korin nodded, “He’s right, you can’t Tapey.”

“Shut your faces, don’t you talk shit about my cute little mush face. You’re just mad cause that sappy little face is gonna kick your ass.”

“As if, bring it Tapey,” Squee retorted.

“Oh, look at that. Look who just took Squee’s first life. This adorable little mush face, that’s who.”

“Only cause you’re playing the world’s biggest dick sucker.”

Korin nodded, “He’s right, Tapey. He is the biggest dick sucker.”

“What, no he isn’t.”

“Look at that big pink mouth Tapey, and what’s he do all day? He sucks, Tapey. He fucking sucks,” Squee retorted.

I laughed, “Nuh-uh, he eats your souls and wears them as his skin, obviously. Boom, got you again.”

Korins tone turned serious, “That would essentially make him gluttony in a cute pink package. Tapey, we need to kill that thing.”

“You just made me like him more. I’m coming for your soul, Squee.”

“Good luck with that.”

I burst out laughing, “No fair! Korin made me laugh. What are you even doing over there?”

“I’m attacking this wall,” Korin said plainly.

“But why? Squee, stop killing me. I need to know what’s going on with this wall.”

“It’s just standing there, always looking down on me.”

“…okay,” I giggled.

“I mean, just look at it. It’s so tall and so thick. Like he’s better than me.”

Squee and I were dying in our chairs, watching Korin try to defeat this digital wall.

“This wall doesn’t know me. He doesn’t know my life.”

I tried to sound serious, “I’m offended. Do you think it’s a guy? It’s all flat from what I can see.”

“Fine, I don’t care if it’s a woman. No woman or man gets to look down on me, so I’m gonna beat the shit outa this wall.”

“I’m with you!” Squee yelled.

“Alright, fine!” I laughed menacingly, floating Kirby up and slamming down on them both. “Woops, looks like I killed you both.”

“You’re the worst, Tapey.”

Korin nodded, “You are the worst, Tapey.”

The monster within

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I was struggling. Really struggling. I had finally gotten a job working from home, it was supposed to make things easier. No more working till four in the morning just to rise with the children two hours later. I’d finally get time with Erik, with the kids. I’d finally be able to keep up.

That’s not how things worked out, though. The years had worn on me, I could no longer sleep at night no matter how hard I tried, no matter the medications I was given. The damage in my spine and feet remained, nothing to be done. I had gotten out too late.

Working from home had its own stresses. Breaking up fights between children, hiding it from my clients on the phone. Timing my fifteen minute breaks to when the kids got out of school, praying that my call wouldn’t go over. Needing to remain the top performer, layoffs had started. I could not be one of them. And of course, I still needed to keep up on the apartment.

The twins had been arguing all day, I was constantly muting and un-muting my headset, trying to calm down the children. Trying to pay attention to what the customer was saying amidst screams. Only for the fight to continue five minutes later.

“Listen, you need to make sure you’re in a quite area during your calls. If this keeps up, you’ll get a wtite up. Three write ups and you”ll be let go,” my boss stated frankly. A white rage started boiling inside me. Keep it together. It’s just a bit longer.

My last call of the night went an hour late, and Erik wasn’t going to be home from school for a while. I’d have to figure out something for dinner.

Walking into the kitchen was like stumbling on a squatters den. Dishes piled up, trash on the counters and floors, and all the progress I’d made the night before was erased, like I had never cleaned anything at all.

The living room was even worse, Kaylee had cut up at least fifty pieces of paper into confetti and spread it everywhere. Evan had taken the cards out of four different board games and left them in bunches on the floor. Hot pocket packages had been left out and torn to shreds by the dog. It looked like the world’s worst bachelor party.

“Are you freaking kidding me, you guys?” I gestured to the room.

“What?” Kaylee asked.

“Um, this mess? Did it even occur to you to clean up after yourselves, or did you consciously decide to leave it for me to pick up?” I could feel the rage again, a white static sizzling under the surface.

“I’m SORRY,” Kaylee whined, slumping down into the couch.

“Sorry, Mama,” Evan said blankly, continuing to watch YouTube.

“Well, come on then. Get up and get it cleaned.”

“You mean ALL of it?” Kaylee moaned.

“After dinner,” Evan never took his eyes off his tablet.

Breathe. “No, now. While I make dinner.”

I put the corn dogs in the oven and started working on the dishes. Not even two minutes had passed before my back began to ache, attempting to pull me to the earth.

“Mom, Kaylee isn’t cleaning!”

“Nuh-uh, Evan is telling me what to do!”

“Both of you, stop fighting. Kaylee, you clean up the paper. Evan, you clean up the cards and trash. There, it’s fair for everyone.”

Kaylee threw herself onto the floor, “but that means I have to clean more than him, thats no fair!”

“Well, Kaylee. You made the bigger mess, I call that pretty fair.”

“Nuh-uh!”

I clenched my jaw. Just breathe. “Kaylee, please just get up and clean. Mommy has had a long day, my back is killing me, and I really just need your help.”

“Evans not even cleaning, so I’m not going to clean.”

I banged my fist on the counter and bit my lip. “Kaylee, Evan, clean now! Do not make me ground you!” Please, don’t.

“This is all YOUR fault!” Kaylee screamed, pushing Evan to the ground. Evan shrinking into a ball and screaming.

“STOP!” It exploded from me like a flash of light, every muscle in my body ridged as if strained from holding it in. The cup in my hand shattered, cutting my finger. My breath came out in thin, quick whistles. My mind raced, every thought muffled in a searing white haze.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?! You do realize you would already be done by now if you just shut the fuck up and did it already? Or better yet! Clean it as you make the mess so you don’t even have to bother! But no, you have to be fucking selfish and throw fits until I finally give up and do it myself. Well, you know what, I can’t anymore. I’m done! I can barely stand at the sink for five minutes! I’m broken, okay?!”

The twins were huddled together, crying.

“Just get up and fucking clean, that’s all you need to do! It’s that easy!”

Still, they didn’t say anything, just huddled together. Terrified. Terrified of me.

“Just GET OUT!” I roared.

The twins ran to their room, screaming and crying. I realized how terrifying I must have looked, how angry, how furious. Blood still dripping from my finger. I must have looked like a ravenous dog. Fangs bared, steam rising off drool and tears as they dripped from my gaping maw.

My rage folded on itself, going deeper and deeper. Reflecing on itself. Reflecting on me. I fell to my knees, put my head in my shaking hands, smearing blood across my face, and screamed until there was no more breath to give.

First breaks in the frame.

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I was nine years old when I had my first real experience with death. His name was Vick, Mom’s first serious boyfriend after divorcing Dad.

I always thought my parents would get back together. In every t.v. show, book I’d read, or even video game, love always worked out. You had to be genuine, trustworthy, and honest, but if you were, good always prevailed.

Like any other nine year old, I had a wild imagination. Maybe more than some. I always thought I would be a hero. I believed it down to my core.

Some of my favorite stories of heros, they didn’t even risk their life. In one story, an ancient woman told a little girl she was taking the innocent of the world away to start anew. The little girl had begged and begged for a puppy for years, and finally, she got one. The little girl and the puppy became fast friends. They slept together, ate together and played together. But when the little girl learned of a place made of the purely innocent, she begged the old woman to please take her puppy so he might be happier.

There was nothing life-threatening. The puppy and the girl weren’t even unhappy. The girl could have easily kept the puppy, and they likely would have both lived a happy life together. But still, she let him go so he might have something even better.

This convinced me that there was more than one way to save someone. So maybe I could save my Dad. He missed Mom so much and asked about her every time I saw him. There must be a way to fix what happened between them.

At first, I tried the regular things. Played Mom songs about peace and love, drew picutes of our family back together, wrote stories about true love. When this didn’t work, I decided it must have been because Vick was there. So, obviously, I would have to break them up.

Dad thought this was a marvelous idea. He would often call and tell me things to say to him. “Your head is so round it could be used as a bowling ball. The only reason Mom is dating you is cause you’re the opposite from Dad, ugly.” Dad treated it like a game, both of us laughing and snickering over the phone when we came up with more mean things to say.

One day, I even took a picture of Vick and printed it from the camera. I took a black sharpie and drew a perfect circle around Vick’s head and replaced his eyes and mouth with that of a smiley face emoji, then colored in the circle yellow. The bottom of the photo came out wrong with a greenish hue that you could move around with your fingers, so I drew stink lines around it to make it look like he farted. I showed it to Vick, giggling about his perfectly round head.

A few days later, Mom got the call. Vick had shot himself in the head. Mom collapsed on the ground and cried for hours, unmoving, before Dad came to get us. He picked Mom up off the floor and held her tight as she sobbed.

When Mom’s cries finally quieted down, Dad tucked her into bed and took me and my brother out to the car. After buckling us in, he sat in the drivers seat and gave us a long sympathetic look. He rubbed his hand down my face, “Hey kid, I thought the picture was really funny.”

My fault.

We stayed with Dad for a few days before going to Vick’s funeral. When we arrived, Vick’s Mom approached me. She knelt down and gave me a big hug. “It’s going to be okay,” she said, “I’ll walk with you.”

Why doesn’t she hate me?

She led us past rows of people, his friends, and family. All silently crying into tissues. Mom was sitting in the front row, staring into a distant corner. Her face was flushed, and dried streaks ran from her eyes to her chin. She looked as if she had cried until there was nothing left. Until she was empty.

Vick came into view all at once. I had never seen a corpse before. He looked like a porcelain statue. So white. So cold.

For some reason, I couldn’t cry. Even though I wanted to. I hadn’t been able to cry once. It was as if I had gone completely numb.

My fault.

When Dad picked us up, I stared out the window, trying to focus all of my intent on a single star. Never again. This will never happen again.

“Was he cold,” Dad asked, “did he look cold?”

“Yes.”

This is all my fault.

Spontaneous Suicide

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About a year after I moved out of my parents’ house, I began to feel depressed. I was lonely.  Every night, I would come home, sit on my couch, and play League of Legends. For weeks at a time, my life was work and video games. Nothing else.

There was a time that I spent every night with my friends, but over time, we began to become distant. I loved my friends. To me, they were there more than my own family had been. I was struggling with this sudden distance.

One night, I had a sevier asthma attack and realized I had left my inhaler in Steven’s car. It was late, so I tried to slow my breathing and just breathe it out. But my lungs became tighter and tighter.

Finally, I gave in and called Steven, but it went to voicemail. So I sent him a text: “Hey Steven, I’m having a super bad asthma attack and I left my inhaler in your car. I’m super sorry, but can you please bring it up to me?”

Minutes went by with no response. My lungs got tighter by the second until a small check mark showed up next to my message. He had seen it.

I waited patiently for twenty minutes…thirty minutes…an hour. No response. I was starting to panic now, and I couldn’t go to the hospital. I already owed a mountain of debt from previous attacks. Why was he ignoring me? Did he not care? Maybe he had just clicked on it and didn’t actually read it.

I called again, straight to voice mail. I texted again: “Please, Steven, I’m sorry it’s so late, but I really can’t breathe.” Again, that trusty little check mark popped up, and again, no response came.

I remembered he was supposed to be spending time with our friends Squee and Koby. Squee was one of my best friends, maybe he could help me get ahold of Steven.

I called, and almost immediately, Squee picked up the phone. “Squee,” I gasped, “can you please get Stev-” Laughter exploded on the other end of the line. The call ended.

Why? Why didn’t they care? Had I done something wrong? Tears and snot were streaming now until my breath was coming in shallow sobbing gulps.

I propped up some pillows to recline backward and remain elevated. Soon, I succumbed to exhaustion and passed out. Waking every thirty minutes or so, gasping for air.

After about the third time waking this way, I tried to fight sleep. I was scared. What if I fell asleep and never woke up? I texted Steven one more time, “Please, Steven, I don’t think I can last like this. I’m suffocating. I need my inhaler.”

As I was about to drift off yet again, the door of my apartment flew open. Steven barged in, throwing the inhaler at my feet, “There’s your fucking inhaler! Did you really have to call me a million times?!”

I sucked in the deepest I could from the inhaler, “I’m sorry,” I coughed, “I couldn’t br-breathe.”

“Do you realize this is why no one wants anything to do with you? Do you know what your friends say? They say you’re too much trouble! And you know what, I’m starting to think your family had the right idea when they kicked you out!”

“Please,” I sobbed, “I’m sorry. I didn’t know what else to do.”

“How about let me spend one night with my friends without calling all of us constantly?! How about stop calling us all together? Your family already can’t stand you, my family can’t stand you and now your friends are ready to leave! You’re worthless!”

I couldn’t breathe again. It was different this time. My breaths were coming in fast. Too fast. Thoughts raced through my mind, barley tangible yet full of impact. It was happening again. They were leaving me again. Everyone always leaves. Because there’s something wrong with me. They don’t want you here. They don’t want you in their lives. They want you gone.

It was then I saw the knife on the table. A steak knife. Sharp. Steven was still yelling something, but time had slowed, and I could no longer hear him. 

Only a few seconds had passed, and suddenly, I was staring at my wrist. A thick cut carved through it. How did the knife get in my hand? Blood. There was blood dripping. It was running down my leg. Not enough blood. There should have been more. I hadn’t cut deep enough. I knew it almost immediately, but I felt no relief.

I was vaguely aware that Steven was hitting me, as hard as he could, left to right. I couldn’t feel a thing. I couldn’t feel anything anymore. I could breathe.

The real me?

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When you see me, do you remember the person I used to be? Do you remember the dinners I would make? How I would read to the kids in the garden? The walks we would take? That I was happy?

When you look at my wedding photo, you comment on my cute short hair. Do you notice my skin, lacking any scars? Do you see my lightly bronze skin, now turned gray? Do you see my bright eyes, now long and drawn?

You dismiss me when I tell you my story. How can anyone empathize with something they could never understand? It sounds unbelievable, I know. Maybe you think it’s exaggerated. Or maybe you don’t want to know what it really was.

A boss so cruel, she would tell a sixteen year old girl she was a horrible mother days after watching her fiance commit suicide in front of her. Fourteen hour shifts, running, heavy lifting, back breaking, ending in the early morning. Coming home to find it a disaster when I had only cleaned it the day before and had sacrificed my two hours of sleep to do so. Having only five minutes a day with my husband. All just words. No family, no friends, no holidays. Just work and sleepless nights for years. Unimaginable words.

Please don’t look at me that way. I want to be better. I’m trying to get better. You look at me like I’m a child when I tell you the thought of going back to work makes my stomach churn. I still get flash backs, late at night. Sleep once came so easily. Will it ever again?

In the blink of an eye, I’m back there again. I’m crying in the night. Begging my husband to let me quit, to help me find another way. As if he had any say. Drinking so much coffee, it felt as if my heart would stop. Sometimes hoping that it would. Praying I wouldn’t fall asleep watching the kids again, that nothing would happen if I did. Wondering if I would be able to spend time with my husband that month, or my friends that year.

Now, I still don’t get sleep. Sometimes, I’m up for days. Not because I’m not tired. My body won’t shut down anymore. Permanent damage in my feet and back. Chronic pain. I need to re-learn things that once came naturally to me, basic things. Easy things. Brain damage, short term memory loss. Yet, you look at me like a stubborn child.

When you look at me, do you remember who I used to be? Or is this all you’ll ever see?

The Real American Dream

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As a child, I would read or watch the most amazing stories. To be able to clap your hands and create anything as long as you knew and possessed their chemical compositions, to travel across the land fighting off the dead, to be the world’s first female knight.

All of these stories inspired me, and they told me that as long as I held my ground and worked hard, I could achieve anything. In real life, they tell you the same thing. The American dream, anyone can work their way to the top. They just neglect to say what it will cost you.

Erik was asleep when I got home in the early morning. All I wanted to do was collapse, but I hadn’t had the chance to eat anything all night. I rummaged through the fridge, trying to find something quick to eat, maybe some Mac and cheese? No, that would take too long. The kids would be up in less than an hour.

I sighed and resigned myself to getting as much sleep as I could before the kids woke up.

I climbed over the baby gate, tripping over the edge for the second time that day, and climbed into bed, not even bothering to undress.

Erik was snoring peacefully, and though I knew I shouldn’t, I snuggled into him. Burying my face deep into his chest. He was warm, so wonderfly warm. I hadn’t gotten to spend time with him in weeks, so those times were precious.

I inhaled deeply, taking in the scent of Irish springs body wash and closed my eyes, trying to go to sleep. Now that I had finally stopped moving, my feet began to announce their complaints at the days abuse, sending painful throbs up my calves. I closed my eyes tighter, trying to ignore it, but the ache only intensified.

I checked the time on my phone, thirty minutes until my alarm went off. “Please,” I whispered to no one in particular, “I just need a little sleep. Just a bit.”

As soon as my conscious started to fade, Erik’s alarm went off, and the cooing of playfull babies filtered in. “Erik, is there anyway you can go in just a few hours late? I got back late from work again and haven’t slept at all. I just need an hour or two.”

“I’m sorry love, it’s Thursday. I have labs on Thursdays, and I can’t miss it.”

“Oh, right. Sorry, I forgot it’s Thursday.”

He got dressed and leaned over to give me a kiss goodbye. “I love you,” he said apologetically. 

“I love you too,” I replied, holding back tears. I knew it wasn’t his fault, we were doing what we needed to in order to survive and provide for the twins. But it didn’t make it any easier knowing that.

Hearing the twins babbling become louder, I slapped my cheeks and crawled out of bed. Opening the door to their room, I walked into a nightmare. They had figured out how to get their pajamas off and had discarded their diapers. Kaylee was on tip toes in her crib, Evan with his hands in a fresh diaper. Tiny, brown stained hands marking the walls, bed, and carpet.

“Oh, no, no, no!” I yelled, scooping up the twins. They were completely covered head to toe.

After cleaning them off in the bath, I grabbed all the cleaning supplies I could find and started scrubbing down their room. I wasn’t even half way done before Kaylee started screaming for Nom noms.

“Okay, okay. Let’s see if there is anything easy to make.” I would have killed for some simple cereal or oatmeal, but we were out. Even eggs seemed like too much an effort, but they would have to do.

I gave the twins their eggs and sat down on the couch across from them to eat mine. An hour later, I woke up. The twins were nowhere to be seen, and our eggs were scattered all across the floor. I had passed out.

I flung myself off the couch in a panicked flurry. The baby gate had been knocked down, I rushed past and down the hallway into our bathroom, calling their names.

I found the twins in a desert of kitty litter. An entire bag had been emptied onto the bathroom floor and into the toilet, the twins sopping wet and covered in a kitty litter mud from head to toe.

I didn’t care about any of it, I was just so glad they were okay. I scooped them both into my arms and held them tightly, sobbing loudly.

Evan took his tiny hand and swept away my tears, “No cry, Mommy.”

I let out a half laugh, half sob, and put my hand to his, forcing a smile. Right, I could do it for them. “Let’s get you guys cleaned up, Mommy’s bathroom isn’t a beach, you know!”

I gave the twins their second bath of the day, cleaned up the mess of eggs, finished cleaning the twins’ room, fed the twins lunch, and finally cleaned up the kids’ homemade beach.

By the time I was done, Erik was getting home, and it was already time to go to work. Time for it to start all over again.

I gave Erik a big hug hi, and bye, and left. Just ten more hours, I would finally get at least two hours of sleep, I thought. And just nine more years, and it’s all over.

This is the story of the American dream that nearly killed me.

I am a warrior.

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I was in the sixth grade when my parents took me and my brother to a school fair. Our school always put on impressive fairs, lots of games, dunking the teachers, and I almost always came home with a new pet fish only to have it die a few days later.

That year, they had brought in a new attraction. A gladiator jousting inflatable arena. Two people would enter and climb onto their own pedestals. Each would get a long stick and fight to knock each other off their pedestal.

I rushed to get in line. Looking around, I could see a lot of high-school students in the crowd. I felt a bit nervous thinking I would have to fight people twice my age. I was always the strongest in my class. I won every arm wrestling competition, playing mercy, or race. Sometimes, I would play with a stick in the backyard for hours, swinging the stick like a sword. But to beat a high-school student in a competition like that? It was going to be hard.

It was my turn now, I entered the baloon like arena to face the previous winner, a twelve year old freckle-faced boy. “Okay, I got this,” I thought and placed my feet shoulder width apart, ready for the go-ahead.

“Go!,” the ref shouted.

I thrust my stick forward, aiming for the boys chest. He blocked me and jammed his stick back at me. Running my stick along the side of his, I did a quick spiral and twisted the stick from his grasp and pushed him from his perch. The crowd cheered, I had won.

My next opponent was a high-school student at least twice my size. He had broad shoulders and wore a black tank top with jeans. I squared my jaw and planted my feet firmly, ready for a hard fight.

He started aggressively, and I blocked each attack with equal force to prevent falling back. I was getting the timings of his hits down. Hit hit, hit. Hit hit, hit. Hit hit, now! I moved to the side of my pedestal, dodging his next blow and impeding his balance. I swept my stick from the side to finish the job.

The next five matches went more or less the same way. Soon, there was a crowd cheering me on. It was such a rush, the adrenaline, beating kids twice my age. I felt unstoppable. 

Until a five year old girl was lifted onto the stand. I played along with her, pretending like she was hitting me right in my weak spot. It was hard for her to even lift the huge stick, so I moved to the very front of my pedestal to make it easier to hit me.

Bam, “Oh no!” I yelled as I fell, “you got me!” The ref came and held her hand up in victory, and her face gleamed. This was a different kind of rush, a better one. She was so happy.

Making my way off the arena, I found Mom and my step-dad Bob waiting for me.

“You were incredible!” Bob yelled.

“There were kids in line that literally left because they didn’t want to fight you. High school kids!” Mom exclaimed.

I blushed, “I know, it was awesome!”

Driving home, I felt an absurd sense of pride, I was the strongest. I was a warrior.

Pain and laughter

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Spending time at Steven’s was my favorite escape from the fighting at home. No matter how hard I tried, I always seemed to end up fighting tooth and nail with Mom and my step-dad, Bob. But being at Steven’s was supposed to make me forget it all.

His house was the go-to for most of the teenagers in our neighborhood. He had a large pool and a hot tub in his backyard and every game system that was available. We had been dating for a few weeks, and I was excited to show off the new bikini I had gotten from Hot topic.

After messing around in the pool for a few hours with our friend Zach, we decided to relax in the hot tub for a while. “This is great,” I said, “sometimes the pool is too cold. I hate the cold.”

Steven got a mischievous look on his face and reached down the side of the tub, grabbing the hose. “Oh really, hate the cold do you,” he laughed.

He turned the hose on and started dousing me down with freezing cold water. I screamed and tried to find cover under the hot waters surface. Steven pulled me out and shoved the hose inside me.

Almost immediately, I went stiff. The outside of my body felt scorching hot while a freezing cold spread inside me. Steven pinched the hose, increasing the pressure, and a piercing pain joined the torturous mix of temperatures.

My body started to seize, shacking uncontrollably. My vision blurred until I was blinded by a white light. And all the while, the only thing I could make out in the tornado of swirling pain was laughter. I was sinking, barely holding my head above water, I was going to die. And they were laughing.

Finally realizing that I was quickly losing consciousness, Zach stopped laughing, snatched the hose from Steven, and came to make sure I was okay.

It took me a moment to become fully alert, my eyes taking time to adjust, and the ringing in my eats was starting to fade. It had only been a few minutes, but it felt like hours. And still, all I could hear was Steven laughing.

A child’s guilt.

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Guilt is a funny thing. When you are a child, something as small as stealing a no.2 pencil at school can send your young mind spiraling.

I thought about it all day. How could I do such a thing? I would hate it if someone had stolen my pencil. I was so sad when someone had stolen my special red crayon. That pencil’s eraser was just so much better than mine. It wasn’t fresh, so it didn’t smear my drawings, but it wasn’t overly used either, so the metal edges housing the eraser wouldn’t have scraped the paper. Someone probably thought something just like that when they had stolen my special red crayon.

It was on my mind even when I went next door to see my babysitter, a sixteen year old boy named Jeff. Jeff had the best room. It had lots of cool pictures of people holding katanas on his wall, his own t.v., a couch, and even his own Nintendo 64. That was the best part.

Dad had his own Nintendo 64 at his house, too. We would play Donkey Kong for hours at a time. I couldn’t play on Dad’s game anymore. He was into the really hard levels. But I had thought of a for sure victory plan, I was going to train at Jeff’s house every day after school until I was even better than Dad.

That day, Jeff had an idea. He invited me to lay down with him on the couch. Even with my small six year old body, there wasn’t enough room for us to lay side by side, so he had me lay with my head on his chest. Dad and I had snuggled like that all the time. It always made me so sleepy.

“If you’re going to be using my N64 so much, then it’s only fair if you do something for me, okay,” he asked, stroking my hair.

I looked up at him, “and then I can train to beat Dad?”

He nodded and took my hand, slowly moving it down into his pants. “What do you feel?” He asked.

I was confused. Why did he need my hand in there of all places? “I feel…something smooth…and maybe long?”

“Good,” he said, “if you pet that for a little while, I’ll play Donkey Kong with you. You can even be Diddy Kong.”

I thought it was such a weird thing to ask for, but if it meant I could train to be better than Dad, then it was easy enough. Something about it made me feel uneasy. Why did I feel like I was doing something wrong? Was I making a mistake? Ten minutes hadn’t even passed when I asked if we could play Donkey Kong yet.

As promised, we played, but a lump started forming in my throat. I had just done something horrible, I could feel it. My chest felt tight thinking about it.

Later that night, as Mom was tucking me in, I couldn’t hold it any longer. “Mom, I stole a No.2 pencil at school, and I put my hand in Jeff’s pants so I could play the Nintendo. I’m really sorry, will you forgive me?” I felt like I was about to cry, waiting for her to yell at me.

At first, she looked shocked. Horrified even. But then it was like she realized the look on her face and course corrected. “It’s okay, you don’t have to worry. You can give the pencil back and say you’re sorry.”

I hadn’t even thought of that, “Oh yeah, I’ll do that tomorrow!” She gave me a kiss on the forehead, a hug, and closed the door behind her.

Later that night, I woke to strange voices coming from the living room. One was Mom’s, and she sounded like she was crying. The other voice sounded familiar, but I couldn’t tell who it was.

I snuck out of my room and peeked around the corner into the living room. Mom was there, crying into her open palms. Next to her, rubbing her back, was Jeff’s dad, Gary.

“Mom, what’s wrong?”

Her eyes shot up to meet mine, her face marked with lines from her eyes down around her jawline. She got up and forced a small smile, “I’m sorry I woke you sweetie, there’s nothing wrong. I was just a little sad about something.”

“Oh, okay. Can you tell me what you were so sad about?”

“Don’t worry about that. Let’s just get you to bed.” She ushered me back to my room, tucking me into bed, and all the while, she looked so terribly sad.

Jeff’s dad. Did it have something to do with what I told Mom? I must have really done something horrible to make Mom cry like that. Something even worse than stealing a No.2 pencil.

A child’s guilt is a funny thing.

In the hours after

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The slam of the door left a dull sound echoing as Erik stormed out. Kaylee’s cries seeming to carry it through the apartment. I held her, my poor little girl who could not possibly understand what was happening. Or why. I barely understood myself.

“Why would you make daddy leave,” Kaylee cried, “that is such a mean thing to do!”

“I know you don’t understand sweetheart. You might someday. For now…just know that Daddy did something to hurt Mommy. And Mommy just needs some time.”

“What did Daddy do to hurt you, Mommy?” Evan asked, crawling into my lap with Kaylee.

Erik hadn’t had the nerve to tell them what he had done. He had no conscience when it came to having an affair…but when it came to looking our children in the eye and telling them what he had done, he had not been able to stomach it and told them simply that he would tell them someday. But then again, I didn’t have the nerve to tell them either.

“I’ll tell you when you’re older,” I told them both. I probably never would. Destroying how one looks up to their parents was a concept I was all too familiar with. I didn’t want to be apart of that process for them.

We cuddled there for a while in a silent numbness. Eventually the kids, being resilient as children often are, got up and started to play. I laid there, huddled under my blanket. Trying to block everything with sleep, unsuccessfully. Instead, I watched them play. Silently crying, wondering if our family was about to break.

It wasn’t long before I needed to get up. Needed to move. So I cleaned everything in sight. I scrubbed the walls, cleaned the dishes, mopped the floors, picked up the kids room, until there was nothing else to clean. The only thing left to do was to unbox my new computer for the dream job I had been longing for since the kids were born. A job working from home, where I could be with my children and my husband. A job that was supposed to fix everything. But nothing was that simple. How could I start a new job in the morning with everything going on? How was I supposed to put on a smile and pretend to be a cheerful woman excited for a new adventure? I huffed at the boxes and decided to ignore them. Unboxing them would mean moving forward despite everything. I wasn’t ready for that.

I plopped back down onto the couch, but it wasn’t long before my thoughts started to over take me again. I needed to talk to someone. Anyone. But it was still early in the morning, which meant it was even earlier across the country where my family and friends were. I messaged my Mom and my friends anyways. Hoping someone was awake. I stared at the screen, my foot tapping impatiently. Nothing.

I fell back on the couch exasperated. Suddenly realizing just how alone I was here. It had been hard, moving here for Erik’s school. But before, at least I had him. Now, I had no one to turn to. No one to occupy my time with. No one to talk to. Erik, at least had his sister. I scorned him for bringing me here. For doing this to me when I had no where to escape to. When I had sacrificed everything; my home, my dreams, my family. Just for him to cast me aside when it had all finally become too much for me to endure. I wondered what excuse he possibly had to give. If any excuse he had could possibly be enough. I doubted it.

I slammed my fist into the pillow next to me. As if that could make me feel the least bit better. I couldn’t wait any longer. I stalked into my room and closed the door so the children couldn’t hear me before dialing my little brother Austin’s phone.

“Hello?” He answered, sounding as if he had stayed up all night playing video games again.

“Hey Austin, I am so sorry to wake you up this early…can you grab Mom? It’s important.”

“Yeah, one sec,” he mumbled, sounding somewhat annoyed.

After a few minutes of shuffling noises and static Mom answered. “Hey, what’s going on?” She asked.

“Hey, Mom,” violent sobs started to take over me the moment I heard her voice. I suddenly remembered all the times Mom had told me she thought Erik was just using me. Taking advantage of me. And now, despite always telling her she was wrong, I was about to prove she had been right all along. I hated that almost as much as what Erik had done. “Erik’s been having an affair,” I choked.

“What?!” she yelled. She sounded genuinely surprised. I had half expected an ‘I told you so.’

“How do you know?” she asked.

I told her everything, how I had seen the Just for Us page up on his phone. How I had recognized it was discord, then found the channel on his lap top. How they spoke of loving each other, how Erik had consoled her and told her they would get through this. I was blubbering through snot and tears by this point. I felt like a child running to their mother after getting a scraped knee. No amount of kissing boo boo’s and band aids would help this though.

When I was finished recanting the mornings events, Mom went quite for a moment before stating “you’re coming home.”

For some reason, it wasn’t until that moment that I truly realized the implications of exactly what was happening. Was my marriage really ending? Was I going to have to move back home in shame? Was I going to have to raise my children by myself, without them ever truly understanding why we had run far away from their father? Would they resent me? Were these past six years of toture for nothing? How would this affect them…?

“I can’t Mom, he’s their Dad” was all I could say. I felt as the figurative key turned, locking me into the cage that was now my life, and again I cried.