Content Warning: abuse
The starless sky is darkening. You feel a bit of warm liquid dampen your panties. You do this sometimes. It’s a small release you can control, making up for all the things you can’t. You wish you could make yourself smaller, shrink until you are invisible. You count to ten backwards in your head, hoping he can’t see you. Praying, your hands clenching into fists, that he will leave you alone.
A rift opens in your chest. The therapist tells you it wasn’t your fault, that it was all about control. You listen with your head tilted to the side, wispy strands of your hair brushing your shoulder, as the walls of the room inch closer, restricting your air. As much as you want to believe this, the angry buzzing in your head won’t stop. You try to eject the darkness that swirls in your belly and clouds your thoughts by breathing out and watching it stream from your mouth like steam on a chilly day. When your hour is up, you walk back to your car through the dimming alley with tiny white, wet dots of tissue, fuzz sticking to your cheeks.
The fracture widens. You are tired. The shadows still find their way in like driving rain pelting under an undersized umbrella, soaking you to the bone. Talking alone doesn’t work, so your therapist offers you a prescription. You never tell a soul, but take it faithfully for years, feeling that little blue pill smooth in your palm every morning before swallowing it with your muddy coffee. It numbs the noisy places and heightens the calm ones. In time, the rolling darkness pulls back like a fading mist. It brings you back.
The splintering crack closes, and I finally know that it wasn’t my fault.
Brigitta Scheib (she/her) is a teacher that lives in Harrisburg, PA with her husband, daughter, and 3 orange cats. Her work can be found at Temple in a City, Flash Phantoms, PoArtMo Magazine, Bright Flash Literary Review, Writing Against the Grain, Paragraph Planet, and 101 Words, among others.
Bluesky: @bscheib.bsky.social
Instagram: @brigitta71