The Present

*Just a note before you read. When you see the red words, do not emphasize them like a word in italics. They are only there for you to help you notice something.

She wakes up slowly. It's raining outside, just a grim sprinkle, and it's still kind of bright. Mornings are not her favorite. They make her nervous. Lots of things make her nervous. She lays in bed on her side with her eyes still closed, willing the night to wrap her up again in its blanket of darkness--for the twinkling stars to reappear; her nightlights. But instead she puts her socked feet on the ground and takes a deep, deep breath. She stands, takes her clothes off and throws them in the hamper. One sock is hanging off the the side of the basket. She tries to ignore it. She puts on her underwear (her young, middle school body doesn't really need a bra, but she puts one on anyway). She stares in her bra and underwear and mussed up hair at the hamper. She starts to walk toward the hamper, then stops herself. It doesn't matter, she tells herself.
She walks to her closet, which is organized by color alphabetically. Sweaters, shirts, jeans, shorts, dresses, skirts. The shoes on little shelves below, directly under those clothes that she wore them with. She picks her tighter jeans. Not that it makes a difference. I still look like child, she thinks. She finds a white t-shirt and a grey cardigan. The rain might make it chilly. She has a pair of grey flats that match the cardigan perfectly, with white bows on them. She puts them on now. She walks into her bathroom. Her friends are jealous that she has her own bathroom in her bedroom. She hasn't thought much about it, though. It's always been there. This has always been her room, the first one after the hospital upon birth.
She puts on make up. The only kind her mother lets her wear is from a little girl store. It's a white eyeshadow, clear lip gloss, and brown mascara. Her friends all wear thick, black eyeliner, and she thinks they look like sluts. But she is kind of jealous. She wants to look like a slut too. She brushes her hair--exactly 50 long strokes, root to tip. She brushes her teeth for exactly two minutes. Then she grabs her Clorox wipes and cleans off her counter and any toothpaste stains from her sink. Gross. She looks in the mirror, turning from side to side to get a better view. In a drawer are all her headbands, color coordinated to hair bands and barrettes, the same order of her closet. She finds a grey headband.
She has never had to straighten her hair. It's straight already, and too thin. Sometimes it falls out. She cries when handfuls come out in the shower. But it's her own fault, she knows. She pulls on it when she gets too nervous. Sometimes she doesn't even know she's doing it until some breaks off... then she stops and places her long, thin fingers on whatever flat surface she can find, her desk, a counter, a shelf... and presses down hard. Then she lifts her palms and presses forward until it hurts and her fingers change color. Then she holds it there a while, and she waits ten seconds (she watches her watch to make sure). Then she does not remove the pressure until someone speaks a word with the letter 'y'. She watches the second hand carefully to calculate the time. When she is alone, she waits until she hears a noise--sometimes it's her cat knocking something over, or a loud radio from a passing car. She comes out of it, she pulls out her pocket notebook and writes the date then, for instance, "90 seconds past 10 seconds which began at 10:43 am."
But she doesn't pull on her hair in the bathroom, she just looks at herself in the mirror, wishing was more womanly. She imagines what she might look like if her breasts and hips extended outward from her bone-like torso. She chokes a little on a sob, but swallows it down. Nothing comes of it. She leaves her bathroom and the first thing she sees is that damned sock. She punches her wall as hard as she can, with all the energy that compelled her to do so, and she shoves the sock into the hamper. She jumps around a little trying to let the ringing in her ears, the the buzzing in her limbs, the pressure in her throat, all of it, all of it, all of it...

OUT!

And she still feels it. But it's controllable. It's in a box inside of her. It's kicking and screaming to get out. I'm part of you too! the broken girl screams, tears running down her face; all within a girl's consciousness. But that little devilish part of her just doesn't understand that it is not to be seen. It is not to be seen. She's talking to her, but she ignores her, even though she feels uncomfortable shoving such a sad girl into a box. It's necessary, and she does it with an angry and unkind force to cover her mixed feelings on the matter. But she feels different today. Even her perfect image, her sanity, is starting to boil. She looks down at her hand. It's throbbing, but it doesn't hurt yet. But it's bleeding, just a little. Little burns are on each knuckle, and tiny little pieces of skin had peeled up, and although the under-layer is white, it's beginning to pop with tiny red dots that will soon fill the little wounds.
She doesn't want to be here anymore. Not in her house, not in Belmont, not in the United-Fucking-States-of-Fucking America. She wants out. She pushes her bed just a bit away from the wall. She picks up the box that's there, and leaves her room. Downstairs Mother is waiting on her. She points to a room. The door is already open. She knew where to go, though. She doesn't know why Mother always points. It's silly. Inside the room are pictures, pictures, pictures. Pictures and pictures, as well as pictures & pictures. Every inch of wall is covered with little Polaroid pictures with their date written on the white. There is still room, though. A tiny bit of wall on the end.
She sits down on a large wooden chair. Mother shuts the door and readies her camera. She smiles in preparation for the picture. Mother is upset. "This is not the way we take pictures, _____." She continues to smile. "Explain yourself, child." She looks her mother in the eye. She hasn't done that for years. Then she stands up, walks around, a near-permanent smile on her face. She looks at the pictures, remembering each day. From the day she turned five to the present, Mother has taken pictures of her. She was never allowed to smile. Every single day of her life before her, on these small walls, she feels comforted. She had grown. She was not always this way. But she will grow more now. And she'll be the woman she wants to be. But then she looks at the empty space on the wall. She knows that Mother will be done with her when there is no more room. She is dead when the pictures end. But she doesn't know what Mother would do then. Surely she won't kill me. She's not that crazy. But I am.
Mother screams. "SIT DOWN!" She sits back down and fixes that smile back on her face. She forgot about the box! It's sitting on her lap. "Stop this. Stop it." She continues to smile and says: "Mother. I just can't stop smiling because I have a present for you. I'm just too excited to see your face when I show you what it is." Mother is confused. They do not speak to one another this way. "Well, that's nice. What is it, may I ask?" She slowly opens her box and pulls out a gun. She cocks it and points it at Mother.
"What will you do when you run out of room?"
Silence
"Answer me!"
SilenceThe brokenness within her came out when the gun came out of the box. She starts to sob and tries to repeat her last line, but her voice keeps breaking. Mother finds a small, scared voice; enough to speak to her daughter.
"I-I don't know."
"You're a liar." She gets stronger. She yells through the pulsing pressure in her tiny chest.
"I know, I know..."
"I'm going to give you ten seconds to explain my fate in two words."
ten..........nine..........eight..........seven..........six....."Kill you."
"Good. Then this is self-defense."