Page 3 of Give Me Strength

1

ASHLYNN

The sound of rain patters softly against my bedroom window, a melancholic symphony that matches my mood. I open my eyes to the muted gray morning light seeping through the curtains.

It’s been this way for the last week.

Every morning, I wake up hoping that this nightmare isn’t real. And every morning, the cold, harsh reality hits me all over again, and the pain in my chest tightens, squeezing the air from my lungs.

Today is the day of my father’s funeral.

Six months ago, he left home the same way he always does — suddenly and without warning — to some far-flung corner of the world. His assignments were always need to know, and I have never been in the know. Only this time, he returned in a body bag. It’s all hush-hush - where he was, what he was doing, how he died.

Nor do I care, as it won’t change the outcome. He’s gone, and I’m all alone now.

I force myself out of bed, every movement sluggish, weighted down by the sorrow that has become my constant companion. The house feels empty, a hollow echo of the home it once was, devoid of the life it once held.

Truth be told, it has been this way ever since Mom died five years ago.

The reminder clenches around my heart like a vise, and the ache in my chest deepens. I make my way to the bathroom, the cold tiles a harsh contrast to the warmth I crave, grounding me in the harsh reality of my current circumstances.

After closing the door behind me, I take a moment to study my reflection in the mirror, barely recognizing the woman staring back at me. A stranger with swollen, tear-stained green eyes — her mother’s eyes — and dark shadows etched beneath them, a stark contrast to her pale skin. The silence in the house is a suffocating backdrop without Mom’s presence, the echoes of laughter and warmth long gone.

Turning on the shower, I wait for the steam to fill the room before stepping under the scorching spray. The water pelts my skin, washing away the remnants of sleep and the tears I can’t hold back. I close my eyes and lean my forehead against the cool tiles, wishing the heat could melt away the grief and emptiness consuming me.

Instead, I settle for letting the heat soothe my aching muscles.

For a moment, I can pretend that I am just getting ready for a normal day. That my father is downstairs, making coffee as he reads the morning paper. Or making small talk with Mom as she flitters around the kitchen. Or she hums the tunes to Cry, Baby Cry as she makes us breakfast.

But the so-called happy family image was always a myth, and the illusion shatters just as quickly.

My hands tremble as I reach for the shampoo. The familiar scent of lavender fills the air as I work it into my hair, a haunting reminder of simpler times. Mom used to wash my hair with this when I was a kid. Tears continue to flow unchecked as I scrub my scalp with a ferocity that borders on desperation, as if I can wash away the grief that clings to me, or the pain that festers inside me.

Nothing changes. It never does.

As I rinse and repeat with conditioner, my actions are mechanical, devoid of feeling. Next, I scrub my skin with the loofah, watching the soap suds swirl down the drain, taking some of my grief with them.

Still, it’s not enough. It never is.

After what feels like an eternity, I shut off the water and step out, wrapping a towel around my shivering body. The mirror is fogged, obscuring my reflection. On any other day, I would think of it as a small mercy — but not today. My movements are jerky and unsteady as I dry off quickly and wipe down the mirror before wrapping my hair in another towel.

Standing before the mirror, I trace the words inked on my stomach with trembling fingers, the black script a permanent reminder etched into my skin. The mantra echoes in my mind like a distant echo, even though the ink still feels foreign against my flesh.

This ink, these words are supposed to be a source of strength, a testament to resilience in the face of pain, and beacons of hope in the abyss of despair. Each phrase is a reminder of battles fought and scars earned, a bitter truth that cuts deep into my thoughts.

But today, they feel like a cruel joke, mocking the raw ache in my heart and taunting me with false promises of resilience.

You are beautiful.

You are worthy.

You are enough.

The room is suffocatingly quiet, amplifying the ache in my chest. My fingers brush over the letters, feeling the slight raise of the ink against my skin as I repeat the words to myself, letting each syllable sink into my soul. I close my eyes and focus on the words, trying to summon the strength those words are meant to provide. But the darkness presses in, a relentless weight threatening to crush me. The mantra pulses with a bitter truth that cuts deep into my thoughts.

How can suffering shape strength when it feels like it is breaking me apart?

I grit my teeth and force myself to repeat the mantra once more, as if the tattoo itself can infuse me with the strength I desperately need. Yet, despite my efforts, the icy grip of despair tightens its hold.

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