Page 4 of Tortured Whispers
The water was filling up my head quickly.
Think, Brooklyn…
What’s making you so anxious? What’s really choking you?
The entire day.
Mispronouncing Mr. Fontroy’s name.
Being a senior.
Being alive…
My throat grew tight and I tried to let Hall and Oates calm my beating heart but it wasn’t working. I didn’t realize how worked up I was. I found the bottom of my sleeve with my lips and nibbled on the fabric while I tore my room apart trying to find a razor.
“Hey, Brooklyn.” I jerked my eyes up and looked at my father. He stood in my doorway, his gaze scanning the mess on my bed. I’d dumped out all sorts of little boxes and hiding places. Jewelry, paperclips, coins and other knick-knacks littered my comforter.
We stood there staring at each other while an upbeat guitar played in the background over the boombox speakers. “I took them, Brooklyn,” he said, letting his head hang. He always looked so defeated. I did that to him. I drained my father. He didn’t need to tell me for me to know it.
I drained everyone that tried to help and he’d tried the longest.
Tears welled in my eyes and burned on their way down my cheeks. Shame was hotter than hell. It was hotter than any volcano eruption. It burned slowly from the inside out and made every skin cell on my body itch.
“I knew you’d be like this today. I couldn’t bear to see the blood soaking your sleeves or caking beneath your nails.” His voice was quiet and he avoided my eyes. I’d avoid them too if I were him.
I was broken and wicked.
Sure, he told me all the time that I wasn’t but I knew better. Only someone broken and wicked would hurt themselves and pray for death instead of the strength to push forward another day.
I sniffled and pushed strands of my black hair back. My ponytail was loose and hair spilled out everywhere. “I love you, Brooklyn. You know that right, sweetie?” Dad took one step into my room. He stood in front of me and I hugged myself, looking down at my bare feet. I hated that he knew how broken I was.
“I know, Dad,” I said quietly.
“Come downstairs to the kitchen. Your aunt Erica sent over some banana bread.” He smiled at me and the fine lines around his eyes fanned out making his smile look even deeper.
I could still feel the scorch of shame burning me though. “I’ll be down in a minute,” I whispered, retreating further in my room and sitting on the floor beside my boombox. Dad nodded and left without a word.
The thought of my aunt’s banana bread had my stomach rumbling. I loved to heat it up in the microwave and let it get soft. Aunt Erica always sent over a loaf on my first day of school.
She started after my mother died because it was my mom’s favorite thing to bake. It was her way of keeping her sister’s memory alive. I usually appreciated it too.
After my first drowning experience freshman year, that banana bread was the only thing I would eat.
