Page 73 of False Start
And then I remember the last time we saw each other, how I wasn’t of value unless I was buying from him, using with him, or giving him money. His memory turns sour in my mind, and though Ihopehe isn’t dead, I wonder if closure would feel better than this, thisthingwe’ve left unfinished.
It makes me wonder if I’ve numbed myself to this kind of pain, if I’ve survived the loss of Lonnie because I’ve already lost everyone before. I’ve already practiced the pain and rehearsed the feelings of mourning every person I’ve loved.
I had over a year to grieve Lonnie before they’d actually died. The diagnosis took too long, by the time we found out, all we could do was enjoy the time we had together. The treatments became too costly, and no matter how much we all wanted to help them through it, they refused.
Dying on their own terms was a respect I could grant them, one that caused a tectonic shift between the skaters who couldn’t accept Lonnie’s wishes. I never cried in front of them, never told them how much I’d miss them or how much I wanted them to keep fighting. StarScreameronce called me dead inside for it, but she didn’t understand that my brain spent every day we had left already mourning. By the time it came, it hurt just a little less.
So dead inside was fine. Was I supposed to prove my love in some performative way that showed them all how sad I was? Was I supposed to scream how I would have worked until my bones were exposed if it meant paying for Lonnie to stick around in pain just a little longer? It wouldn’t have mattered.
That wasn’t Lonnie’s way, and had they heard, they would have paid someone to kick my ass since they weren’t strong enough to do it anymore.
Once I’ve nibbled at my soul like a well-pecked carcass, I finally gain the motivation to move her. Her heart rate feels okay, and her breathing isn’t shallow. I turn her to her side just to be safe, and I stare just a little longer. Just another hour, maybe two, before I go back into my hobby room and decide to sit at the leatherworking desk again.
It’s been at least a year since I’ve fucked with any of it. This shit, these meaningless little hobbies; I don’t ever really lose the knowledge when I learn it, no matter how much time goes by, even if I only learn the basics, enough to satisfy the part of my brain that likes to check off the box that says “skill accomplished” before we move to the next one.
I find a piece of leather in my scrap pile. It’s white and just the right width and length for what’s floating in my brain. Sliding the drawer open, I pull out the satchel of tools, brushing the dust off and finding appreciation for the things that draw me back to creating.
Like her.
I remove the edgers and the marking awl, and then I get to work with a vision in my mind. One hole at a time, Iset them in before stitching the edges of the top. There’s extra leather to work with in the middle, so I cut the bottom into a downward angle. It’s not drastic, but it’s enough that it’s not the standard. No, that would be too boring for Antônia. Instead, I let the leather shape slightly into a point. Measuring would have been ideal, but it’s not exactly necessary. Room for error here is large; it would be hard to fuck this up when I’m already so aware of her body.
I’m confident that the length is perfect, so I choose a gold buckle set with a thick matching loop for the front and begin to set it in. I find just enough gold studs to add to the trim every few centimeters, lining both the top and the bottom edges all the way around. It’s nothing like I’ve ever made.
But I’ve never made a collar before either.
It’s nearly noon when I look at my phone again. I haven’t slept, or eaten, or peed, or taken a goddamn sip of water since we got home. As always, the task at hand takes precedent.
Never my own needs.
I throw the work in progress into the drawer, not sure that it’s actually complete, but then again, none of my projects are ever finished. If I could, I would revise each piece until my final day, continuously updating them as I grow so that no one can ever see what I once was at the start.
The finality of calling a piece done is far too great a burden to bear, far too heavy to accept. It means being satisfied with myself and what I can do, something I know nothing about.
A quick check on Nia before I shower shows me her breathing is a little more erratic and her body is nowdrenched in sweat. She’s better off sleeping if she can. She’ll be coming down again soon, if she’s not already.
I’ll catch her as many times as it takes, but she has to let me.
Help me.
Her soft little words permeate my brain as the water washes over me.
30
NIA
Iwake up soaked in my own sweat, but it’s the urge to vomit that hits me first.
My phone is nowhere to be found, but there’s a clock next to her bed with a bright four staring me in the face. She let me sleep the whole day. My head pounds, an obnoxious sharp pain that’s impossible to ignore.
Rolling off the bed as if it’s the most laborious chore, I fall on top of a trash can already lined with a bag next to the bed. It’s as if my needs were already anticipated.
I can’t hold it back. I spew, heaving the little bit of liquid still in my body before the bile surfaces. Hot and cold wraps me all at once while vomit and snot mix together to drip down my face. I wipe my nose on the shoulder of my shirt before remembering that I’m not wearing one of mine.
It’s not much better, the nausea only simmering instead of boiling over.
My head pounds with the smallest movements, but I don’t want to be here. The carpet is too hot, and I can feel every fiber scratching at my skin. I crawl to the bathroom,only further worsening the dripping from my sinuses and the ache of the migraine.
Then, I remind myself it’s not a migraine.
