Page 93 of Caged
I watch myself braid and unbraid. Braid and unbraid.
Braid and unbraid…
I walk through my childhood house, this time as an adult. I walk into my mother’s bedroom, where she sits in front of the vanity, smoking a cigarette while putting on makeup.
I stand behind her. Every painful memory, every hungry night, every time I was blamed, every time I was called ungrateful, downloads into my consciousness, and I remember.
I remember what she put me through, and I see myself now and think about the times I’ve subconsciously thought myself unworthy. I understand now. I remember all that happened, my suffering, my heartbreak. I was just a little girl who wanted to be loved.
But she was never capable of loving me, and I blamed myself for her shortcomings.
My entire life, I’ve blamed myself.
My dad, piece of shit that he is, was right.
I breath in, deeply and profound, raising my arms above my head. I grab all the memories. I pull them down, wadding them up into a ball. I squeeze them between my fingers, crumpling them until it physically hurts.
You don’t own me anymore.
You don’t deserve me. You don’t define me.
I look down, and at the base of my feet is a gaping hole. Metal teeth gnash together, churning, destroying.
I take one last look at my memories, and then I let go.
I don't need to watch them be shredded, because my body feels it, deep within my bones.
“One more thing Monroe,” I hear my grandmother say. Her voice sounds so near; she could be kneeling next to me.
I look up and see I’m in a new place. There are other kids here. I don’t know them, but I hear them playing. I sit crisscross applesauce. The linoleum wood floor is cold and clean. Beforeme is a coloring book, the cartoon outline half-colored, and crayons.
Standing, I go to find my mother, remembering that I’ve gone with her to a babysitting job.
“What are you doing?” I ask my mom when I find her in a bedroom.
She’s in the closet, twisting a knob. My adult self recognizes the safe, although I know my child-self didn’t comprehend what she was doing at the time.
“Shhh, Monroe. Be quiet,” she hisses. “I’m listening for the clicks.”
42
MONROE
Five Months Prior to Present Day,
48 – 72 Hours After the April Full Moon Ceremony,
Junior Year,
Sigma
Not three.
I spin the dial slowly.
Not four. The resistance didn’t change.
I spin further and feel the resistance give ever so slightly.
