Page 9 of For Wrath and Redemption
The air is knocked from my lungs as my back meets the hard ground, and I choke out a groan.
“Mother fuck, I’m too old for this.”
I open my eyes and peer up at the dark sky as I catch my breath. It’s a moody blend of blues and blacks. No stars. There never are here. It’s fucking fitting.
Slowly, I roll onto my stomach, then rise onto my knees but keep my head resting on my forearms. I inhale deeply, the scent of soil and grass mixing with the scent of weed on my shirt. I wait for my head to stop spinning. It doesn’t, but it slows, and that’s as good as it’s going to get right now. I sweep my hand through the grass beside me, latch on to the neck of my vodka bottle, and then slowly push to my feet.
Muscle memory leads me through the rows of headstones and monuments, and a new floral scent dances on every light breeze. It used to be my favorite thing about this cemetery. The variety of blooms left on the unforgotten burial plots. The people under that earth are loved. They are missed. They are visited often. It’s not lost on me that the freshest flowers are often left on the most modest grave markers.
A frown tugs at my forehead. I uncap my vodka and lift the bottle to my lips. I tip it back, the booze filling my mouth and dribbling from the sides, and I swallow down the alcohol. It barely tastes like anything anymore. It may as well be water.
I screw the cap back on the bottle, then continue my walk, taking care to breathe through my mouth instead of my nose. I don’t want to think about the flowers or about families mourning their dead. I don’t want to think about the ones left behind.
When the white stone mausoleum comes into view, my steps slow. I squint, forcing the hazy glow around the building to lessen. I swallow back the lump that forms in my throat, then take another pull from the vodka bottle. I’m so fucking drunk, and it’s still not enough.
I bypass the door—my key is in my safe deposit box in Los Angeles—and instead walk to the back of the building. I take a deep breath as I stare up at the colorful stained-glass window. Mary is cradling baby Jesus, with circular halos outlining both their heads.
Objectively, even in the dark of night, the art is beautiful.
I narrow my eyes as anger surges up my throat like bile, and I grit my teeth against the sudden desire to scream. I finish off the rest of my vodka, wipe my face with my forearm, and clear my throat.
“Sorry, Mother.”
I hurl the bottle through the window.
The glass shatters, making a slightly musical sound, and my lips almost twitch into a smile. Then I’m plunged back into silence. Just my heavy breathing and the light, floral-scented breeze rustling through the grass.
I take my shirt off and use it to brush the glass from the stone windowsill, then pull myself through the opening. It’s too high for me to enter feet first, and it’s too small to allow me to turn around, so my forearms collide with the stone floor as I fall into the crypt, followed quickly by my body landing prostrate amongst the window remnants.
I hiss as shards of glass dig into my exposed skin—arms, hands, chest. Even the parts of my knees not protected by denim are assaulted, and I wonder which slices are caused by Mary and which by Jesus. The thought makes me chuckle as my blood smears on the white stone tiles, the red appearing black in the darkness.
I make my intoxicated, battered body stand, but it immediately wants to shrink. To crouch backward. This room feels so much smaller than the last time I was here. If I stretched my arms out, I could touch both walls. I don’t attempt it. I keep my arms secured firmly at my sides.
This room feels smaller now because I was smaller then.
The thought draws out more memories, a nauseating blend of good and bad. I tip my head to the ceiling, and I clamp my eyes shut once more, but instead of forcing the memories down, I let myself feel them. I let them overwhelm me.
Every ounce of self-doubt. Of loss. Of feeling like an intruder in my own fucking home. It weighs heavily on my chest and makes it hurt to breathe.
Self-flagellation is my favorite pastime.
I clench my hands into fists as laughter echoes in my brain, loving and kind. More tender than anything I’ve ever known. And yet...it’s tainted. It cuts deeper than the indifference. The disappointment. Theneglect. How can you truly love someone if your life, your happiness, depends on their acquiescence? If it’s conditional on their loyalty and obedience?
A sob claws its way up my throat, breaking violently through my lips. My body bows, and my hands clutch my head as hot tears break through the barrier of my eyelashes. They burn as they stream down my cheeks. I haven’t cried in years. It’s worse than I remember. I press my palms into my eyes, pushing until white flashes behind my eyelids.
I tried so fucking hard. Tried to be what they needed. Tried to do what was desired of me. What wasrequiredof me. No matter the pain. No matter the anguish. I tried, and I failed.
“Goddamn it.” My voice is rough and strangled in my own ears. It sounds weak, and that fuels my anger. “Goddamn it!”
I turn to the wall and slap it with both palms, then press my forehead against it and pound with my fists. Choking back another wail, I push harder against the marble slabs.
I shouldn’t have done this. I shouldn’t be here. I fucked up.
The stone cools my heated skin as I rock my head back and forth. I breathe deeply, forcing my heart to calm. Forcing my tears to slow. Forcing the feelings back down into the dark recesses of my mind. Far away from my heart. Far away from my consciousness. No one can survive this way. I shouldn’t have let myself forget.
When my emotions are manageable and my grief is masked, I straighten my spine. I make my six-foot-one frame fill the room and set my eyes on the gold frieze above the locked door. I count backward from one hundred until my body no longer has to fight the urge to fold in on itself.
I won’t share space with the dead. Not anymore. Not in this room. Not in my head.
