Page 13 of Compassion

But I can’tbein two places at once.

It’s not possible.

Chinese food in the middle of a missionisn’tpossible.

Another glance at the box seems to push away the smoke.

Reveal the frost on grass.

Or is that blood?

My eyes grab a glimpse over my shoulder to see a tree rather than the white wall I rushed to only seconds ago.

Bark instead of brick.

Missing wood as opposed to bullet holes.

More panic seeps into my system forcing me to shut my eyes and cover my ears. Thoughtlessly, I begin to rock. Slow. Intentional. Command that my body connects to the ground beneath me. Demand that my mind acknowledges where we physically are this moment. Under my breath, I quietly recite the trained phrase I taught myself to use in these situations, “That was then…,” my frame continues to sway, “this is now.” The rhythm syncs to that of my statements. “Hiltz was then.” Pushing harder on my ears blocks out any unwanted noise. “Sesame Chicken is now.” Pressure unhurriedly begins to remove itself from my chest. My arms. “That was then…this is now.”

The repetition relentlessly continues at a low volume until I’m successfully yanked out of the hole that is my horrific past and plopped remorselessly back into the present. At that moment, that exact moment when I know without a doubtwhereI am as much aswhoI currently am, I let out a deep breath, slam the back of my head against the tree trunk, and drag the open container over to me with the tip of my finger.

You know being without a steady place to live, a job, or people who give a fuck about you is hard enough. Having a trigger that can spiral you back in time with no way of escaping is like having cancer in remission. You’re never sure when it’ll wake back up or if it will at all. You can onlysuspect. You can pray to whoever it is you pray to that itwon’t.But the truth? The full, ugly, no punches pulled to the balls truth is that it doesn’t fucking matter. You still have a ticking time bomb waiting to blow up inside of you. You are a walking disaster. A tragedy on two feet. No one should have to suffer through thatorthis. No one. Fucking. No. One.

Chapter 5

Jaye

Shit, I’m late! So late! So, so late! Um…alright maybe not exactly late. At least not yet. But I will be if I don’t put a little Panic! in my Disco. You know…like the band? Anyway, this is exactly why I do everything I can to avoid falling asleep on the couch. On one page, it’s the closest thing Ieverget to peaceful sleep. Whether that’s two in the afternoon or two in the morning, this couch, this comfy purple clashes with everything else in the room couch, provides me with just enough guilt free mind space to sleep like I imagine the masses do. It’s one of theonlythings in this house that I boughtafterChris’s death. We had a couch when he was alive, of course. It was white. We’re talking,painfullywhite. Unfortunately – or fortunately for my purple couch – during one of my postmortem sob fests about him, I managed to get red wine on it. And by on it, I mean all the fuck over it. Cushions. Pillows. Legs. I felt like a such a monster that I rush ordered a new one through the tears that night only to have the wrong furniture delivered to me, yet when this plum piece of crazy came, I loved it. For some reason, it called to a little piece of my soul. I didn’t wanna send it back, so I didn’t. Now, on the other page of this cautionary Princess and The Pea like tale, sleeping on this thing is dangerous because Ialwayssleep through everything when I do! Phone calls. Texts. Alarms. Which is what happened this morning and why I need you to excuse me now to quickly go get ready for work.

In impressive timing, I shower, change into black pants, a black camisole, and purple blazer I hardlyeverwear, and manage to get on just enough makeup that will prevent my mother from bitching about my appearance if I happen to swing by after book club tonight.

Not promising I will. I typically pretend it runs too late. Thankfully that’s bullshit she always buys.

Downstairs, I quickly wiggle on my flats while silently reassuring myself that my curls are tamed enough for work. While I prefer having the extra fifteen minutes to stop them from looking like I stuck my finger in an electrical socket, shit happens, which is why I made sure early on in my career to perfect the sleek high ponytail for these emergency situations.

The grabbing of my coat as well as my workbag – that doubles as a purse during the week – is swift yet instead of charging out to my car that I auto started when I only had one shoe on, I’m blocked by a piece of ripped brown paper being held down by one of the rocks from my garden alongside a gorgeous, red rose.

There’s no stopping the bright smile that jumps onto my face from the unexpected sight. I carefully lean down to pick up the morning surprise, grin growing even wider from the words left behind.

Thank you.

Two words.

Just two very simple, very common words, yet the way butterflies are fluttering around my stomach, they feel like ones he scoured the entire world searching for.

Chomping down on my bottom lip is done to prevent from swooning.

What? Of course, I know it was Mr. Green Eyes who left this. Who else could it have possibly been?! The woman across the street? Why would she leave me a thank you note and a flower? For returning her cat? She didn’t even realize the damn thing was missing. Come on. Webothknow who left this. Hm? Oh, don’t be silly! He was clearly just trying to express his gratitude, nothing more. This was just him being…thoughtful. Returning the kindness that was extended to him. It’s sweet. Super sweet. And from my experiences in life, if I’ve learned anything it’s that sweet without an agenda israrein this world.

I happily add the objects to the others I’m holding and pull of an award worthy juggling act to lock my front door. On my way to my car, I brush the edge of the rose right underneath my nose, and inhale deeply, letting myself get lost in the sweet scent versus distracted by the shouting match from next door.

What! A crush?! You think I have a crush on the guy who eats my garbage? First off, that’s…that’s such a weird sentence to say, and second of all…I…don’t have time to have this conversation with you. I’m late for work, remember?

The morning pushes forward in its typical fashion. Some people are too indulged in their morning coffee or fixing their mascara to focus on the green lights while others who are clearly running late cut people off or abuse their horns to express their frustrations.

Personally?

I’m too distracted by the thoughtful gesture to care.

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