Inhale, Exhale

You slide the green, plastic M&M’s minis container from under its hiding place beneath your mattress and use your thumb to open the lid. It makes a popping noise that you’ve come to enjoy, to anticipate. You stick two fingers inside the tube and slide a Benson and Hedges menthol cigarette out of the container, its paper wrapper bent and crinkled from where you tried to pack it to make it burn longer. You aren’t sure who told you to do that—you think it was the freshman who found you in the school woods smoking during lunchtime. Cupping the cigarette and a red BIC lighter in your hand, its child safety feature already removed, you pull the edge of your sleeve over your prize and secure the fabric between the knuckles of your fingers to keep it hidden. You then quietly pad down the hallway to the back door. You gently turn the knob and escape, though your sneaky actions are unnecessary—they’re probably unaware that you’re even home yet. You do everything you can to not come home these days, even if that means sitting at the Hardee’s down the street until they make you leave after not buying more food.

It’s only 5 pm; if you’re lucky, you’ll be invisible for another hour or two. You make your way around the corner of the house and sit behind the azalea bush that’s in full bloom. Last year’s fallen leaves crunch underneath you as you sit, the scent of damp earth surrounding you. It reminds you of the freedom you’ll never have. You unwrap your package, bring it to your lips, and hold the stick between them. The Truth campaign commercial pops into your head and you pause your lighting as second thoughts creep in. Smoking is bad for you, you know this. The jalousie windows above you rattle as a door slams, and your thumb finds its way back to the striker. A quick flick has you inhaling, and your eyes cross as you watch the end of the cigarette glow in response. A crisp, mentholated smoke then hits the back of your throat and slithers deep into your lungs, burning like napalm as the shards of fiberglass and God knows what else these things are made of infiltrate your bloodstream. You hold the poison in for as long as you can before exhaling and embrace the buzz that follows. As smoke leaves your parted lips and swirls around you, you imagine it’s your soul searching for another host. This one’s not good enough, it says. This one’s damaged beyond repair. You subconsciously rub the self-inflicted scars in agreement.

Your mother’s voice then pierces your thoughts. You pull your hoodie over your head and hug your knees closer to your chest. You don’t need to look through the window to know her jaw is jutting out and her bulging eyes are burning holes through your dad. She yells at him to go to the convenience store to get another bottle.

Glass shatters.

Cabinets slam.

Phones turn into torpedoes.

Skin slaps skin.

Dad yells, “We don’t have the money!”

“Just one more—I’ll make it last this time.”

“No.”

You inhale.

“You don’t love me. You want me to suffer!”

The front door slams. An engine starts. Tires squeal.

You exhale.

He always does what she wants.

Your bladder is going to burst, but you won’t go back inside. Not yet. You keep the cigarette between your lips as you stand and peer over the bush to make sure the neighbors aren’t watching. You drop your pants and squat; the relief is instant. After the last drop, you shake your ass and button your jeans back up, then sit back on the ground, a few feet over this time.

The car door and front door slam simultaneously.

Four minutes—he broke his own record.

“Make this last the rest of the week,” he says, glass clinking when he hands your mom the two large bottles of White Zinfandel.

Two.

You sigh.

The front door slams behind your mom as she rushes inside to make them last.

You inhale and burn your fingers as the cherry eats the filter. You exhale, then stub it out on the cinder block wall next to you, dropping the butt into an empty diet soda can that’s filled with stagnant rainwater. You want to get back inside before things take a turn, so you stand, brush yourself off, and make your way around the house to the back door. You pause. Silence. You turn the knob gently and step inside, then shut it just as gently behind you.

Papers are strewn across the parquet floor. You find an envelope under your foot with “past due” stamped on it, along with your report card with the row of matching F’s. Another metal strip hangs from the blinds. That’s three new gaps this week, you count as light slices through their empty voids and casts shadows of bars across your chest.

“Show me your phone!” Your mother screams from the back of the house. Probably the office where your dad likes to lose himself in his computer. You go to the kitchen and grab the least dirty cup from the pile in the sink and rinse it as best you can, then fill it with tap water.  You take a drink. You cringe at the odd flavor. You look over at the dining table covered in  stacks of papers, junk, and more dirty dishes and long for a hot meal, a nice family dinner like you’ve seen on TV. Pot roast, you imagine. No. Spaghetti with garlic bread. Your stomach growls just as a crash sounds from the other room.

“Get out!”

A fist hits drywall.

“Don’t touch me!”

Mom screams.

Skin slaps skin.

You want to go to your room, but it’s down the hallway, just past the office.

You take a few steps, wishing you lived in one of those multilevel houses.

“You never listen to me! Why won’t you listen to me? Look at me, Jeff! Look at me!”

Thud.

You exhale as you pause at the edge of the open doorway.

You know what a book sounds like when it hits a human body. You just hope it’s not one  of yours.

“Goddamnit, Samantha! That really hurt!”

A chair flies into a metal filing cabinet. A hand swipes across a shelf. Hand-painted plaster figurines from your childhood—the pink and purple owl with the fork imprinted feathers  on its chest, the chubby green frog, and the red heart with your handprint in the center—all  shatter on the floor.

Your bedroom is five feet away and you speed-walk towards it, but an arm flies out of the  office doorway and grabs the back of your sweatshirt, yanking your body to a halt. You enter the room in reverse. The hand spins you in circles until you’re facing the chaos. Your mother’s weight pulls on your shoulder.

“Tell him. Tell him what we found in his wallet!” Her pungent breath causes acid to  rise in your throat.

“Please, mom,” you beg as fingers dig into your arm. “I don’t want to do this. Just let me go to my room.”

“You ungrateful bitch!”

Skin slaps skin.

Feet stumble.

Bodies fall.

Closet doors come off of tracks. You stand up. She tries but fails.

“She hit me! She hit me,” she screams as she points an accusing finger in your direction. “Did you see her shove me down? She’s out of control, Jeff. You want to know why I drink? THIS is why I drink! You both did this to me. You did this to me.” She turns her fury back to dad. You know what happens next.

A cassette tape in its case gets thrown.

Dad yells.

Blood flows.

Mom gets to her feet and lunges.

You jump in the way, arms out to stop her. She grabs your forearms. You grab back, feeling the aging flesh that had once changed your diapers and brushed your hair. She pushes. Hard. You stumble, then push back.

Dad roars, “Samantha, stop!”

She rips her arms away and gasps as she cradles one against her. You look down. Red lines appear on her skin. You inhale. You look back up. Tears coat her face. You shake your head. Your dad pulls her to him and comforts her. Not you. Her.

You run to your room and slam the door. Your body slides down it and you sit on the  cool floor.

You exhale.

You hug yourself and rock. No tears coat your face; your eyes are as dry as the Sahara.  Your sleeve rises as you push it up. Your nails find the soft side of your wrist and you scratch. You scratch and rock. With each sway you get further away. But before you get too far, you crawl under your bed and curl into a ball on your side. Something you’ve always done. Your body tingles. You inhale. You welcome it.

The yelling and screaming seem further away now—it’s as if someone has turned the sound of reality down. Even your throbbing cheek is just a whisper.

Numbness wraps you in its warm cocoon.

You shut your eyes.

You’re almost there.

So close.

You exhale.