The Awful Truth of Touch
Doctors dictate my maddened mind deceives me, that my past, back in Phoenix, overshadows actions this present. Hood up, head down. My new mantra echoes in my head today as I glue myself to the lifeless, waxy walls of Forks High School. The students, drifting too close for comfort, gossip of why I remain so quiet; I wish to ask them if they can hear my silent screams. Holding my breath, sucking in the sweet yet musty scent of the security of my ever present hoodie, a thunderous clamor of kids coast, unknowingly, to the cafeteria. Scrambling shoes squeak; my own, worn and tattered, hesitate every step, mirroring myself. This chaos, like a strobe light's constant shuttering, fogs my mind, contributes to my pain, and tests my sanity. I no longer can slowly suffer in this hazy fluorescent mud of lighting that mists this torture chamber they call school. I consider the pros and cons of bursting out the bewitching exit doors. Just fifteen feet away, just four frighteningly gangly boys to dodge, just one decision to make; the fear will not swallow me. I can do it. Those inviting doors remain the light at the end of the tunnel as I saunter towards them. This is a bad idea. A sudden static shock strikes though me, allowing this familiar jolt to send me back to Phoenix. Legs weak, head smoldering, I collapse to the ground. Physically the icy, dirty floor of this high school, one thousand, two hundred miles away from my past hold me, but mentally I lie on the floor of my old room. This monster straddles my waist, whipping my face with the sharp leather of his belt. Struggling to break free and help my unconscious brutally beaten mother, he spits curse words, lifting himself off the floor, and leaving a sobbing pained soul. Lying drenched in blood, the smell of death lingers in the air, my mother's mutilated corpse rests just inches away. The real world pulls me back from this nightmare by the cool touch of a comforting hand, my boyfriend, my reason for existence, my angel. Hoarse screams tear up my throat as I listen to the hollow, rough groans escape. As his large, cold, soft hands relax my cheeks, as his melodic, velvet voice works it paralyzing magic, I consume my first breath of the stale, bitter air since my collision with the confused freshman boy, now confined to the polar end of the hallway. The smooth, soothing arms of my angel gently capture my limp body, too exhausted from the outburst. Eyes red from horrified tears, cheeks blushed from humiliation, I nuzzle my face into the crook of his neck. The pain now slowly subsides, relieving the wired nerves from this unnerving trauma. Security of his arms warms my soul, even though the surface is of crisp coolness; I finally affirm safety in the arms of the only one I can touch. Arms welcome me home as I cling to this need for him to keep me sane for just another day. They keep me safe from the gruesome past which I cannot hide from, but face everyday as I shuffle through the hallways avoiding the awful truth of touch.