1.2 NUVEMA TOWN
It comes like a pinch, the unexpected sort where their nails snag the thinnest film of skin—a jolt. Calloused fingertips against empty hands, you panic. Where—you spot it on the floor, by your mother's feet. It must have hit her leg, and you apologize. Sincere, but occupied. Get it back, get it back, go get it—but you don't get the chance. Your mother picks up the handheld. "Mom, don't—" but she doesn't listen. Instead, she folds it to a close—
"Mom, what the fuck—no!"
Go get it is a trance which leaves the both of you stunned. A blink: the handheld in your grasp is burning your flesh. She used to be immovable when you threw tantrums, when you swung your fists against her lap, when you pushed her with all your weight and expected the pain to get you what you wanted. She didn't even flinch—oh, but you were just a child then, Twyla. She could fit both of your hands in a clasp and carry you on her back like you were the world, Twyla. You were just a child then—who knew you'd grow up to be a monster? Not you—
Not her: on the floor, recovering from the surprise that her daughter struck her down, and for what? A handheld—but, it's not just a handheld, right? It's reality distilled into pixels, it's reality before its decision to hold you gunpoint, it's your reality—the one you want for yourself. And she knows this, your mother, she knows this because you told her. She knows this, but she still closed the console—but you threw it away.
You shake the thought off and turn the console over, only to be greeted by a slit of orange light which whispered: on. On. On, on, on, on on on on on—
you lift the cover. The game is suspended in a screen of unmoving white because you threw it away. Justify your actions, but you only see the truth. Tangible, unlike those pixels—but those pixels are tangible, or so you try to argue. But they are tangible, they are—an attempt to forget they're dead. The hardwood feels as if it has bitten down on your legs—paralysis. They are tangible… they are. Your grip on the console tightens, but it only burns deeper.
You feel a smile etching itself onto your head. Justify your actions, but you only see the truth. Small as you are, you tower over her crumpled figure. Push her down, but you can't even look at her—pathetic. Distract yourself with the sound of movement from the stairs. The footsteps you hear become hands that strangle the moisture from your throat, and give your heart a reason to race—hammers against a ribcage. Justify your actions, Twyla, or your mother will do it for you. Help her up, you bitch—but you're frozen.
Oh, Twyla, you must have a reason for pushing your mother, right?
Your head snaps towards the sound of barking and a voice—a voice! There's hope that swells in your breast because I can hear again! is a thought that occupies your mind. The same hope that's shot down as you forge connections between voice and face: Aurea, coming up the steps with your mother's Lillipup at her heel. The handheld in your grasp taunts you: you must have a reason for pushing your mother, right? That's certainly something Aurea would love to hear—
"What the hell did you do—" and just like that, she's by your mother's side. "Beth, are you okay?" but your attention is commanded by Mochi, bounding up to you with fur bristling. You don't need to understand his tongue to understand the aggression that laces his growls. The glint in his eyes alone tells you exactly what you are: scum. "I can't believe you," but that's not Mochi anymore.
Your head snaps up to meet Aurea's gaze, and the words escape before the thought even graces you. "I-I didn't mean to—"
"Aurea, please," and your mother places a hand on hers. "She was just surprised," she turns to you, a smile cracking her face, "right, sweetheart?" Sweetheart is said without a trace of bile, or irony. The word is a siren's call which lures you into believing. Believing that everything is fine now; believing that today is so easily excused by yesterday. And if your hands didn't collapse into her shoulders, then maybe you would have believed her—no, you definitely would have believed her. There's your justification, Twyla; now you can crawl back into your room and rot with your handheld without feeling bad about everything you've just done.
Scum.
Her broken smile brings a blade to your palm and draws a long wound—chalk one up for Twyla! There's another person you've hurt, and now, you're forced to face her. See her again for the first time because you never bother to look—hints of age: the streaks of gray hair, the wrinkles, the crow's feet; hints of you: bloodshot eyes, the skin beneath them is weighed down by sleepless nights, and there, her face is gaunt from days spent without a meal. You know—you know she dislikes the silence of an empty dining table, yet you condemn her to that fate anyway. She has never looked so spent, your mother, and though you look around for someone else to blame, there's no one around but you.
Stop running away—
"Twyla—"
I have to get out of here.
"—are you listening—"
It's not my fault.
Your mother places a hand on your cheek—you respond to her kindness with a flinch. "Sweetheart, are you okay?"
It is my fault—
"I'm sorry," you say, but it's barely above a whisper—leave, your body commands you, and so the door slams shut with you on the other side. It locks with a click. The wood catches your back as you slide to the floor that's waiting to eat you alive. Their voices are muffled by the door, but that doesn't matter because this is routine. The words she'll tell Aurea are words you've heard over and over and over again for the past three years.
"Just give her a little more time."
A mantra: just give her a little more time, just give her a little more time, just give her a little more time—and it's been said so much you started believing that time would fix you. Cracked nails rest on your toes. The hamper in the corner is full, so laundry goes on the floor, intertwining with the candy wrappers and plates you left there to rot with you. A pack of cigarettes, never opened, and bottles of alcohol, never full, sleep on your mattress instead of you—this is what healing looks like. This is what healing looks like—this—
You turn the handheld off and it screams—please. The screen bleeds and etches pictures into your flesh—not yet. You see wings like shattered stained glass, trying to flutter free beneath the rock that tossed itself into cathedral windows. You see a child hiding from a banshee's screeches, closing its eyes as claws enter its chest to steal a heart still beating. You see sanity eroding; being forced to bludgeon yourself to death at someone else's command—I don't want to die, Twyla—
your handheld hits the window.
You shouldn't have thrown that because the screams return, and they return, and they return—but you didn't want them to die. The sound of teeth tearing through flesh, of backs hitting concrete walls, of rocks falling onto the Pokémon you cared for—those intertwine with their cries. The sound of I don't want to die, Twyla, but you didn't want them to die. You didn't do enough, Twyla—but you did everything you could! And now your blaming your mother—you're not—
for all of your mistakes—
no!
You've broken her—just like you've done with all of us.
"Twyla?"
—and it's quiet. Open those eyes, take those hands off your ears: in your room is silence. You feel knuckles rasping against your door, and this calms you. A lullaby for your thoughts—thoughts that aren't real, real, real—
they aren't real. Pound your fist against the door: your reply to their concern. It tells them that you'll be out in a bit, and the knocking stops. You're left alone with static, the sort of silence old televisions perfected. Maybe the static is the screaming, only hushed—stop. Take it as simply static. Bring your chin to rest on your knees and fall into yourself. It's in pieces on the floor, your handheld, and still, it taunts you with a faint glimmer. Reality distilled into pixels—you told yourself over and over for the past three years as if the people who came in to pull you from stagnation weren't real. Reality distilled into pixels—you told yourself today in an attempt to forget that your mother isn't real. Your gaze falls onto your hands.
Scum.
GUEST. Thank you so much for your kind words! :) Your readership means a lot to me; I hope I didn't disappoint with this!
