I stare at the hole in the wall, twist my head from side to side, run my fingers over the rough edges. I try to see it from every angle, imagine my body shrinking down small enough to fit in the space his fist created. My chest feels hollow, I can hardly feel my heart beating. Sometimes I wonder if it’s still there.
Suddenly I’m five and my mother is dumping all my toys onto the floor of my clean room. She pulls drawers from their tracts, tips them upside-down. I drown in a sea of crayon wrappers and stuffed-animals, my little fingers sinking below the Lego-dotted surface. My floor becomes a landfill and somehow, it’s my fault; she’s always sure to remind me.
I’m seven again, and I watch her throw her phone at the front door. It scuffs the white surface and drops to the floor. I press back into the wall, close my eyes, my skin camouflages with the beige paint. It’s her third phone this year.
I’m ten and she’s red in the face, veins popping from her neck, hair askew. The purple laundry basket sits overturned in the middle of the kitchen. She kicks the baby gate down the stairs, the wood digs in on its way down, scars the walls. I bury myself in the pile of linen, fold myself away with the sheets and towels, hide there on the shelf.
I’m twelve and standing at the kitchen sink. I hold a wet plate in my hands, watch it slip, and then pick up the pieces. The release I feel scares me. I sweep the floor, finish the dishes, never break another plate again.
I’m twenty-two, getting ready in my apartment bathroom. His smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes, not as he opens my door, not when he watches me walk across the stage, not at dinner. I hide behind the bathroom door, slip off the dress, ball it up, throw it away. Slut. The word slips into my bones and poisons the marrow. So casual in his anger. It’s my fault. I’m wrong, even when I’m trying my best to do right. I let him pull me in, wrap his arms around me while I cry. I disappear into his chest, let him absorb me through his rib cage, until I am nothing, no one.
I am twenty-three, it’s Christmas and my father slams his glass on the floor of the bar. Vodka and 7up pool around my shoes. My mind goes blank. I’ve offended him, I am ungrateful. His anger is my fault. I swallow the sharp pieces, apologize, smile with bloody teeth. But I am not really here, I am sinking into this chair, disappearing between the folds of leather.
I am twenty-six and I sit at the kitchen table. My coffee is cold; I can’t bring myself to drink it. I wonder how the girl who said she’d break the cycle got crushed under the wheel. Why she keeps coming back to the places she ran from. I ask her, but she doesn’t answer; instead, she writes.
