I wanted to grab his cigarette from his rough lips. I wanted to burn my fleshâany cigarette-sized section of fleshâwith it. Then, for just a second, I wanted to burn his flesh instead. Perhaps I wanted to see physical pain in his eyes because I couldnât see my own pain, not really, not clearly. I was horrified by my thoughts, but my horror did not quiet them.
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Osita wished, much later, that heâd told Vivek the truth then, that he was so beautiful he made the air around him dull, made Osita hard with desire. âTake it off,â he snapped instead, his throat rough. âPut it back before they catch us.
At that appointment, I half-lied about the voices. I heard voices, but they were all versions of my own voice or echoes of voices from my past. Those voices were not, I decided, the ones she was asking about. And I lied when I did not tell her about wanting to burn myself and the cook. I lied when I did not tell her about the door that had opened: The only solution is a permanent solution. My psychiatrist did not ask if there was a seismometer in my midbrain that warned of fissures that would widen into deep chasms and, eventually, into an all-consuming abyss. If she had asked about that, I might have answered honestly. Itâs difficult to say.
He was my baby brother and I was supposed to take care of him. The fact that I had nothing to give him filled me with shame. The fact that I didnât want to talk to him filled me with shame. I didnât want to talk to him because I knew he would talk about Anabel. I didnât want to think about her, so I couldnât think about him. I shoved my phone back in my purse, left his text unanswered. My father, I thought, would have been disappointed in me.
When our stories require us to pass judgment, to inflict shame on ourselves and others, to set ourselves apart, we cause harm. Bigot, prig, the voice in my head calls me. And, I must answer honestly. I must answer yes. I want to make it not so. I have work to do on myself. I need a new story.
He sat in that dark shack for hours. He saw the darkness turn in upon itself, churn, and spasm. He watched it reach out for him, felt it first caress, then clutch and fondle him. When Essie finally returnedâeyes bruised, hair awry, limbs weary, bleeding, and missing somethingâhe wanted to handle her like he would a newborn. Instead he whispered to her viciously against his better judgment. He couldnât help it. She had become a looking glass for his incompetence and he had no courage to place the blame where it actually belonged.