Member-only story
At the end of their nerves and the top of their lungs
Part one
I reached up for my mother’s hand as she told me about song lyrics. She struggled to recall the exact words and the blind, old dachshund laying between us stretched itself and burrowed into the blankets.
She talked about god and the comfort in knowing people would see herself in my eyes. I listened half-heartedly, scratching the dachshund’s tiny ears.
I thought about the hurricane inside my ribs while my mother made a list of all the people I’ve helped in my life. She intended her words to calm the acidity rising in my throat. I intended to be grateful.
I was sad because I realized the boy I loved needed more time. That I couldn’t fix him. I couldn’t save him from himself. My mother painfully reminded me of the others. I sighed “thank you” but what I meant to say was “please stop.”
On my way over to her house, I screamed in my car. The sound surprised me. Not because I wasn’t expecting it but because I heard genuine pain folded tight in my vocal chords.
That must have been what she heard when I called that afternoon. She hung up and called me five minutes later, saying she was worried. I did what I do best: I told my mother I was fine. She did was she does best: not believing me.
