Fear of Falling(17)

My earliest memory was at the age of two. Experts may argue that it’s impossible to have memories at that tender age. But some things you just can’t forget, no matter how bad you want to rip them from your memory. And I remember…everything.

I remembered the tiny apartment with the sand colored rug and the bare, off-white walls, barren of any mementos of family vacations or milestones. And I remembered my father shoving my mother’s head through one of those off-white walls, leaving a large, gaping hole.

I was sitting on the floor, looking up at the two of them as he tried his hardest to beat her until she was unrecognizable. I don’t remember crying though. I never remembered crying. I should have cried for my mother. I think any normal child would have at the sight of their mother’s agony. She cried all the time. It seemed like that’s all I remember her doing when I was younger.

That memory was revealed in kindergarten, when I was about six years old. Most girls drew pictures of flowers and hearts. I drew pictures of terrifying monsters that preyed on women. There were no flowers and hearts in my world. I didn’t even know they existed. And I told stories...elaborate tales of bloodthirsty beasts that brutalized my mother and me every night. About how we would cower in my room, trying to stay as quiet as possible, in hopes that he wouldn’t find us.

But he always did. My stories never had happy endings.

My teachers called me a liar. They would place me in timeout and revoke playtime privileges. I didn’t cry then either. I just sat in the miniature red plastic chair and tried to savor every second away from home. Even though the kids picked on me and called me weird and poor, and my teachers had deemed me a problem child, I was safe. No one wanted to hurt me there. I wasn’t afraid. My mother wasn’t crying in the corner, shielding my body with hers. There were no monsters there.





252

I counted the tiny paper stars in the glass jar every night. I had been doing it for years. I had to. I had to count them all. 252. A star for every fear. Most of them were repeats but I wrote them down anyway. Just acknowledging my neurosis was enough for the time being. It was enough to get by.

I took out a skinny strip of pastel colored paper and scribbled a single word on it before my fingers worked it into a tiny star no larger than a button. Then I slipped it into the jar.

253. This one wasn’t a repeat.

“What are you doing?” Dom asked, suddenly in my doorway, startling me. I really wished I could close it, but I…couldn’t.

I answered with a weak smile as I stuck lucky number 253 in the jar. It had been a while since I had added any new additions.

Dominic frowned, not completely satisfied with my lack of an answer. He invited himself all the way into the semi-sanctuary of my bedroom and flopped down on my bed, rattling the glass jar of tiny origami stars. “Did you just add one?”

I shrugged sheepishly and let out a breath. “Yeah. So? No big deal.”

His expression softening, Dom pulled my body close to his, draping an arm around my shoulders. “Hey, you wanna talk about it? I know you haven’t added in a while.”

I shook my head against the warmth of his sculpted chest. He was the only man I would ever let hold me like this. This was the one sliver of affection that I found acceptable. It was the closest I would ever come to true intimacy, though we weren’t intimate in the sexual sense. We could never cross that line; I couldn’t lose the only man I ever loved.

“There’s nothing to talk about. Really. It’s nothing.” At least my head was saying that. Every other part of me screamed otherwise.

Dom sat up and grasped my shoulders, pulling my body away from his to assess my face. Even my blank expression couldn’t elude his bullshit meter. He was such an experienced bullshit artist himself; he could spot a load of crap a mile away.

“It’s not nothing. And you do need to talk about it. I told you about this, Kam. It was part of our deal. You go to therapy and be completely honest with me, and I wouldn’t give you shit for your condition.”

I shrugged out of his hold, giving him a stern glare. “No. That was your deal. I told you—I’m fine. And therapy isn’t working. I’m not going back.” I grabbed the jar of stars still on my bed and placed it in its designated spot on my windowsill. “And I don’t have a condition, Dom. Yeah, I have issues, but we all do. Yourself included. I’m surviving the best way I know how, just like you are.”

My oldest friend, the man that had become closer than a brother to me, let out an irritated breath at the mention of his own demons. Demons that still haunted him in every aspect of his life. “This isn’t about me. Yeah, my life is pretty fucked up, but I’m functional. You’re barely hanging on, babe. And I’m not saying all this shit to get under your skin. I want you to get better.”