Everything Is True

I didn’t realize.

It wasn’t happening to me or anyone around me, so it didn’t phase me. The first time I saw it happen was on the news, the heading, in bold red, said Tragic. I remember glancing at it, feeling what may have been remorse or pity, then going about my day. Not thinking about it until someone brought up, ‘how sad’ it was. After a few days, weeks, then years it had left my mind. A few other cases were similar; the same half pity responses were the same.

I didn’t realize how sirens felt when they were coming towards you. For you.

They happen all the time, I would move to the right and pray that everyone was okay, then I would go about my day. No one told me my heart would pause. That everything would feel, real.”

I glanced at the wall behind her and took a breath. I held my own hands together as the clock, white, as the white clock ticked.

“The clock is real.

This is real.

Life is real.

Going to work is real.

But that, feeling like you are about to die, then seeing the blue, and feeling the sirens, coming towards you is real.”

She nodded. I glanced at the door, brown; I had to be here. They told me I had to be here.

“Remind me again, about what happened?”

I looked back at her; her hair was dark red. Not unnatural, but almost like it was supposed to be brunette. It was in frizzy waves too, like it was brushed one to many times.

“Lizzy if you could—”

“Lizz. Call me Lizz.”

She wrote something in that yellow notebook of hers. It matched perfectly with that yellow chair she sat in. Everything in this room was just too bright.

“Lizz, could you tell me, what happened that day?”

“It was on the police report.”

Everyone wants me to tell them what happened. I have told so many people, too many, I am sick and tired of telling everyone. I hear the whispers and the lies they spread about me. Even my own parents and my friends tell me it was traumatic. It wasn’t. Nothing about what happened that night was traumatic. I am fine, they all need to stop watching so much TV and let me live.

“I would like to hear it from you.”

I laughed, “Why?”

“Because your story matters.”

I unclasped my hands and sat on them instead. If I don’t hold them tight, or sit on them, then I will touch my hair. I cannot, no matter how much it is bothering me sitting on my shoulders, grazing my ears. I cannot, it’s covered, coated in—

“Lizz, what do you like about this room?”

“What? I—,” I looked around and tried to find something tolerable, something that wasn’t too bright or out of place. A plant. There’s a plant on the bookshelf behind her. To the left of the clock. The bookshelf itself was pink, a soft pink, one that you would find in a nursery. The plant was in a white pot, which was the most calming thing in this room. The plant was small and green, its leaves were bent over, threatening to escape the pot in a week or so.

“The plant behind you”

She turned around to look at it. Then she smiled softly and wrote in her notebook.

“What does it remind you of?”

I glanced at it again, then heard something shatter. I jumped and turned around. Just a wall.

“Are you alright?” She asked. I turned back to her, holding my hands this time. She looked fine, like the noise didn’t phase her, “You didn’t hear that?”

She frowned, “Hear what?”

I could feel my heart racing, and I tried breathing deeper to slow it, “Something shattered. It was loud.”

She wrote something down, “The plant reminds you of something shattering?”

The house was dark.

A plant shattered.

There was blood.

A knife.

“Yes.” I spit out. Glancing at the clock again. Twenty more minutes until I could leave.

“Did something shatter that night?”

“Yes.”

“A plant?”

More memories tried to push forward but I didn’t let them, “Yes.”

“You said earlier you first saw something similar on the news, was it the same thing that happened to you?”

I tried to recall what it said exactly, what happened to that woman, “No, it was not the same.”

“Why is that?”

“The news labeled her story as Tragic.”

“You experienced a traumatic thing, Lizz.”

“She died.”

She sighed, then wrote something down again. Pushed her hair behind her ear then spoke, “From what I read you were lucky to survive.”

I have heard that too many times now. All everyone tells me is how lucky I am and how tragic it must have been, “It wasn’t luck. It was me. I lived. Now I should be allowed to continue living and not be forced to tell everyone I meet what happened.”

“They just want you to admit it Lizz.”

“Admit what?” I exclaimed.

“I have been told that you haven’t told anyone exactly what happened that night.”

I sighed loudly. I unclasped my hands and moved my hair off of my neck. My stomach turned and my eyes stung.

I immediately sat on my hands and tried not to think about how sticky they now where. My hair felt heavier, grosser. It moved more on my bare shoulder, and I felt vomit in my throat. I had to swallow it down.

I took a few breaths before I looked over at the therapist again, “I told them.” I said, “Everyone who needs to know, knows.”

“They know the quick version.”

“That is all anyone needs to know.”

She nodded again. Why won’t she just agree? No one will accept what I tell them. “Everything is true.” I tell her. She nods once more, “May I be honest Lizz?” I nod. “The longer you fight the memories, the more that day will eat at you.”

“They don’t eat at me.” They just live in my head like everything else.

She glanced at her watch on her wrist. It was brown, like the door. “What if you tell me what you told everyone else?”

“It was in the police report.” I tell her again.

“I want to hear it from you, we have time.” She said and I looked at the clock, fifteen minutes now.

“I was home, it was late, someone knocked on the door.” I swallowed and pressed my hands further into the couch, “The guy at the door worked at the coffee shop I go to, I let him in. We headed to my kitchen, and something felt off so I turned around. Just as I did, I saw a knife. I fell backwards and ran. I managed to run away and call the cops.”

“Were you injured?” She asked. Her gazed wavered to my right arm. Then back to me.

“Yes.”

“Where?”

I sighed, “My arm, my legs, and my head.” She knew this. She didn’t have to ask me this.

“You said you knew him, were you close?”

His brown hair flashed into my mind, his easy way with words and his boyish grin.

Dark eyes and a knife. Blood and brown hair.

“Yes.” It’s fine, just the truth. I get to leave soon, it will be normal in, I look at the clock, thirteen minutes.

“The report said your parents were not home, is that correct?” My stomach rolled, “Yes.” Twelve minutes.

“When you fell backwards did, he hurt you?” I resisted the urge to grab my arm, “Yes.”

“Do you remember anything that may have happened while you were running?” I look at the small plant on the pink shelf, “I ran into my plant. It shattered.” She wrote that down. I looked up, eleven minutes.

“Lizz,” She said softly, “How did you manage to escape him?” I shook my head and looked to the right. There was a small purple cabinet with kids’ games in it. There was one familiar, I played it with my mom when I was little,

“Lizz?”

“I’m fine.”

“That’s not what I asked.” She said gently. Too gently. As if I was fragile and needed soft words or I would break. I won’t break.

“Lizz?”

“I stabbed him.”

She froze.

“He, he was above me with this look in his eyes and the knife was between us. I- it was me or him and I managed to.” I dug my hands into my hair, “There was so much blood, I didn’t want to, but he, and then I called the cops.”

“Lizz.”

“It was all in my hair and I can still feel it and smell it.” My eyes were on fire at this point.

“Everyone keeps telling me it was traumatic, but I am fine without talking about it. It’s just my hair…” I trailed off realizing I was still pulling my hair. I immediately let go and sat on my hands again.

I look at the clock, and I cannot read it, it’s so blurry.

“I cannot look in a mirror without seeing his blood.” All the colors in her room merged together in one big blur, my voice cracked, “your clock is broken.”

“Lizz—”

“No, no your clock, it’s so blurry, and I-” Something wet touched my cheek, then another, “I am so sorry.”