Odds & Ends

Odds & Ends was written in faded Sharpie, a remnant of a move from years past. While unpacking, I pulled out a brass clock the size of a small rock. Light from the eastern window illuminated the rust that had tainted its edges, and the clock felt cold. Tick, tick, tick. The sound reverberated into my skull. The sickening sound of a heartbeat trying to break out of its ribs. Almost a countdown to a collapse if the ticking ever ceased. If the movement ever stopped. If the panic seeps in. 

    But you’re not in here anymore. 

    The hands moved erratically. Three beats forward, six steps back. The rhythm reflected my past self: filled with an anxious and inconsistent pulse. I ran my thumb over the cracked glass, feeling the jagged face. It’s jarring to have it enclosed in my hand, the frigid bite from the clock contrasting the warmth from the sunny window. My thumb stilled against the cracked glass. It’s stuck in a place it doesn’t belong anymore. 

    I inhale as I lower myself to a crouch and softly lean my head against the wall, eyes closing. The years I’ve had this clock and the years I’ve had withstood the torment of the constant reminder that I could never develop beyond where I was at. Sounds came through the window: a car door slamming and the beeps of the locks engaging. A twinge of anxiety courses through me in reminiscence. No one is coming. 

    I continue to listen to the erratic ticking as I recall a life that once was. Sometimes there would be nothing but darkness and the echo of this erratic mechanical thing reflecting on my erratic and anxious breathing. I remember melding into that ticking, homing in and matching it beat for beat. Thinking if I misstepped, I would collapse. In the hours of the dark, it kept me chained to the room. A cruel anchor, but necessary for survival.

    The silence wasn’t just in the room. It was in seven years with someone else’s mouth. A home of words reconstructed and deceitful. So carefully woven together to build an illusion of safety. Each physical indent in this jagged glass on the clock’s face provides a trail to the heartbreak. Each cutting edge is driven deep into my soul and will cut if you press too hard. 

    I can’t stop the shiver cascading down my body as I still sit on the floor, just like I can’t stop the memories from resurfacing.

    I glide my thumb slowly and carefully against the path. My nail hits a sharp notch on the outer rim — the origin point. It didn't start seven years ago, it goes back further. All the way to the foundation where the cracks began. My eyes flutter against the slam of memories as they resurface. 

    Mistrust tracked me long ago in a home where I was learning to grow up.

    I survived you. 

    A home with a brokenness unspoken and tip toeing against the current. Growing up, I never really felt like I belonged. People ostracized and criticized me for simply being who I was. In a brief time span I developed multiple personalities, for the one that suited the day best. Much like a ticking clock track change, I had to keep track of my environment as well. Once when I was sick, I lay on my bed. The sound of clanking dishes echoing throughout the house. 

    “Get her fat ass in here to do these dishes,” he grumbled. 

    A high-pitched womanly voice mumbled something incoherent. 

    I am sick. 

    I will myself out of bed and trudge to the kitchen area. 

    “I can help, Mom.” My voice comes out squeakier than intended. 

    “No, I got it. Why don’t you rest?” 

    The tyrant stalks away, back to his cave. 

    I was ten. 

    I spent so long hating you for being so scared, for being so small. But you were just trying to keep us alive. 

    A slamming door jolted me from my haze of the past. 

    “I’m home,” the melodic voice made its way to my ears, and instantly I relaxed. I half ran to meet the handsome man downstairs. 

    “Dinner has been waiting,” the sun has begun easing into its rest. 

    “Yes, well I got caught up in a few things” his tone of voice is a bit ostentatious. I turn to see a bouquet of flowers so big; it blocks my view of anything else. Except a bright yellow LEGO set shines from the corner of my eye and I can’t help but squeal in delight.

    I turn in a rush to put the bouquet in a vase of water and I feel a heavy item bump against my side. I had forgotten the cold, dingy watch in my pocket. I was so close to forgetting. 

   I feel paralyzed in a maze of my own making as memories flood into me again and again and again. Over and over, I feel its claws hooking into my brain and it won’t let go so I give in.

   I finally got a car for my senior year of high school. A silver Honda Accord that knows speed…and I have enjoyed these past few weeks of independence. Driving down the gravel road with just my thoughts, windows down, feeling like I could disappear or travel anywhere without a trace. 

   Something white to the right of my dashboard catches my eye. A folded note, tiny and square, begs to be opened. As I unravel the crumpled paper, writing appears.

    You’re a piece of shit. 

    I put the note inside the compartment. 

    I bust out of the car, run into my room, and hole myself inside the closet. Big enough to hide me behind my clothing, small enough to keep the emotions buried.

    Tick, tick, tick. 

    It echoes through the enclosed space, reverberating into my skull and coursing through my bones. 

    The memories fade, and I am once again cast into my current kitchen space. 

    You’re not there anymore. 

    With a deep inhale, I place the bouquet into a clear vase filled with fresh water. Glancing at my doting husband, I feel a pang of envy and wonder what it must be like to not be chased by your darkest shadow. Yet, I am forever grateful for the wave of calm and peace he brings me. It’s healing.

    And perhaps that is why the memories flood sharply in the happier moments like this. 

    Healing, I have learned, is a strange feeling. It is almost like you are born anew when life finally lets you rest and everything you experienced and remember feels like from a whole other lifetime. 

    My husband smiles from across the counter, unaware that I used to view love as unobtainable — when there were seven years of unkindness and absences. There were locked screens and words that found a subtle way to make you doubt yourself. 

    My hand instinctively wraps around the broken clock in my pocket and once again I feel the bitter coldness in this presence of warmth.

    Tears fall as I look at my statement, urged by my therapist.

The relationship lasted seven years. During that time, I was emotionally manipulated, abused, and isolated. 

    I stare at the bluntly written words until my eyes water, whether from dryness or tears I’m not sure. 

    They look so clean and straightforward. Not like the tangled mess of emotions I feel.

    Seven years.

    Emotional abuse.

    Isolation.

    Tick, tick, tick, tick. 

    The incessant glow of the phone illuminates the bedroom. It’s an automatic response at this point to feel nauseous at the sound of his fingers lightly tapping the touchscreen in a reply to the person on the other end.

    I don’t ask who it is. I don’t need to.

    It is always someone different. 

    Across the room, I can hear the clock ticking and struggling to move forward with time. The small hands are still moving forward two steps, then stumble backwards three. Repeating the same mistake in an endless cycle, but forgiving itself, nonetheless. 

    I lie still and listen to the typing and the ticking, almost synchronized. Holding my breath, I can almost make out the rhythm: “choose me, choose me, choose me.” 

    I would try. 

    A gentle hand on his chest. A kiss that lasted longer than usual. Silently inviting him in hopes that it would happen without being forthright, without begging to be chosen. A quiet invitation that I hoped I wouldn’t have to say aloud.

    And he would turn away.

    Sometimes roughly. Sometimes gently. 

    Sometimes without looking at me.

    And so casually, he would begin typing on his phone instantly. 

    Eventually, I understood and I stopped trying. 

    I began studying myself in mirrors, once I got over the fear of even looking at myself. I began studying every feature on my face. I studied my stomach, my thighs, searching for the ugliness that caused such constant rejection. 

    Maybe if I looked like them. 

    Maybe if I were softer.

    Maybe if I were funnier.

    Maybe if I were skinny. 

    Maybe if I was just less.

    You’re a piece of shit.

    You’re a piece of shit.

    You’re a piece of shit.

    You’re a piece of shit.

    And somehow, the person who rejected me most in the world, would fall to his knees, crying. Begging. Making broken promises that I so badly wanted to believe because I so badly wanted to be put first. To believe that I am still not who I was as a child, that I could belong to somebody. So, I forgave.

    And forgave.

    And forgave.

    And forgave. 

    And I hated myself a little more each time. 

    The broken clock watched me fall apart with it for the next seven years.

    But it doesn’t watch me anymore. 

    I study the clock and watch the hands tick along. 

    Tick, tick. 

    For a fleeting second, it seems like the larger hand finally moves forward one centimeter.