Angie, a live-in-the-now singer-songwriter on the cusp of fame, sweeps Mike, a proper Mama's boy and a structural engineer by day, off his feet the moment they shake hands.
They can't deny the chemistry between them, so they start with a boom. What'...
ओह! यह छवि हमारे सामग्री दिशानिर्देशों का पालन नहीं करती है। प्रकाशन जारी रखने के लिए, कृपया इसे हटा दें या कोई भिन्न छवि अपलोड करें।
▪️Saturday, January 23rd, 2018▪️
▪️Phoenix, AZ▪️
The anger inside my chest is so real, it scares me. I don't want it in me, so close to the surface, the things I chose to forget are back, catching up with me. One of the pills in my hand will put a glass partition between the raging inferno and me. Two will block me from seeing or feeling the heat. Three will make me forget about its existence. I long for the mellow comfort of not feeling, not listening to Mike's words pound in my head.
I put the medicine on the counter by the sink and meet my eyes in the mirror.
I'm not a drug addict. I have a legitimate prescription. I have an injury. I didn't buy these on the black market or from a drug dealer. The couple of pills I took in the morning before the performance were to not let the throbbing ache that always rises in the morning cripple me. I avert my eyes because lying to myself became effortless.
Those pills were not about the pain in my hand. I took them after the conversation with Mike, before I knew the guys organized the flash-mob. I took them to block something all right. Not the pulsing ache in my fingers. Not the dull pain of the swollen wrist. But fear. The fear of what Mike makes me imagine. A future. A future with him. And the realization that I didn't hate it as I should've scared the shit out of me. I took the pills to guard myself against Mike. To guard myself against any potential future hurt.
Why am I doing this to us? I'm not a coward. That's the last thing I want to be. I sit on the ledge of the bathtub, the bed sheet bunched under my feet on the floor. The fury in me doesn't quiet. When was the last time I let it get this consuming? I don't remember. Not for years. I've been afraid of the full force of the bad side, doling the doubts and insecurities with a measuring spoon into my lyrics and chords.
The idea of not placing the barrier, of allowing the disaster to lick at the edges of my heart shallows my inhales. My lungs are about to lose their voice from screaming at me. I fail to breathe. Memories from years ago mix with the bile I spewed into Mike's ears earlier. I hurt him on purpose. I needed him to suffer like I was, to understand how unbearable life can be, why I was nothing like his college self. Unlocking the freedom to be myself is not what I'm after. Erasing is my choice, my need, my reason for the pills is only two steps away.
The orange bottle beckons.
The lack of oxygen helps slow the fire in my chest, but my refusal to let the air in isn't killing it. I run out of the bathroom and crouch on the floor by the case with my keyboard. I drag it out and plug it in without bothering to set the stand up. The keys under my fingers are an extension of me. I trust them more than anything in my life to understand, to accept, to absolve my inadequacies.
The melody, jagged and dissonant, sucks some of the strength out of the nemesis inside of me. A teaspoonful out of an ocean of pain. I play. The pinprick in my chest that drains the anguish drip by drip grows to the size of a bullet hole. The music repeats, rushing fuller and sturdier, changing the ocean into a sea, a lake, a pond.
