My Dearest Enemy

12| who are you now?

❝What lies behind us, and what lies before us, are tiny matters compared to what lies within us.❞

—Ralph Waldo Emerson

T W E L V E

Listening to Mira's advice, I found somewhere to put it.

She just could never know about it.

Thursday afternoon came around and I made the usual trip over to the community college. But rather than report to Professor Huynh's classroom, I changed in the bathroom and took to the outdoor track.

Lacing my shoes, I started off on a light jog, punk rock music blaring in my ears.

I felt trapped and suffocated. Boxed in from all sides. A caged bird with its wings cut off.

No matter what I did, no matter which way I turned, someone was quick to tell me it was the wrong move. Everyone around me had so many thoughts and opinions about what I should be doing, how I should act, or think or be. My mom, Prof Huynh, Mira, Jeremy. I felt like I was being pulled in several directions, losing any and all sense of control in both my life and my art, and I couldn't take it anymore.

They wanted me to be vulnerable. Make friends. Connect with people.

Be normal.

Nothing about me was normal, not anymore. I didn't even know what normal looked like. All I knew was this nonsensical world I woke up in day after day for the last year. How could I be normal and make sense of the fact that there was one less heart beating in the world among seven billion others? How could I connect with someone who couldn't possibly comprehend the mindfuck of intimately knowing someone's existence — their smell, their laugh, their warmth — and having to reconcile that with the incomprehensible reality that they're no longer there, no longer tangible, and that life will just go on? And after being laid bare before the world, and having your absolute worst fear realized, how could anyone expect you to be that vulnerable again?

I didn't know how to be around people. To give any more than I already had. And I didn't want to.

I redirected the swarm of thoughts and emotions to the burning in my calves, pumping my arms to keep pace.

・❥・

Omar dumped a cardboard box of used vinyls on a stool for me to put out. I started flipping through the sleeves. It wasn't a particularly exciting haul; a lot of obscure bluegrass bands I only vaguely knew.

As I was placing some records away, I started to feel the soreness in my muscles set in. I hadn't run in a while, and I knew my body would feel it tomorrow. I could've opted for a less physical task like ringing people up or chatting up customers, but I wasn't in the chatting mood.

The door swung open, letting in a slight breeze, and I reflexively glanced up to the newcomer. It was a dark-skinned black man in a shirt and tie, streaks of grey in his short cut hair and beard. I recognized him instantly.

Spotting me, his face brightened with familiarity and he walked over.

"Hello, young lady. You may not remember me. I came in a few weeks ago with my daughter —"

"You're Andy's father."

His thick brows shot up. "Why yes, I am."

"Good to see you again, Mr..."

"Carlson." He extended a large hand. "Marcus Carlson."

"What can I help you with today?"

He slipped his hands into his trousers. "I understand that my Andrea paid you a visit the other day. I'm not sure exactly what was said, but from the little I gathered it didn't sound good. So, I just wanted to come down and apologize for her little outburst."