Burn the Ashes [DISCONTINUED]

17 - Consequences

The quiet sea crinkles under the stare of the moon. With no wind to sail me, I drift, slowly, over the serene sea. The lighthouse stands above me. No storm blocks the way. I don't know why, but I know that I'll finally reach it. A melancholy serenity envelopes the deep, endless night. Besides the moon, the golden windows of the lighthouse are the only spots of light left in the dark night, its beacon extinguished.

The boat drifts up to the ladder. This time, I can feel the rusty grit of the ladder's grip beneath my hands. I am present. I am me. Nothing stands between me and this climb. Fear and wonder swirling in my chest, I climb up to the tall, timeless platform. Once painted white but now rusted beyond help, the rusty front door greets me, a stranger, with a surprising amount of familiarity. I open the handle and step inside.

The round lighthouse encases a room slightly bigger than the outside. A winding staircase juts up the middle of the lighthouse. It seems to support the structure of the building, but quite honestly the structure makes little to no sense; beams stick about an uneven ceiling like broken spokes in a bent-up wheel. A room spirals about the bottom level. My dorm room furniture. My favorite chair in the library. Fragments of my last months splatter the scene. Math textbooks and study notes plaster the floors, causing the familiarity to turn into a chilling dread. It feels as though I were looking at a murder scene instead of a memory.

I walk through the scattered books. My foot lands in something sticky. I tug up my left boot, only to leave a black, inky footprint on a page. Each step ahead leaves inky prints on these pages I labored over. Why? Why is any of this happening? And why does this hurt? I try not to watch my notes ruin as I plod past.

The jagged stairs lead me to the next level. My antique twin bed with its rickety frame and the stiffest mattress in all of Virginia. My finely crafted dresser, as pink and bright as the day I got it when I was 6. Self-help books, logic puzzles, and body-tight shirts litter the faux wood floor of our rented condo in Norfolk. I never felt comfortable in my own skin here. Something in my chest shifts. What is this feeling? I swallow it and keep walking.

The walls narrow, the floor swallows the middle level, and the third floor appears. This time, the walls and windows of the lighthouse are no more. The bay window of our kitchen lets in streaks of daylight. At the tiny dining table, someone sits with her back to me.

Mom?

She turns to see me. Her icy blue eyes go warm and, a knot forming on her brow, she begins to cry.

"Mom? Hey, what's wrong?" I hurry to her side. Is she having another bad day?

She wipes her eyes, sniffling. "N-Nothing, dear. ...Where's your face gone?"

"My face?" I reach to feel it, but the shapes are all blurred. Nothing solidifies. It hits me: "I... I can't quite remember what I look like."

"That's okay." She beams through the tears, standing to hug me close. "I still love you, and I'm glad you're home."

I hug back, feeling nothing but caution. Once she lets go, I sit at my usual place at the table, my back resting against the corner. Our bay window shines light over the mellow decorations, the self-righteous lamps, and the stylish, uncomfortable couch.

"So how've you been, dear?" she asks.

"Awful," I admit. My hands quake in my lap. "I feel lost. And worthless. And helpless."

"Oh, love...That's sad, but what are you going to do about it?" her catchphrase.

"I don't know," I reply.

"Remember how lucky we are," she says. "And how lucky you are."

"And how lucky you could've been if I hadn't been born."

Her shoulders tense. "I never said that."

I stand up. "Yes, you would never think so. Your memories... Your memory has always been wrong." I lean on the table, staring into her eyes. "I remember when you told me that I was an accident — that you could've divorced James sooner if I didn't exist. That I trapped you."

My memory of Mom stares at me. She does not blink.

"Please, tell me," I beg, "Tell me that I'm worth something and mean it! Why didn't you ever get me help? Or listen? Or get me enough socks, or cook food more than once a week, or let me feel things like the kid I was?!"

She doesn't answer. My back is still in the corner.

"I died!" I scream. "Will you ever understand what I was going through, or will you blame it on me?" My voice has dried and tightened, but tears don't fill my eyes. "I've done all that I can to be the daughter you wanted me to be, so why did you still treat me like that emotional, 'bitchy' daughter you always said I was? Is that all I'll ever be to you?"

She blinks. "I love you, Catherine." A fragment of a broken record.

"You think you do. You really think you do." Something bubbles in my chest, but it'll never get out.

A crazy idea comes to mind.

Fuck this house. This place is no longer my home. This woman isn't my mother. None of this is actually real. I'm tired of being cornered. I don't know what to do about it all, but I want to do something, even if I don't believe in myself.

So, I step back.

"Catherine?" the spectre of Mom calls.

I sprint towards the bay window and, vaulting off of the window seat, crash through the glass. Shards glint all about me, and for a moment, time slows. It all drifts, glass like glitter in the air.

I fall onto cold stone and, oddly, find myself in a stone hallway.

Jesse stares at me in shock. I stare back.

I'm out.

I'm —

He grabs my arm and, pulling me forward, punches me in the gut. I gasp. The world swirls. Another blow lands..

"How did you do that?!" he shrieks into my ear.
I dangle like a ragdoll. It all swirls together. Jesse's looming face stares.

"You want to play this game? Huh?!"

"Jesse, please —"

"Oh, that's it. You want some story!" He carelessly tugs my arm around. "Let's give you some fucking story."

He drags me down the hall. I do not like the look in his eyes.