"But what do I draw?" your small, confused voice questions, eyes fixed on him standing in the doorway. He's got a foot out the door as though he has some place to be. His steps are slower than usual. Unsteady and unsure, which you find more disturbing than the drying blood on his face and hands. All 5'8 of him always stands tall and proud, unafraid and brave. But when you're six years old there is nothing your older brother can't overcome - even the drunken verbal and physical massacre brought on by your own father.
"Draw..." He pauses. He is distracted by a movie reel of flashing images behind his eyelids. Bloody fists hurled at his face. Booming voiced accusations of worthlessness and laziness. He winces. When he finally brings himself to speak his voice far away. "Draw silence."
You stare down at a blank page he has opened for you until nimble fingers pick up the pencil next to you. You etch unorganized parallel, perpendicular, scribbled lines onto the page but it takes you a very long time. It takes considerable effort to make something messy look refined. Your work covers nearly every centimeter of free space with the exception of a nongeometric area in the corner of the page.
He comes back your room some time later. You aren't sure how long it's been because you're never really sure. Time is lost in the mess of doodles he has directed you to draw, which you later realize was his intent all along. Pencil tip, eraser and lead smudged finger perfect the organized chaos of lines on the page as you hear the door open. He has showered and there are only bandages that cover the spots where there was blood.
"So this is silence, eh?" His arched brow tells you he doesn't understand, but you don't create with the intent of understanding, even at the tender age of six. It is a necessary form of expression. A kind of therapy that you are only able to identify with age and experience.
"No," you start, slender finger pointing at the virginal and unmarked spot hidden at the corner of the page outlined heavily in thick grey.
"This is silence. You hafta listen carefully for it otherwise you'll only hear noise."
He sighs. She is only in first grade but is already smarter than she knows. She rests the pencil on the page and stands up, craning her neck to stare up at him before tiny arms are flung around his waist in a hug that says more than she'd ever be able to communicate with words.
I'm sorry, she whispers, but it's only inside of her head. Sometimes silence says more than words ever could.
Her slender arms were covered in a long sleeve white chiffon blouse that she slipped daintily around his waist, plush lips meeting the crook of her husband's neck. "I'm proud of you," she whispered softly, breath scented like cinnamon sugar and vanilla as it filled his nostrils. Her chocolate brown eyes, the same ones she had passed down to her daughter, lingered tentatively on the bottle, guttural apprehension tapping at her organs from inside out.
"Not a single sip today, Chris."
Free hand stuffed into his pocket, fingers fumbled for the 60 day chip that resided there. Thick brows knitted together as he glanced through the doorway at his three children playing in the living room. "Can you believe she's one already?" Wonderment resided in his crystal blue eyes and he turned around to face his wife.
He cupped her face in his hands. "I'm not gonna fuck this up baby. Not this time." The words carried a weighted confidence that gave Christine hope that this time would be different. "She's my shot at redemption and I'm gonna be a good man for her. And for you. A great fuckin father and an even better husband because you deserve it once and for all."
The words themselves were tired but there was a conviction there that he lacked all of the other times. Christine quickly wiped away a stray tear, nodding along with his promise. She spent Sunday after Sunday on bended knee praying that their baby girl would soften Charles. That Brielle would somehow awaken his cognizance to the toxicity he had let seep into the family they created. She was confident that Brielle represented the promise of a brighter tomorrow and the opportunity to begin with a clean slate despite the ugliness that plagued the past seven years of alcoholism and abuse towards his wife and sons.
She sits back, eyes scanning over each mark and precise line completed with her trusty Sakura Pigma Micron. Teeth gnaw at her lower lip, head falling to one side as she examines her work from a different angle. Something's missing. Plump lips fall against each other in a pursed, flat line. Impatient, rhythmic tapping of pen to desk has her picturing his apartment. She has only been there once but the first thing that struck her on the guided tour towards his bedroom was their mutual taste for all things macabre.
It is now 7:15 and he's picking her up in 45 minutes. She showers, does her makeup and hair, and puts on a tight black dress that both covers and reveals in all the right places.
They are sitting at the bar and he's looking at her with upturned lips that only Satan himself could have constructed. "I like your dress."
"Don't let it fool you. There's plenty of ugly underneath it."
His belly laughter is met with a sharply arched brow that challenges his lighthearted response.
He hands her a shot of Ketel, glasses meeting in ceremonious unison. "I'm not afraid of a leggy brunette with pretty eyes."
"You should be."
The next morning when he drives her home she reaches behind her for the drawing she left in the back seat. She hands it to him with an apprehensive smile despite spending the past few hours clawing at each other's naked flesh with mouths and eager hands. When he pulls it from the protective sleeve, the first thing his eyes fall upon are the words 'MEMENTO MORI' written in neat block letters at the bottom just before he picked her up last night.
Braysin thrusts her sketchbook towards his little sister and suggests she draw, his gritty voice like knives over gravel and it is only then that she notices how exhausted he looks. Concerned brows and corners of downturned lips regard him briefly but the disappointment and anger beneath the surface ultimately wins out.
"NO!" Tiny, balled fists pummel tirelessly against Braysin's abdomen because it's all she can reach of him. "I don't want to draw! I want to go to Epcot like Daddy promised me months ago!"
She tires herself out in seconds and her tiny voice is overshadowed by Christine calling for her son. In the midst of Braysin tending to her, a red faced and exhausted Brielle exits the hotel room.
Tireless feet take her as far as the front landscaping of the hotel property where she hides behind the arboreal security of thickly wooded shrubs and bushes, sketchbook and pencil sitting in her lap as she hugs her knees tightly to her chest. She sits like that for hours, eventually bringing herself to pick up the pencil.
It is early evening when she hears her father's panicked voice approaching. Big brown eyes peek up over the bushes and she sees the sweat drenched man looking frenzied and alarmed. "Jesus Christ," he mumbles, bending down to scoop her small frame into his thick, muscular arms where he holds her tightly, both arms wrapped around her tiny, lanky frame. "Babygirl, you had us scared out of our damn minds all day." The pounding headache he spent the morning nursing subsided for the moments he held his only daughter in his arms. All at once, her stiff body collapsed into a heap of tears as she began to sob into his shoulder.
"But you promised. You pinky promised and triple swore that you were going to take me to the rainbow tunnel and then we'd eat ice cream together. Me, you, mommy and Braysin. We were supposed to have one perfect day and you ruined it!"
The words are spewed out in between snot sniffles and desperate gasps for air. Charles' chest tightened as muffled apologies were spilled into his daughter's long brunette hair. "Daddy had a bad night and had to take care of some things this morning but everything's alright now. Okay? I'm here, babygirl. Will you please let me make it up to you?"
Her tears eventually subsided as her body melted into the warmth and security of his. She swore to herself she wouldn't forgive him. This was different than all of the other times he had abandoned promises and broken plans. This was the vacation she knew would bring her family back together. She was so sure of it. But she was so sick and tired of feeling disappointed and it was easier to accept his apology than to be angryand hurt all over again. Besides, she was hungry and wanted to show Braysin what she had drawn.
Lifting her head from his shoulder, her eye rested up a bloodied white bandage wrapped around his right knuckles as they swept past her ear to tuck stray hairs behind it. "Whaddaya sat we eat ice cream for dinner tonight and I'll wake you up first thing in the morning so we can go to Epcot before heading back home tomorrow. How's that sound my Baby Bri?"
The little girl sighed contentedly, a small smile spreading across her lips as she began preemtively deciding what toppings she wanted on her ice cream. "I'm sorry sweetheart. I promise it won't happen again. Do you forgive me?"
Brielle nodded. She wrapped tiny, slender arms around her father's neck and held on tightly as he carried her back towards the hotel room. "It's okay daddy. I forgive you. I love you so much."
When the apocalypse does come,I will rebuild our city with my tongue.
I will suck this world's ashes from your fingers.
I will refuse to let the fires of this hell
be the only thing that makes us sweat.
When the apocalypse comes,
so will we.
- Sierra DeMulder
"Charles!" A haughty voice intercepts her thoughts as her father stands up from the seat next to her to greet him. Daniel Cravath, of Cravath, Swaine & Moore LLP Law Firm. The connection between Charles and Daniel is unclear to Brielle. Charles told her only that Daniel was an 'old friend', which could have meant a number of things coming from the man. Still, she was appreciative for Charles having gone out of his way to secure her an interview for a paralegal position.
"You must be Brielle." Lofty footsteps bring the tall, thin man immediately in front of Brielle. He shakes her hand and flashes what he must think is a suave and winning smile, but leaves Brielle wishing she had done the top button of her shirt and paired it with shorter heels. The man is not completely unfortunate looking but vanity and pride seep from his Tom Ford suit and TwinLuxe shaving gel as he leads them into a large conference room. Brielle crosses her legs and sits up straight in the leather rolling chair. She recalls Charles' advice that if she were to take this job she'd find herself with financial security for as long as she wanted it.
The interview itself takes 40 minutes. Charles was an impeccably impressive and well spoken man on the occasions when his face wasn't at the bottom of a bottle. His words painted Brielle in such a way that her own wouldn't have done justice. Talking about herself, let alone boasting, proved a painful task for the timid young woman. Where Daniel was brazen and modest in conversation, Brielle was tight lipped and distracted. She thought of Braysin, who sat at home with Christine, ankle monitor strapped to his leg, helping his mother to clean up broken bottles strewn across basement floor from two nights ago. Inevitably, her mind wandered to the phone tucked away in her purse, that relentless optimism that maybe she'd see Sawyer's name across the screen.
At the closing of the interview Daniel scrawled a number across a piece of paper and presented it to Brielle, continuing in the same breath to explain the benefits that came with the salary. He left no room for pause or question. He was a man used to not being interrupted or rejected and so he kept speaking as Brielle's eyes fixated on the number, a series of slow nods displaying her approval. "And you'll be here three to four days each week, is that correct?" A thickly arched brow demanded an answer. "Yes." "Good, good. That'll leave you enough time at home with the husband." He chuckled, though she remained quiet and withheld the coquettish responses he was seeking.
Charles' belly laughter filled the room as he lifted a protective paw to rest on the back of Brielle's chair. "No husbands for this one, Danny Boy. She's my baby and I don't plan on giving her away anytime soon. At least not without a hefty background check and some P.I work." He flashed a wink to the other man before pressing a tender, affectionate kiss to the side of Brielle's head, a sheepish smile spread across plump lips just in time for her gaze to catch Daniel's eyes darting from her cleavage to the display of affection between father and daughter.
After papers had been signed and Charles headed back to work for the day, Brielle found herself on the steps of the Met, phone in hand as she scrolled through contacts until landing on 'S'. The bundle of knotted nerves at the back of her throat was swallowed down as she contemplated her next move. Her thumb moved idly up the screen as names of current and former people that colored her life popped up on the screen. Finally she stopped at G, thumb hovering over Garrett Wheaton's name before finally deciding to press the send button.
One million questions and one million apologies. Silences that should have been filled and deafening screams that took their place. I could have given you answers or asked you questions but instead I did nothing. I imagined scenes and colors and objects to represent how I felt but I was never able to string them together into sentences. Glass to mouth, I swallowed the niceties and every burning gulp brought more darkness and tightening. Always the tightening. It feels safer to keep the what ifs and maybes and almosts, the questions and apologies, tucked away because something with space is easier to handle than something with hard and solid edges.
These unspoken apologies and inquiries have contorted themselves into my bones and wrapped themselves around my veins like venomous snakes. Ancient tree roots buried 30 feet underground. With each gasped breath the vines expand and contract, teasing at relief, while my lungs simultaneously choke on darkness, hope and regret. This is how I have been breathing for 27 years. Labored and wheezing while my metallic tongue bleeds invisible words.
"I'm aware. I don't need permission or approval. As are you."
"Exactly, so why even say that? Fuck me, don't fuck me, it doesn't change anything."
"Okay."
