In The Beginning

The dim, orange light radiating from the solitary lamp bathed the room in shadows that reached out to suffocate me. Bishop leaned forward, fingers steepled. Wrinkles furrowed his brow, and beads of perspiration dotted mine. I stroked the end of my eyebrow -- a nervous tick. My lungs were collapsing. “Can you tell me what you did wrong?” he asked. I was fourteen.

At sixteen, I lay in bed. My lungs were collapsing again. A physical exam would have yielded no results, but every time my chest stretched for breath, it ached. My whole body ached. My mind ached. My soul ached. The aching intertwined with the pain of being, twisting and transforming as it consumed me piece by piece, like grains of sand pulled to sea by relentless crashing waves. The tide was inescapable. I was sure to drown.

The bathroom cabinet clicked upon its opening. I snatched the bottle of tylenol and returned to bed. It would take approximately three-hundred and twenty pills to kill me.

At nine I couldn’t swallow pills. I just swallowed words.

“Come on.” The metal bed frame creaked. Translucent curtains allowed for only a black silhouette to loom near my face, my neck, my chest.

“I don’t want to anymore.”

“Don’t worry. No one will find out. I’ll protect you.”

“I don’t want to.”

“If you don’t, I’ll tell.”

Refusal buried itself far into my throat, cowering from the sloppy kisses coating my outer shell. I watched the black ceiling. It was the most enchanting architecture I had ever seen, sleek and black and far away from the creaking bed.

At nine, I listened to lectures given at the pulpit. “O the wise, and the learned, and the rich, and those that are puffed up in the pride of their hearts, and all those who preach false doctrines, and all those who commit whoredomes, and pervert the right way of the Lord, wo, wo, wo be unto them, saith the Lord God Almighty, for they shall be thrust down to hell!” I smelled pungent fire and brimstone.

I watched a couple a couple kiss, their soft lips touching, and felt an invisible infection on mine.

I tasted blood slithering between the buds of my tongue as forced my mouth shut. My arms were peeled away from my bare chest, replaced again by a black silhouette. “You’re being mean. You know you like it. Don’t worry, it’s just a game.” I swallowed my words again, accented with an iron tang.

Oh, how beautiful that black and distant ceiling was.

At fourteen, I repented and walked out of Bishop’s office with instructions in hand. I enclosed sacred bread and water in my mouth until I could find a quiet stall to spit out my mark of shame, unworthy to partake. Bishop’s book slid into my purse as I sat for class.

“Now the scriptures say that the only sin worse than sexual sin is murder. I don’t think we really need to go over this part. I know you’re all pure, virtuous young women.”

I nodded with the rest, but inside my heart faltered.

Whore. Slut.

At fifteen, I listened to the rowdy chatter of a chemistry classroom. “Can you text her? She never called me back.”

“That’s because you have a half inch penis,” snapped a girl, slim and blonde with snow white’s complexion, polished shoulders, dainty feet -- the poster child for prom.

“Screw you. I hope you get raped.”

“Nah, she’s not pretty enough to get raped.” Gathered hyenas cackled at the quip.

The school bell shrilled. I found myself reflecting quietly in front of the bathroom mirror. Frizzy hair stood up on end, desperate to flee. Make up, too pale, caked over acne scars. Grey smeared in circlets under my eyes and thirty extra pounds helped none.

I concealed the pithy slashes that peaked out from my sleeve.

No one will ever believe you.

At fifteen, I picked the threading of an office armchair with therapist in one corner, parents in the other.  “Do you need to repent, daughter?” my father asked.

I already did. I was a good girl.

You’re ruined! Used! Worthless!

A friend jigged up and down, giddy, and rushed me in the school hallway. “Guess what, I just got my first kiss!”

“That’s awesome.”

Nobody will ever want you!

I studied at my desk.

You deserved this!

Undressed for a shower.

You’re disgusting!

Sat through a sermon.

Go to hell!

Stared up at familiar black ceiling.

Whore! Slut! Used! Useless! Ruined! Spoiled! Disgusting! Pathetic! Kill yourself! Die!

At sixteen, I screamed and launched the bottle of tylenol at the wall, bursting into a shower of opioid fireworks. Three-hundred and twenty pills littered the carpet.

At age seventeen, I loved a boy. I smiled at the words of my friends. I wrote a book, and then another, and four more after that. I cultivated, designed, developed every character, emotion, setting and trend. I wrote a script, and allowed myself to smile at my own reflection. I decided the power was mine, queen of my own realm, mother to my own creations, and chose to live, although black ceilings still produce a sense of melancholy.

At seventeen, I held a girl, whose story was so similar to mine. “I’m sorry. That probably freaked you out, it was too personal…” Her sobs degraded to sniffles.

I grasped her hand. “It’s okay to be hurt, but you’re going to turn out fine in the end. Trust me.”