Fiction

It wasn’t the fact that the tomb was closed that surprised me the most. It was that it was open.

I expected there to be a rock, a door, some sort of barricade over the entrance because that’s what’s been over my heart since my mother passed. It didn’t fit on a subconscious level for there to be an easy exit. Freedom mocked my mother, insulting her with the idea of itself with no way of grabbing it.

Sun shone through despite the evening’s dimming orange. It was as if creation wanted me there, perfectly lighting the path from the rest of the cemetery to the hill where she was buried. My family didn’t have much, but they made sure to have a way to honor their dead.

There was no one, nothing. The only presence to be felt was of the memories of someone’s father chasing them upstairs at night, or a sister who used to complain of her clothes being stolen. The people were gone, but their emotions remained.

It’s not normal to be alone after death. The company of other corpses didn’t satisfy me when I thought of my mother there. I didn’t really believe in spirits or ghosts, but I did believe in being haunted. My soul, or whatever was inside of me, was uneasy with the idea of her being alone, but in full honesty, it was more uneasy with the idea of me being alone.

I took a good look at clouds in the sky. It was a good reminder to look at the light before going into a room of only darkness — shadows of what was and what should’ve been. 

I remembered it all. The goodnight kisses and three-in-the-morning cuddles that fought off the monsters, who all stood in the tomb with me then. The lilies in my hand did nothing to bring to life what was passed, only to revive the sadness of a future without them. Suddenly, the lack of a mother’s arms felt like a scarf that had been ripped off in the middle of winter. Not even the Kansas summer sky could bring the warmth back into my body.

How could anything escape from this tomb with so much cement holding it prisoner? It was hard to reconcile the desire for my mother to be free with the deep longing in my heart that ached for her to stay. Saints carved into the walls couldn’t bring me the peace I needed. Only could my mom standing over my bed, one last time to say goodnight, could bring sleep to my eyes at this point. While my mom could sleep, I could not. I envied that.

Standing there, my midi-dress ruffled by the wind visiting through the open tomb door, making a mental note to call security about it, I could focus on everything except the tiny door that read “Johanna Ruth Mutach.” Suddenly, the saints and their stories on the cement canvas fascinated me, and I found temporary joy in the distraction of a theology that I could never resonate with, but could be entertained by as long as I needed to be.

There was nothing those figures on that wall could do to comfort me, but I sought it anyway. I saw fish being multiplied and Lazarus walking out from behind a multi-ton stoned-in crypt. How did sepsis compare to leukemia? Would Jesus have had to perform a different kind of miracle? Lazarus was raised alone, and, from my experience, cancer doesn’t just kill its victims; it kills the people it leaves behind.

I followed the images around the room, myths I heard as a child and that, as an adult, I still feel acquainted with. My mother did the job of a God-fearing parent, making sure I was brought to mass every Sunday. Once a week I got the good leg-workout of standing, sitting, standing, sitting, standing, kneeling, standing, kneeling, sitting, standing, in that order, thank you. My eyes wandered, and as they did they noticed doors in the walls with no names, not because they were forgotten by the past, but because they were unknown by the future. In the family tomb, a spot was saved for me before I even existed. 

Chills sleeved my arms. I went outside to take a breath of fresh, warm air. Cicadas began their evening songs. The voices of mockingbirds grew as the coos of mourning doves quieted. The air smelt of wildflowers native to the fields outside of Liberty. I was simultaneously grateful for the comfort of nature’s life and offended at the boldness of it. After a breath in, and a breath out, I went back inside.

E veryone thinks that hurricanes demolish towns by their high-speed wind and force of water bulletting from the sky. But, sometimes, hurricanes are more ominous. The flood waters slowly creep up streets, taunting neighborhoods with fear as they rise in their own time, sure of destruction, small but strong in numbers. That’s how my tears were when they became swollen in my eyes, an unyielding mass that grew as I sat down in front of my mother’s grave.

“Hi, Mom,” I whispered as I realized the tears were not just swarming my eyes, but in my throat, too. There was no response that I could hear. I wondered if, somewhere, my mother could hear me, and if I needed to be louder — less afraid of the hurricane.

I stared at her name carved into the cement. It was so permanent; it was so sure. I continued. “Do you remember that time at the waterpark in our old neighborhood, where I got trapped in the lazy river and couldn’t get out? I started crying for anyone to help me, and was so scared that I thought I was going to die in there?”

Again, there was silence. “But you came and found me and you got me out. I kind of wish that you would do that now.”

She didn’t respond. The cement stayed, cold and solid, walling me off from reaching my way to love. Staying on the floor, I reached up and placed the bouquet of lilies on the center table, not going to the effort of standing up from where I was, half because I wanted to stay next to my mother, half because I didn’t know if my legs were ready to carry my weight.

The shadowed room caused a chill in the concrete, so when I pressed my back against the base of the table, an outside cold reached my inside cold. Somehow, it was peaceful to be the same temperature everywhere.

It wasn’t until the room grew dark by the sinking sun, now sunk, when I finally got up. The only thing worse than feeling like I was surrounded by darkness would be actually being surrounded by darkness. My mother’s strength filled me at this moment. I kissed the tips of my fingers, pressed them against her door, and stood, allowing my feet to take themselves out of the doorway, along the path to my car, and onto the gas pedal, away.

“Why can’t you just listen to what I’m saying?” the woman screamed into her microphone.

She heard a sigh on the other end. He was tired of the circular fight, but she was tired she had to revisit the same point over. And over. And over because, somewhere in the chasm of space called the male skull, her very simple claim wasn’t touching a single brain cell. When God first made man, He must have forgotten to add ears.

“Alright,” the other end of the phone sounded, “you’re upset because you’re not feeling heard.” Obviously. But it wasn’t that she didn’t ‘feel’ heard, it’s that she wasn’t ‘being’ heard. “What am I not understanding?”

She took a deep breath in, her lungs filling up with the tension in her body from now explaining herself five times, and then exhaling, drawing to her mind the love she has for her husband and breathing out the anger.

“It feels like,” she started remembering the words of their counselor to not use ‘you’ language, “I am now having to defend my character rather than my perspective.” Good job, she thought to herself. There’s no blame and maybe he’ll hear me now.

A long pause lingered in the receiver. Did the storm knock out the service?

“Hello?”

Another long sigh. The wrath she felt and let go of came rushing back in a legion. Her eyes rolled autonomously. Why is he frustrated when I AM the one on trial here?

“Oh-kay,” drifted from the speaker. “So… you’re upset that I said this work conference was a vacation…”

Yes!

“...but why can’t you not have fun? Why do you have to be some sort of martyr for your job?”

Fuck. You.

Normally, when this frustrated and tired of the conversation, she would start to cry. Now, however, all she could do was sit there, blanket covered and mouth agape on the sofa, blinking at the wall both thoughtlessly and mentally racing.

“Oh my God,” she thought… no, wait. Shit! I said that out loud.

She cleared her throat, trying to conceal the buffering her brain took to recover. “I don’t know how to keep saying ‘I hope to have fun, but I’m prioritizing my work’ in different ways until you — until I communicate it effectively. So, I’m going to go.”

She waited to hear something. Anything. A sign he was going to fight for her and accept he had been a bad listener.

Instead.

“Look,” he began, “is this a fight I need to win?” It’s not about winning, but no, it isn’t. “Can we just drop this and move on? Does this matter?”

In that moment, she contemplated how well her phone would look flying towards the wall. “Yes! It does matter. This is important to me — this is who I am and you’re not taking me at my word. You’re just listening to things I say to twist and misrepresent them.”

Goddammit, those ‘yous’ felt good.

The phone sent out its usual silence: the sound a man makes when a woman sticks up for herself. But before she could feel too bad about the finger pointing, or even consider her own fault in the conversation, she suggested, “Maybe we need to take a break and come back to this later.”

A few seconds came and went before the, “Yeah, maybe,” arrived, as expected.

“Okay, bye.” She waited, again, for any semblance of an apology; a “my bad” would have sufficed than the quietness received.

Fine, she thought to herself in half-victory, I’ll be the one to do it.

As she hung up, she somberly looked into her husband’s eyes through his contact photo. Her thumb pressed the red button, and her phone rolled from her hand and onto the cushion, defeated as she thought: How did that even happen?

The man stood, skating his head reactively, but aware enough to not set his bluetooth earbuds loose. “You know, it’s okay to want to go to Croatia to have fun with your work friends. I just think it’s funny to fundraise to go on a vacation.”

He couldn’t understand his wife’s mood. Work can be fun! And he himself would never take a job he didn’t enjoy. The poor bastards whose day highlights were complaining about their clients over lunch in the copy room righteously angered, and he swore to never be one of them.

“Why can’t you just listen to what I’m saying?” blasted out from his earbuds so loudly he flinched, nearly knocking them free.

He sighed, sad that he couldn’t do the one thing he wanted to: say a dumb joke that would make his wife forget how mad she is, then tickle and poke and kiss her until they made up. But them being separated across town by this stupid storm fucked any chance of that happening. Okay, he breathed in, why is she really upset here?

“Alright, you’re upset because you’re not feeling heard. What am I not understanding?”

Their counselor always encouraged them to be concerned for what their partner is concerned about. Small victory! I’ll take it.

“It feels like I am now having to defend my character rather than my perspective.”

He stood in the middle of his childhood bedroom, stunned with confusion. Character? He had never said she was a liar or a bad person, so this made no sense. He knew she was quick to get defensive sometimes, but shit.

“Hello?”

He sighed, tired, impatient, and hurt that the woman he loved was this upset. He felt at fault, and it drove him crazy that he didn’t know why.

“Okay,” he began, determined to understand her. “So you’re upset that I said this work conference was a vacation.” He paused, waiting to hear a screech of correction from the other end. Nothing. Well, I’ll be damned. Maybe this counselor is on to something. Repeating what you hear was all we needed to do.

For once in this conversation, he felt confident; they were getting somewhere. “But why can’t you not have fun? Why do you have to be some sort of martyr for your job?”

Nothing, again. This time, though, every second of silence produced anxiety, not confidence.

“Oh my God.”

I’m fucked.

“I don’t know how to keep saying ‘I hope to have fun, but I’m prioritizing my work’ in different ways until you —” until I stop being a jackass? until I finally get my head out of my shitter? until I what, honey? “ — until I can communicate it effectively. So, I’m going to go.”

The man stood, stunned. He didn’t know where he went wrong. Yes, he disagreed with his wife, but couldn’t identify the moment he screwed it up, as hard as he was trying. Time to admit defeat.

“Look, is this a fight I need to win? Can we just drop this and move on? Does it matter?”

“Yes!” his wife shouted. He reached into his pocket, lowering the earbuds’ volume to physically (and mentally) prepare for what was next. “It does matter. This is important to me — this is who I am and you’re not taking me at my word. You’re just listening to things I say to twist and misrepresent them.”

This was a side of his wife he hadn’t seen in a long time, since they learned the depths of each other and what buttons to push to raise the ugly parts, only to slide in some jokes and cheesiness to subdue them. He didn’t remember pushing those buttons tonight, but prayed God would rewind time so he could un-push them.

“Maybe we need to take a break and come back to this later.”

This is a trap. But he didn’t know how to get out of it. Everything he did to untangle this web just created more knots. “Yeah, maybe.”

Defeat.

“Okay, bye.”

He came to his senses, realizing this battle, almost over, could still be won. He thought of anything: how to make her laugh — the belly kind that sounds like a long; the perfect apology, one that’s not just the words, but the heart; a connection of dots, scattered like stars but would suddenly, when arranged right, form a picture of perfect sense made from his wife’s words.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

The man took his phone out of his pocket. Rather than the smile of his wife’s contact photo, he stared ardently at his home screen, thinking about the fastest way to get home.

“We the jury claim the defendant, guilty of all charges, including-”

After the verdict passes, I can’t hear anything except for ringing in my ears. Not even the screams of my own resistance as the security guards drag me away. My jail cell slippers slide tractionless against the worn diamond-patterned carpet, handcuffs trapping my wrists in spite of my attempts to pull away. I can feel my shoulders slowly slipping from their sockets, but I don’t care. Scream after scream escapes my throat in protest. It’s not true, I plead to them, tears streaking down my face, burning my tongue with their salt, perfectly pairing with the newly settled dryness in my heart. I’m innocent! I didn’t do it!

My bellows of innocence don’t last long in their ears, as the entire courtroom watches in silence, some even in elation, as the two officers force me out through the doors and into a back hallway. I share one last glance of terror with my attorney. Her eyes tell me this will be over soon and she’ll get me out, but the failure on her face convinces me that this is it - this will be my life now.

Two more police officers join to lift me up and carry me to the asylum bus. The flailing of my arms makes it difficult for them to restrain me, and my handcuffs do little good to hold me back from grabbing whatever I can. Cold, dry air passes through my toes, and I notice that I had kicked one of my shoes off during the struggle. Flimsy slippers made of rubber and stiff cloth, as the prison did not allow for tennis shoes with laces. They were afraid I was going to kill myself. Previously it was unimaginable. I still had hope. Hope for a brighter future. Now, the only future the world has in store for me is a padded room with my arms locked behind my back.

Day 1:

The asylum bus pulls up to the iron-clad gates. “Better Days Recovery Center.” The irony in the rusted, squeaking metal contradicts reality: all of my better days are behind me. A life served as a prisoner in a mentally sick facility that I don’t belong in. All because I was at the wrong place at the wrong time.

My attorney warned me of this possibility months ago. I never believed her. I had more faith in the justice system and in the freedom of truth that it would never, ever, come to this. After today, my faith in justice, God, fairness, is gone. Just like the sealed fence surrounding the building, however, the truth cannot and will not be freed.

It’s hard to move after the hours of sobbing and panic from the drive to the asylum. My whole body aches and I’m in a daze from dehydration. My eyes are slightly closed from the swelling of my face due to so much crying. Each wail was less of a concern to the center officials than the one before. The only sign of any communication was when I asked to make a pit stop to use the restroom. One of the meathead policemen stood up and told me to take a seat. After another two hours, my pain became unnoticed.

Immediately after parking, the guards take myself and three others on the shuttle down the stairs and through double doors eight feet tall. I stretch out my numb, cuffed hand. Blood flow has slowed down dramatically, and I can no longer squeeze my hands nor my toes. My feet, still unmasked from losing my shoes five hours ago, jolt up as soon as my soles touch the hard, icy tile. Dust collects on the calloused skin on the underside of my ankles and toes. Each time I start to drag my body, the knobhead of a guard makes sure I stay up, either by kicking the backs of my knees or sending his baton across my spine. Tears well up behind my eyes, though none fall out. If there were any spare water left in my body I’d cry in pain. Instead, I draw a deep breath and continue moving.

The halls are a solid egg-white covered in years worth of unchecked dust and fading from the sunlight; no one bothers to clean or repaint the beige hue to restore it’s true clean white nature. Pictures of unique flowers and old paintings of scenery patients will never see again keep life in the air, distracting from the absence of the true form to provide an image of it instead.

Air ducts vent out stale, freezing winds that restrict my lungs and cause me to hyperventilate. My throat begins to choke on dust and dries up from the cold air, but I breathe in deeply regardless. I will not die here, stuck in a torturous web of suffering as a consequence for a crime that I did not commit. I will get out. I have to.

The security guards dispose of us off to the hospital officials, both men and women of similar physical structures. Hard, unfriendly glares of apathy welcome us to our new homes. They are not here to help us. They are here to keep us in line, slaves of a system established to brighten our lives by breaking down our souls.

Decades pass of waiting through lines and obtaining different prescriptions of medicine designed to numb our minds and obliterate the possible thought of escape. My hamartia is lawful insanity. Whatever the asylum uses to treat that, I don’t know; most likely a concoction of chemicals designed to calm the mind and prevent outbursts of rage or violence.

These pills are distributed by a short, plump woman in a white nurses coat. Her gray hair is pulled back into a tight, slick bun so restrained that the wrinkles around her face stretch out and warped turning into an at-home face lift. The smile on her face I suppose is for the benefit of the new arrivals, as it does not reach the indifferent glaze in her eyes.

“Name?”

I hesitate. Telling her my name and admitting this is reality places strain on my chest. I’m not a patient. I will never be a patient. The nurse cocks an eyebrow and takes in a deep, annoyed breath. “What’s your name, dear?”

“Brites, Kellyn.” My voice croaks out, rough and hoarse and full of resistance. I’m unsure if the nurse even hears me because she stares at me for a moment after. Then, she picks up the clipboard on the fold-up table in between us and crosses a name off of the list. I sense that that is all I am to these people: another name on the list.

She picks up a clear, plastic ramekin off of the table and thrusts it at me. I instinctively jolt back a small amount, surprised by the action. Whatever the pills are I know won’t help me. They will do anything but help me.

“What if I don’t take them? What if I don’t need to take them?” I ask, trying anything to get these damned people to see that I don’t belong with them. My place is at home, in my bed. Not shuffling across a dirty floor in my bare feet.

The nurse’s eyes glance up to the hospital guard standing to my right. Quickly, he grips onto my shirt and thrusts me against the wall. I hear my head crack against the plaster and the ringing in my ears returns. The guard jams the fingers of his right hand into my mouth, forcing it open, and grabs the pills with his left. He dumps the pills down my throat and shoves my mouth shut. After he pulls away, my legs give out from under me and my body collapses to the floor. How my throat managed to push the pills down without water shocks me, but not as much as the violation. The nurse did not order that out of necessity. Only to make an example out of me in front of the rest. A point was made that no one will fall out of order, or else.

The next few hours I make sure to keep my questions to myself noting how satisfied staff must be that I have bended to their will. A tour takes place of the rest of the mental hospital, including the separate sections, a cafeteria, a medical ward, and the outside grounds. Lastly, our assigned rooms are given to us and we are left to the quiet sounds of a hollow room, devoid of items except a bed, a dresser, and a fluorescent light installed in the ceiling.

Ache fills my muscles. I don’t know if it’s from the beat down I received, or if it’s exhaustion from my trial. Either way I shift towards my bed. Nothing special, just a regular twin bed with sheets that have been obviously washed too many times to still be used. My skin rubs against the harsh fabric as I settle in. A wool blanket rests at the end of my mattress. I pull it up to my shoulders and almost immediately start sweating, so I opt to sleep without it. Tears shape behind my eyelids as I slowly drift off to sleep.

No tears tonight. No tears. I must save my strength.

It’s dark.

Where am I?

How did I get here?

The cool tile underneath my feet brings me back to consciousness. Alcohol swirls my brain around like a broken carousel. It won’t stop.

Stumbling, my legs carry me past the front door and into the living room of my mother’s house. My fingers unleash my house keys. I didn’t need them to get in...wait…

How did I get in?

The thought leaves my brain as soon as it enters, and my body focuses on guiding myself towards the couch. All movement is a hassle. I can’t keep my eyes open long, and I can’t focus on anything past how annoyed I am with myself from getting too drunk.

Something blocks the vision on my right side. Am I blacking out again? But it disappears soon enough, and I stumble my way over to the couch. My feet warm up suddenly. From moving around?

I trip over the couch. It looked further away than it was. I get

back up and pain goes through my right hand. What did I land on?

The alcohol makes the stinging stop soon enough, and I lay down on the couch. My vision slowly drifts away as the nuisanced liquor encapsulates my systems, and I fall asleep.