The Release

THE RELEASE

            She walks, in the dark, towards the shadow of a desk lamp. And with a familiar rhythm she flicks the lamp-light on. Beside the lamp lye’s a journal. Her fingers twinge over its binding. She picks it up, sits on the floor, and writes. Slowly at first as if she’s gathering coherent thoughts. Trying to articulate them into words. Trying to formulate a pattern of language. She begins to write about the memories that flood through her mind.

            A seven-year-old girl. Dead. In her coffin. Best friends they were. A speech at a funeral she wasn’t prepared to give. A memory she won’t soon forget. A father. Abusive. Punch after punch. Shushing her to silence. Forcing her to smile. Guiding her to destruction. A mother who wouldn’t understand. And a friend. Turned enemy. Freshman year of high school, he sexually assaulted her.

            She writes until her pattern of language becomes vague, and the lines begin to blur. Her chest burns. But she’s not sure if it’s from the biting cold, or the ever-defiant pain that lives within her soul.

            She writes. Until the carpel tunnel in her hand fumes. Until her ankle has fallen asleep. Until the tears she didn’t realize she was shedding, drip and soak through the collar of her shirt. She writes until the glitter that once was her soul, withers and becomes all but dust. She writes until she’s not just numb from her pain, but she grows from within it. And then… She breathes.

(if you are interested there is the long form version of this short story poem on my writers page entitled "The Full Release" )