45|Forgetting
I banged on the door continuously, feeling so defeated.
Feeling so betrayed.
By my mind that created this false narrative.
By my mother, who left a mess I never got answers to.
By my father, who smiled through all the lies I told myself and called it love.
By Naomi.
Naomi!
I'd never in a million years expected my wife to keep something like this from me.
Actually, I'd never in a million years expected something like this to happen.
My body felt too heavy.
My head wouldn't stop spinning.
My thoughts were a hallway of locked doors, each one with memories I didn't know how to open.
Memories I didn't even want to unlock.
I looked down at my shaking hands.
Rage trembled beneath my skin.
Grief too.
And shame. Always shame.
I feel so foolish.
I feel like I was the only one in the dark.
Everyone else knew and watched me act like a fool.
The door finally creaked open.
A face I hadn't seen in a decade stared back at me.
He smiled brightly. "Nathaniel Carter?"
I swallowed hard.
"Hey, Kyle."
"You look good man," he said. "I've seen you on the news winning cases and shit."
He laughed. "A few of my buddies hate you though. You put away some of their boys."
I took a deep breath before looking down as I gripped on to the doorframe for support.
The room spun; not physically, but emotionally.
The noise in my head was so loud I couldn't hear anything else.
Just memories.
Pieces.
Naomi's voice.
My mother's.
That final kiss on the forehead.
The silence.
"Hey, big shot," Kyle's voice cut through the fog. "You good?"
I nodded, even though I wasn't.
And right now, I didn't want to be.
"I just need something to shut it off," I muttered, still gripping the frame like if I let go, I'd fall right through the floor.
Kyle nodded slowly, more serious now. "Same thing as back then?"
I closed my eyes.
"No," I said. "Stronger."
...
The burn hit fast.
Up my nose, down my throat, straight to my chest.
I slammed my back against the wall, my jaw clenched, and eyes shut tight as I breathed through the rush.
Everything finally slowed.
Then everything snapped into sharp, glittering fragments.
My heart pounded like it was trying to jump out of my ribs.
My fingers twitched.
My thoughts blurred just enough to feel manageable.
Almost clean.
Kyle was saying something in the background, laughing, maybe offering another line, but it was muffled and distant to me.
It was like I had already left the room in my mind.
The room behind to blur and a sharp, dizziness attacked me.
...
I was six.
It was dark outside, but the light in the hallway was still on.
I'd woken up because I heard something.
A Voice.
My mom's voice.
Not the TV.
Not the usual kind of talking.
This was... sharp. Fast. Grown-up angry.
I got out of bed and padded down the hallway, dragging my stuffed dinosaur by the tail.
My dad was on a business trip and appointed me the temporary man of the house.
The carpet felt cold.
Mom was yelling.
"Get out of my house!" she screamed.
Then something crashed like glass or wood, I couldn't tell.
It was loud.
My heart was beating so fast it made my chest hurt.
I crept closer, toward the living room, the door open just a crack.
And I saw her.
My mom alone.
There was no one close to her.
She looked sad.
Then she turned a little, and I saw her face wet with tears, or maybe sweat.
Maybe both.
She stumbled.
"I'm sorry, Nathaniel," she said before the gun went off.
That's it.
That's all I saw before I backed up too fast and hit the wall.
Something in the kitchen clattered when I did.
That's when the man appeared.
And he saw me.
Just stood there, looking at me.
Not surprised. Not angry.
Just... cold.
Blank.
And that's when I ran.
I screamed, too, but I couldn't remember if the sound ever came out.
That was the last time I saw her alive.
And for years, I remembered it one way:
He hurt her.
He killed her.
He took her from me.
...
That is what actually happened.
The corrected version.
Not the false narrative my six year old self created to survive the sight of my mother choosing death.
No one took her.
She left.
My hands trembled as I wiped my face.
Kyle was beside me collapsed with a smile on his face, his mind probably in the clouds by now.
I reached for the bag in front of me.
Not to think again.
Not to cope.
Not to remember.
To forget.
I poured another line, longer than the last.
And without hesitation, I snorted it.
The pain dulled immediately.
But not the ache.
Not the feeling of betrayal by everyone I ever loved.
Not the feeling of betrayal by my own mind.
Not the part of me still standing in the hallway, watching my mother go.
That part?
That part of might never die.