Yellow - Jessica Luby

Yellow
Jessica Luby
 
I have not slept on my own since freshman year of high school. Every time I voluntarily close my eyes, there he is. My heart begins to beat so fast that I feel like it’s going to burst through my ribcage. It is a pain I cannot explain with words, a pain that only I will ever feel, and a pain I choose to ignore with pills.
Ambien – a small yellow pill, combined with Xanax and Melatonin – both a chalky white, make for the perfect concoction to allow me to sleep without reliving what I had to experience long ago.
I want to be able to sleep without the pills. I feel like they own me. I take them every night and within twenty minutes, they completely shut me down. I think of nothing, remember nothing; I disappear for eight hours and wake up to a new day.
Tonight, I’m not taking my pills.
Tonight, I’m reliving it, every second of it. And, I will continue to do so until it stops, until it goes away.
 
 October 15, 2008. Exactly one month after my Grandma went to heaven. It had been exactly one month after I was ripped from my fairytale, and placed into a nightmare. 
I sleep on the couch. I don’t have a bedroom in my parent’s house. 
Dad is drunk again. 
Mom is crying. 
Dad and Mom are fighting. 
I run away.  Dad and Mom do not care. They never bother to look for me. They know I am like a cat; I come home eventually. I have no other choice.
I always run away to the same place, my place. It is about two miles down the road from where my parents live. It is underneath a bridge. It is a little spot overlooking the Farmington River, with huge cement blocks. My cement block has a small hole in it, big enough to stash my supply. I climb up on my block, take out my bowl, pack it using my cell phone as a light, and smoke.
One pull, two pull, three pull, happy again. 
I just need to escape. I need to breathe. It feels so good to not feel anything.
One pull, two pull, three pull, happy again. 
Amidst the process I stare at the river, listen to the pigeons, get bit by mosquitoes, and occasionally, find a good rock to throw to disturb the water. As soon as that rock hits the water, I think of myself, and hate the rock I had just thrown.
One pull, two pull, three pull, happy again.
This night in particular, while dad is drunk, mom is crying, and dad and mom are fighting, more than just a rock disturbed my peace. A man, tall, flashlight, dressed in blue with a badge was standing above me as I inhaled my third pull. I look up and all I see are his eyes looking down at me in disgust. I exhale as he cuffs me.
He throws me against my block and searches me. He rubs me down from head to toe. He rips my sweats and underwear, jams his fingers inside of me, cutting me with his nails. I scream, and quickly he pulls my hair back so hard that I could make no sounds. I hear the zip of his pants, and he whispers in my ear that yellow is his favorite color. 
After he is done, he lets my hair go, but pulls his gun from his belt. He brushes my hair with the pistol and tells me not to move. He removes the cuffs and walks away.
What seems like hours passes, and I do not move. Finally I collapse.  I see my bowl on the ground, along with my sweat pants next to it. My underwear is missing. They were yellow. With a little blood trickling down my inner thigh, I put my pants back on, and repack my bowl. 
One hit, two hit, three hit. It did not fix anything that had just happened. 
I chuck it in the river and walk home.
 
 
I lied. I cannot relive this again. Seven years, and I’m still not ready. I’m taking my meds again.

 

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