“How could…why…why would you lie to me, Rosa?!”

“M-miguelina said-”

“Don’t tell me what Miguelina said! You’re an adult, aren’t you?! I’m your husband! Why should what Miguelina says have anything to do with anything?! Ohhhh, dios…I can’t…”

To this day, I respect her the most for the way she reached out to him.

“Don’t touch me!”

I couldn’t think what to do, what to say as he stormed up to their room and filled a bag with his clothes - stormed out to his truck, turning the keys violently to try to keep from breaking down in tears. 

I remember following him barefoot out onto the hot driveway with the sun beating down on my face and head. Wanting to say something…

“What will Andrew think when he gets home from Toby’s house?”

I guess I didn’t say it loud enough for him to hear me. But he saw me standing there staring at him.

He said something I couldn’t hear,  or comprehend, as he got out again, putting his big hand on my hair, and kissed my tear-streaked face.

I want to believe it was “I’ll come back.” But I’ll never know. They didn’t really give him a lot of options…

*

Papers read. Papers signed. I organize something neatly for the first time in my life and leave them on the kitchen counter.

I go upstairs. I wash my hair. I make a smooth part and braid it back. I slip on one of my nightdresses, all blackness and lace like I’m still in mourning-

I’m still in mourning. 

I look in the mirror and tell myself I’m pretty so many times I think I’ll burst into tears.

All I see is my father peeping his head through the doorway, Mami braiding my hair as he teased, “How on earth was I cursed with two such beautiful little ladies? What am I supposed to do if some crooks decide to pick up and run off with you both at the same time?”

I smile at my reflection, and the mouth staring back at me trembles and laughs at the same time.

“Am I still pretty, Daddy?”

I wish he could tell me.

I wish he knew about Kattar.

I wish he could be jealous that somebody was trying to run away with his little girl.

I wish he could tell Kat to treat me right.

Cuz heaven knows I’d never say it…

But maybe I owe him…that…

The least I can do for Daddy is stand up for his princess like he always used to tell Andrew to, now that nobody is here to save me but myself.

I’ll…try…

Pinkie promise.

*

If looks could kill, she’d have been convicted ages ago, and I’d be done with this nonsense.

My skin raves with these chills.

I can’t think straight.

I had the worst anxiety I’ve had in ages when I woke up this morning, and everything threatens to bring me to tears - I’m so tired - and just staying on my feet feels like an achievement I should be getting a medal for.

Miss Howard is even more her “lovely” self than usual when I show up at the office, and that only makes this horror in my veins a little more permanent. Like two gaseous shadows mixing together to form something tangible. An inky gray rain.

I’ve never seen a look that black from a face that beautiful. 

Then, I remember the lunch with Jinho and Andrew, and I have to retract that statement.

I should probably apologize to Kattar for what I said about Etan but…

It might be better to wait until a day when he hates me a little more before I bring that up again.

It’s been too long since I talked to him - two whole days - and I can’t begin to imagine what he’s thinking or what he thinks of me.

I resist biting my thumb - fidgeting with my hair - as Emelia fixes her glasses and opens her laptop with a violence that would permanently ban me from permissions with Kattar’s laptop if I ever touched it that way.

I try to look attentive, but she wouldn’t acknowledge me whether I do or not. I allow myself to study my shoes for a few seconds and wonder how I subconsciously dressed all in black today.

“The photoshoot is this afternoon,” she says brusquely, without any lead-in.

“You can still keep in mind the interview, but they tend to do their shoots first so they can ask ‘artists’ all about the experience.”

That didn’t need air quotes.

“They also want to chat with you about what's coming next for ‘The Great Ms. Palmero’ and what pieces you’ve finished most recently as a sort of ‘sneak peek.’” 

She says it all just oozing with sarcasm, and there are so many reasons this ‘greeting’ rubs me the wrong way that I can’t even decide what kind of angry to feel.

My eyes sting and I bite my thumb spitefully, watching the annoyance wash over her face as I do.

Breathing hurts.

But I’d let my heart beat itself to death before I let her know.

“My most recently finished piece is already up for sale,” I mumble with the end of my thumb still between my teeth, “ I don’t have anything new ready at the moment.”

That apparently amuses her.

I apparently don’t care.

I watch her vaguely as she comments with a raise of one pristine eyebrow, “That happened a while ago, didn’t it? You haven’t made anything new since then?”

I just look at her. Still biting my thumb.

“That is what I said, yes.” 

I feel irritated with this, not even angry, just antsy, just done. Just wanting to go home and never have to talk to her again.

“It sometimes takes a very long time to complete pieces,” I add, with annoyance I hope is subtle enough to look even half as immaculate as her own.

“It’s a wonder you can make a living that way,” she jabs again, with a shake of her head that I think is intended to counterfeit sympathy. 

“Most people prefer quality over quantity, Miss Howard.”

“Mrs Howard,” she frowns, correcting me again, and this time I can’t help but cringe a little at my own mistake.

I hate her…

And I’d give anything to be anywhere but around her, today or any day, but I make myself apologize, “I’m sorry. It’s a force of habit when I’m talking to other people my age.”

“An unnecessary habit when most women your age are already married and mothers,” she says dryly. “It’s a wonder you’re not. Wasn’t there anyone in Charm City to fall for that pretty face?”

When she says it, ‘pretty’ is anything but a compliment, and she makes it so painfully obvious, but I’m forced to bite my tongue. 

I feel like I’ve been reverted to nothing more than bauble status. A pretty doll nobody wants, or cares enough to call their own. 

To his mother’s face anyway-

Maybe that’s not fair. Or maybe he’s not fair. Forcing me to be his little secret - 

Am I just callous or heartless -?

I want him to get over it.

I want to stop being something he has to hide, like stolen candy.

And I could try to take it out on Mrs. Howard, but in the end, it’s not her fault.

My skin burns.

But I stay silent as she basks in the satisfaction of having gotten to me again, organizing her paperwork. 

The only thing I have to say for myself is that I’m not crying. I want it to go down on the record if I die today from the pressure in my burning face or my chest.

“Would you like to head home and freshen up before you have to head to the shoot?”

Don’t pretend to be sweet to me. 

I’m just glad I actually DID shower today.

Still, I accept the offer and go to my car in a blind rage. 

I won't even risk letting it steer my thoughts as I try to steer my car. 

If nothing else for the sake of the other drivers. 

I press my face against the steering wheel and feel a gurgling scream in the back of my throat.

She’s right. I’m not married. I’m not a mother.  That shouldn’t feel like as much of a dig as it is.

But it is.

I’m barely even wanted.

Or maybe I am wanted - like all the trinkets he hoards in his closet, but never takes out, never touches, and never gives away. Just one more thing to have and keep neat and pretty and perfectly, uselessly, locked up in the dark.

But he has so much stuff already. Why does he need me?

I don’t know who’s more at fault. Which one of us is more wrong or has more cause to be hurt and wary and scared?

I guess people are falling for me, but not fast enough, or hard enough.

That’s what I get for falling in love with the son of a goddess.

I would pick the one man who has always been able to defy nature, all the whims of life and humanity everyone else is subject to - falling - but only as much as he deems safe.

And I willingly subjected myself to this new form of torture, just cuz I’d gotten tired of the old one.

My skin feels hot and cold at the same time, and I’m so completely enveloped in sick horror I almost can’t feel it. 

Am I anxious, or does my anxiety have me? In the palm of its hand. A children’s toy again.

How much of my life am I going to spend as nothing more than somebody’s hobby, a little doll to play with, and pass back and forth - searching for somebody who actually wants it?

There are 5 hours before the photo shoot, and I’d rather do anything but go.

There are 5 hours before I resubject myself to that horror that ended that last horror and try to pretend I feel pretty while people pose me and take pictures of me, and I already feel myself unbecoming human. Unbecoming everything. Unbecoming anything but ‘broken.’

Because no matter how much I hurt, nothing will ever trip that nerve that can make the screaming inside me go quiet.

But I start to wonder what that would be like.

I…

Mom and Kattar…

It’s like rain made of ice water. And I know I’ll never go looking for a way…

Out.

If I can resist it.

Rather than showering, or doing my makeup, which I’m sure the magazine will have to do themselves anyway, I find myself dropping onto the living room floor, just to close my eyes for a minute.

Trying to exist is so much more exhausting than it has a right to be and yet...

My nerves do whatever they like... 

...Be misfiring and electric and yet there is no energy left to even make my way to the painted couch.

All I can do is resist... 

Try to ignore them. But I lay listening to my pounding heartbeat that seems to be accelerating with each breath as I lay on the rainbow stains trying to sleep-

Please.

I just need 20 minutes…30 minutes of peace, then I’ll try to brave through this never-ending tempest again. Just peace. A little bit of calm - please.

I find myself curling up in a ball with my hands over my ears like that could quiet my own thoughts-

SLEEP.

I haven’t had a moment’s peace - a moment’s complete and full lightness since I…Kat.

Since maybe ever…since who knows or who cares? 

Every second is too long when you’re totally entwined by this pressure squeezing the life out of your lungs. And if there’s a limit, a set number of times our hearts will beat in a lifetime-

I wonder if this anxiety that’s been my companion for as long as I can remember is wearing out mine.

Wearing me thin.

Sometimes when it slows, I really believe I’m dying, because I don’t remember what it’s like to live without terrors or fall asleep without the dark. sitting on my chest.

I can’t breathe.

I know I’ll sound ungrateful to everyone who will remind me that I’ve had good days - 

But I can’t remember the good days.

Maybe I am just ungrateful or bratty.

Tell me that, as if it helps me to know I’m unreasonable - overreacting - every time I feel like I’m drowning, while I’m totally “okay.”