On Growing Up
I am overcome with wrath.
If I was still young and I felt like this I would pick a direction and walk until the soles of my feet blistered and separated in two giant sheets. Then I would text Oli and he would buy cigarettes and break into one of the abandoned manor houses with me and we would sit on the roof and smoke until our throats were sore and we had burned holes in the flesh at the center of our lips. Then, we'd speak our woes into the green canopy unobserved. Those were not the good times. But it seems times only get worse; so lots of things have earned the name good, in retrospect.
Now I can buy myself whiskey, so I do. But drinking alone makes me feel like my parents, so I text Oli to ask if he'll call me. But he's had a hard day and wants to go to bed early and I respect his right to rest. You can only buy American Spirits at the tobacco outlet here, but they're sold out. The man at the counter suggests an alternative and I say yes without really listening. They cost fifteen dollars. There are pictures of mouth cancer on the box. The smoke feels strange and unfamiliar in my lungs.
I would like to walk but cities like these are all so small, there is nowhere unobserved here. Every inch so well-trodden, so well documented. I find myself at the bay and sit on the rocks there. The breath of summer is warm on my cheek. The smell of brackish rot makes my eyes water and the flies dance around my body. Me and my army of abandoned takeaway boxes and plastic grocery bags stand sentry against the gentle lapping of the water. I want the rapist to call me. I want to tell him how much I loathe him, that he deserves everything that he's gotten. I wonder if I could still tell him he deserves to die if he called me with a rope around his neck, if he asked me to talk him down. If I could still be moral if I had to feel personally responsible for the consequences of justice. Would he still call me family then?
I go home. I feed the cats. I do the dishes. The rage burns heavy in my chest.
