Heartbeats by Keonia Cooper

Lady in Stone

The whir of the projector leaves your head spinning, as twenty one eyes follow the teacher. The room’s dark, except for the stream of light that floats from the back of the room, you feel something. You can’t place it.

The click of the slides, one by one, words that follow leave your head bogged down, your thoughts muddled. You concentrate on your breathing, deep breath in, and out, your heart’s slamming against your chest like a miner digging for gold, so earnest in its attempt to break you down. You can’t count them.

Click. The slide changes to an archaic sculpture of a young man with a smile that doesn’t match his eyes, showing that he’s alive. You try to listen to the teacher’s words but they slide past you. All you can think is, “You can’t do this. You can’t do this.” You bite your lip, trying to hold it all in.

Click. You close your eyes, trying to catch the faint beat, but it’s useless. Medusa’s head lay in front of you, the screen fluttering slightly like a sail on a ship.

Click. You hear a shrill sound, and you don’t know where it’s coming from. You notice twenty two pairs of eyes locked on you. Miss Feron places her hand on your shoulder. You realize that you’re screaming. You close your mouth.

“Misty, are you okay?” She places her hand on your shoulder. Don’t touch, you think.
You hang your head in shame, your face burns red.

“Sorry.” You mumble your apology to the desk. The bell rings, and everyone leaps from their seats, scurrying away from you, you think. You gather you books, tears welling in your eyes. Why you?

Fix It

You gave up talking a while ago. After that stunt in Miss Feron’s class, you know that you don’t want to open your mouth unless you really have to. Your parents are with the school counselor, who just recommended that you see a shrink. Why are you here with them, talking as though you aren’t there?

Your father looks at you and yells, “Misty, do you want attention, is that it?”

You stare back mutely. Why should he care? He hasn’t before. Father’s are supposed to protect their daughters. Oh, he knows it’s wrong, but still he—

“Look at me when I’m talking to you. Answer me damn it, answer me.” Your father grips you by the shoulders your mother whispers “that’s quite enough John,” and the counselor admonishes, “Settle down Mr. Runner.”

Maybe it is your father’s fault, or is it your mother’s…

No it’s too hard to think. You’d like to shut down, stare off into space, but it’s not the time or the place.

The counselor looks at you sideways.

You gawf and all eyes turn on you. You smile angelically, shaking your head and walk away. That’ll never come true, monsters never want to be exposed, hence the lurking in shadows, hiding in closets and under the bed. Your father gaze beats down on you; your mother looks at you warily.

This is your fault, and right now you don’t care.

Spaz

Lunch, one of the worst periods of the day. No one’s given you a pass to the library so you’re stuck here for the whole period. You walk with a purpose, head down; you reach your table. It’s in the furthest corner, covered in trash.

You go through this every day. You grab the nearest garbage pail and with one swipe, into the open mouth of the can, a monster devouring the town. You place your bag in the empty seat beside you, it’s you’re only other company. Its better this way you tell yourself, pulling out your music, letting it carry you away from the screams and hollers of the lunchroom.

You look around and watch; it almost spins in front of your eyes. You tap your foot to the time of “Riot” by Three Days Grace. You’re ready to shut down.

“Misty! Hey Misty!” You get jerked back to reality. Looking around trying to figure out who would be calling out your name, that’s how pathetic you’ve become.

Eyes meet, you stop. You never thought she even knew your name, let alone would ever speak.

“Misty. Yeah you.” She crooks her finger like a hook. Come here.

You stumble awkwardly to her table. Jeanine.

“Hey, you don’t like me or something?” She asks, all smiles. Behind her back a knife, you know, but you fall anyway.

A group of faces stare back that you don’t recognize, teeth flashing, dangerous.

You shake your head no. It’s not like that.

“You know what you are Misty?” Teeth, “You’re a spaz, you know that? An honest spaz. I mean who does that? And in art history at that.”

Bubbles of laughter burst. Your face burns, from the crown of your head down.

“Hey, spaz, come back here, I’m not done with you.” Jeanine shouts, everyone turns to look to see what’s going on, like prairie dogs.

“Ahhhh.” A mock scream sounds as tears slip, burning your face, leaving ruts where they run. You scoop up your bag and half run, not turning back, someone shouting “Spaz, spaz” behind you.

“All the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players..." you whisper under your breath as you open the doors. That’s high school for you.

Duckie

Bath time. You run away screaming. It always hurts. Hands grasp you securely around your middle, this makes you terrified.

“Four year olds should not be afraid of the bath!” Looking up to a smile. It doesn’t reach the eyes.

You’re told to take off your clothes, because you’re a big girl now, as they sit on the toilet and watch.

They reach over and run the water, testing it with their fingers. It’s the fingers, the hands, and the gentle touch that scares you; so much pain. Why?

“Please don’t make it hurt again, please!” You try not to let tears fall, but they do. There’s those hands again, soothing you into a calm. Maybe not this time.

Those arms place you in the tub; a solitary ducky floats to you. Why does the duckie always come to you? Why won’t it leave you alone?

A soapy wash cloth runs over your body, against your face, against curved knees, pudgy tummy, your back, butt and dimpled legs, arms, neck. Water runs through your hair as it gets washed.

“All clean!” You tremble, knowing what comes next.

You stifle a sob, because you know that if anyone finds out, your family will be taken away from you. A shadow passes in the doorway, a frown, and then it’s gone. Help.

You sit still, silently crying as fingers slip, rub, scrape delicate skin. Fingers rock, pushing back and forth until they disappear.

You thought parents are supposed to love their children. So why does yours hurt you. You stare at the tiles and try to count them on the wall behind your parent’s head. One, two, three, four, five, that’s as high as you can count to.

It’s doesn’t feel good. Its pressure and it makes your stomach feel sick and achy.

Whatever happened to stranger danger? Mommy and daddy told you strangers aren’t supposed to touch you there, but they’re not strangers.

“Ow!” You cry out, and ridged wrists become still as fingers twist finding their way back out, pink clouds swirl around the duckie, following it as you cry.

An arm reaches around your slippery body, and pulls you out of the water, wrapping you in towel. You’re shaking.

You look up to see a smile that doesn’t quite reach the eyes.

“Aren’t you supposed to love me?” you wonder to yourself. You get sent to you room, because that’s what big girls do.

When will it stop?

Bathroom Break

You sit next to Kyle and Abby, your breath coming out in short gasps, and you control it enough so no one notices. No one notices that your heart’s butting against your rib cage like a fish trying to escape. No one notices the tears that threaten to spring from your eyes or your trembling hands…you wouldn’t want them to see you break down.

You. Can’t. Do. This. You can’t do this, you can’t, and you just can’t. Your mind races, you try to count heart beats to calm you down, but you can’t hear them, so you slip out of the room, grabbing the hall pass that sits near the door, no eyes follow you as the door clicks behind you, and you cover your mouth, doubling over in grief. This is what crazy is, this is what crazy does.

You let go, you sob hard, cries stuck in your throat as your body shakes. Why? You barely pull yourself together and begin to run towards the girls’ bathroom, that’s your safe place.

You’re crying as hard as you can, trying to purge this feeling of being lost, away.

“Misty, dear, are you okay?” A soft, blur floats past you.
“Misty?” You feel a hand on your shoulder. Touch, run.

You don’t, but you have to think about it, hard.
You lift your head to find Miss Feron attached to that hand.

“Hon, what’s wrong?” She pulls you into an embrace. This is always hard, because you know it’s impossible, but you’d like to bury yourself into a person’s heart and just stay there. It’d be nice to feel that kind of warmth.

“Nothing. I’m sorry.” You feel obligated to look up again, your face burns in shame. You look into eyes flecked with worry. Everything’s okay.
Miss Feron only hugs you again and whispers in your ear,” If you need someone to talk to, my doors always open, Okay?”

You attempt to smile and fail, but you’re able to shake your head okay. It’s the best you can do.
She watches you walk away, push the bathroom door open. There you let go,
crying out like a wounded animal, until no more tears fall.

Haven

There’s a park near your house, it used to be a school’s playground, but now it’s just a public park.

It’s never really full since no one knows it’s there, but it’s really great at night. Sometimes you slip out at night and go there. You get the best view of the stars.

Your hands run against the chain link fence, it’s cold even for May.

You look up, the moon stares back. When you were three, you’d look out of the car window, coming from picking your father up from work at the old factory, and yell, “the moon’s following us. Is he going to be in bed with me...he’s watching over me?” You feel that way now.

The stars wink at you, what if you could touch them, reach up and grab them. You’d probably put them in your pockets like smooth stones. You love stones.

If you jump in a river with heavy stones in your pockets, would you sink faster? You’ve always wondered.
You lay flat on your back grass wet with condensed water…this could be a safe place.
You tuck your hands under you. You’d rather not go home just yet. Instead you count the stars and dream of heartbeats.

Breakdown

You can’t take it anymore; you wish you were some type of technology, able to shut off and on when you feel like it.

You’ve cleared off your lunch table and your hands are shaking. What does it mean to break down?

Your head spins, tears threaten to spill from the corners of your eyes. You plug your ears with your headphones, ready to drown everything else. You lay your head on your hands, humming along, and grief washing over you.

You can feel it, grief washing over you, it’s like a blanket, settled securely around you. You feel lost.

Picking up your head, you look around, watching people pass. You don’t belong with them. You don’t fit in. Not the way you want to. You just want to be happy, satisfied with existing.

It is easy to lie to yourself, just say nothing’s the matter over and over again, and you’ll believe it.

Apologize. Apologize for everything you’ve done, everything to come. It’s one of those habits you’ve formed and just can’t shake.

Your thoughts run together. If those people who think you’re crazy see the inside of your head, they’d run away screaming. You smile.

You want to cry for how dark you’ve become, once you were happy, where did that go?

Clutching your sides, you try to hold yourself together; you’re tearing apart at the seams.

You feel a shadow pass over you, you look up to see a boy standing beside you…a seventh grader?

“Hey you okay?” He touches your shoulder, he reminds you of Sam.

You pull out your plugs and smile, wiping away tears. You know your smile doesn’t reach your eyes; it’s nothing that can be helped.

“Yeah, thanks.” He looks around at your table, and back at you. “You sit alone?”

You tell him it’s better that way.

“Henry!” a voice you’d know anywhere rings out. Jeanine. She storms over; a crowd of gawkers do what they do best.

“Henry, what are you doing talking to her? You should know better than talk to filth, she might attack you. Rabies, it’s catching.” Jeanine sneers and everyone laughs.

Henry looks back apologetically, as he’s being dragged away.
“Sorry,” you whisper. He can’t hear you.

Dig

“Misty, I’d like to talk to you…” Your mother looks over at you in the car. Shopping, one of your least favorite things to do, with your mother no less.

You look over. You’re not in the mood, your stomach hurts, your head aches, you’re a bit nauseous, and you’re bleeding. This is the nine year old definition of hell.

Haven’t we had this talk before? You wonder out loud. You’re a “Woman” now, and you have to guard against boys and their over sexed minds.

Is that all? Is that your only danger?

Your mother pats your hand and you flinch. No touching. If only you dare say it out loud.

“You need friends; it’s not natural for a young girl like you not to have friends. When I was your age I was very well liked, it’s time for you to branch out.” You mother chides lightly.

“You’re so beautiful, if you’d just realize how special you really are.” Your mother touches the side of your cheek, feather touch. Your skin burns, you want to scream, but you swallow it.

She’s digging your grave for you.

Monk

“Pass the butter please,” Your father asks, you sit on his right, your mother on his left, and Sammy across from you.

“Pass the butter, Misty…” His fork hovers in front of his mouth. “By the way, how was your day?”

You pass the butter, your mouth rusty from staying shut for so long. You say nothing.

“Misty, how was your day?” You can hear the grating in his voice.
“God damn it talk already!” He slams his fork on the table, letting green peas roll off the side of his plate, circling his glass of wine.

“Freedom! We have found a god!” you smile to yourself as you play this scenario in your mind.

“You think this is funny?” Your father reaches for you but you duck.

Sammy starts to cry, and your mother and father reach to comfort him. You run off upstairs, disgusted, dinner forgotten. Can you escape?

Smile

White tiles, you run your fingernails against the wall, the sound of clicks like wheels on a train track touches your ears. Hopping from one square to the next, don’t touch the white… follow your father’s long strides to the room.

Sterile, the smell of bleach, nothingness, and flowers. Peek around the corner to see a swollen, tired mother.

Touch, touch, touch; the doorframe, the chair, the bed. You give her a hug and a smile, “You’re a big sister now.” Your eyes follow her smile and you see a wrinkled, peely thing lying in a cot next to her.

You look closer, holding your breath. A boy blinks, looks at you and cries. You jump back, you didn’t even touch him.

Your mother cradles him and laughs, “You just shocked him, that’s all.” Your father reaches, scooping him out of your mother’s arms.

Name?

“Samuel Runner.” Your father rocks gently. Papa’s got a brand new boy. You grin.
Nine months of not touching, maybe it ends now. Maybe it’s gone for good.

Your father hands him off, pass the baby. Why wait eleven years for this?
You hold out your arms to take him in. He blinks awake, stretches, yawns, snuggles, coos. You place your finger in his open palm.

“Sam,” you croak, “Little Sam.” Your family is all smiles.
Maybe this is a new beginning for you all.

Heart to Heart

The murmur of your heart, you lie on your back and listen to the darkness. They’ve come for you tonight, leaving you shattered. Why won’t they clean up the messes they’ve made?

You curl into a ball and just listen. You curl into a ball, and just listen. You can pick out your heart beats; one, two three…seven, eight. You feel as though you’re being rocked out to sea, forgotten pain and grief cast on the shore.

It’s far away now, it can’t touch you. Warmth.

The ache leaves you as you keep counting, carrying you further and further away. You can escape the hurt, if only temporary.

Your heart healing you, you drift off to sleep. Dreamless.



Filthy Hands

Skin crawls, stomach turns, and you want to run. Its valentine’s again, and you hate it, hate it with a passion.

Bodies press against lockers and your chest aches. Flashes of red and pink float down crowded halls. What happened to decency? A half naked Cherub wraps her arms around her personal Angel. You cringe on the inside, as you push your way out of the madhouse called school.

The sky’s violent, gray black waiting to unleash its fury. You pull you coat closer to you as snow swirls around you. Angrily, stomping through snow, snowflakes whip around your head. You avoid lovers, holding hands, feeding on each other’s faces, their hearts.

Your palms burn red, as you look down you see dripping crescent moons. You press your palms in the bank of snow, blood seeping into the ice and you moan.

When is it going to stop?

It’s gone from fingers to hungry tongue, exploring dark caves, reaches as far as it can go, leaving you feeling dirty.
You shudder, from emptiness, for hurt, for betrayal, and you wonder, why? Why you?

Because you allow it, because you can’t break it away, because you are weak. Are they going to come for you tonight? Filthy hands come clean in fresh snow.



Attention Please

“Mist, I don’t know why you aren’t… You’re acting like a three year old, you need to talk, and you’re driving me insane. I don’t know what you want.” Your father’s hands grip the kitchen table.

Talk. I don’t want to give that to you dad, you think, your eyes locked on his hands as big as dinner plates.

“What kind of example are you setting for Sam?” He stares into your eyes.
Your thoughts race; Sam, pain, breathe, home, life, what’s left of you. Something’s tearing apart in you, tears spring to your eyed. Your life is held together by tears.

“Goddamn it, do you want attention, is that it?” You fume. You have all the attention you’ll ever need. You’re the key figure in the play your family acts in. Your father hanging in the shadows, watching, never stepping in, never stopping your pain.

“Talk to me Misty.” Your father reaches out and grabs your hand. You open your mouth.
“I’ve got to go to school.” You jump up, grabbing your bag and leave the room,
Nice talking to you too.



Climax

Key clicks, lock’s undone, and you slip into the house silently. No one’s home, which is good.

You flick off your shoes, and head straight to your room. You flop on your bed, and scream in your pillow.

“Misty?” You hear your mother at the doorway and panic. Your stomach flips as she sits on the edge of the bed.

She reaches out and rubs your back, small circles, you unwind. She tells you to relax. You go stiff as she helps you remove your clothing; how many times have you gone through with this?

Her skilled fingers go to what she does best. You try to go numb, but you feel her. You feel her fingers moving, searching, and you want it to stop.

Why does the duckie comes to you? She pulls off your underwear slowly, watching for your reaction. She spots fear, she keeps going. You try counting heart beats, but they are trapped birds, trying to escape. You’re stuck; fingers clutch and unclench in ruffled sheets.

A shadow drifts by, face contorts, and then it’s gone. Daddies are supposed to protect their children, make them safe.

What have you done to deserve this? You smolder with anger as your mother lazily slinks out of the room, leaving you less than a shell. She doesn’t even close the door.

There’s no way to fix you, you close your eyes, whispering, “You can’t do this” over and over again until the words run together. You can’t take this anymore.

Run

One foot in front of the other, pick it up…you do what you do best. What you where born to do. You run.
Each foot takes you further away from home. Where do you go?
You catch sight of a pay phone, and you grasp it for dear life, whispering her number out loud.
One ring, two, three.
“Hello?” a sleepy voice answers the phone.
“Miss Feron, I need you help.”
“Misty?” You feel so small, “are you okay?”
You take a deep breath and breathe. You have to think about it for a second, are you?
“No Miss Feron, I’m not okay. I need your help.”