1.1 Luce
1.1 Luce
When I was little, mornings were my favorite. I’d awake in my yellow child’s room, the walls aglow with golden sunlight filtering through the windows, and wait for the sound of my mother’s voice to carry across the hall. From her bed, at the same time each day, like clock-work, Mama would call for me. I would crawl out from under my blankets, plant my feet on the floor, and pad quietly across the hall into her bedroom, where I would stand, still and silent, beside her big bed until she reached out from beneath her soft white duvet and scooped me up. She always threw the sheet and blanket over our heads and held me close to her chest, smelling of lavender and clean linens, her forehead nuzzling against mine.
“Good morning, Lucy,” She would whisper as her ocean blue eyes stared into mine, looking like a beautiful cyclops since our noses touched and our faces were so close together, “My sweet girl. I love you so, so much.”
Then, she would shower my face with kisses while I giggled and replied that I loved her too. She would conclude, every single time, “No one could ever love you as much as I love you, my girl. Don’t ever forget.”
I hate mornings. Now, I have black-out curtains hanging over my bedroom windows, so the sunlight can’t creep in and cover me in its warm glow. There is no more call from across the hall for an early-morning snuggle from my mother beneath a makeshift fort made of her cloudlike duvet. No more sleepy kisses and murmured ’I love you’s while being wrapped up in her safe embrace. Instead, I wake feeling empty and alone, reminded every time I open my eyes that my favorite person in the world can no longer open hers. Mornings are just a shitty sucker-punch to the gut, forever repeating that my nightmare is a reality I’ll never escape from.
“Lucy,” My mom raps her knuckles against my closed bedroom door, her voice quiet and careful, “Are you awake?”
“I’m up!” I snap, a scowl on my face that I’m sure she can hear even if she can’t see, “You don’t have to do this every day, I’m not a child anymore!”
Her footsteps retreat without another word spoken. I don’t blame her for walking away. I’ve been pushing her away for years now. I never said our little morning tradition came to end because of her. It wasn’t all my fault, either, but I certainly can’t place the responsibility squarely on her shoulders. We both played a hand in the destruction of our perfect mother/daughter relationship.
I raise my left arm above my head and trace the inky black message tattooed across the creamy flesh on the inside of my wrist. <3Forever. Still fresh, the skin around the word is pink and sensitive to my touch. Honestly, I like the ache. I wish the stinging sensation of the needle being dragged across my wrist yesterday, scratching Cole’s last hand-written note to me into my skin, had been as permanent as the tattoo itself. It would be fitting. I deserve the pain.
I sit up, my eyes locating the framed picture on my nightstand out of pure habit. Impossibly blue eyes stare back at me, orbs that are clearly filled with pain and sadness, though I was unaware when I took the photo at fourteen years old. I remember feeling envious of her beauty as I snapped the pic; jealous of her snow-white skin, pale blonde hair, heart-shaped face, full pink lips, and tall, slender frame. She was pretty like a princess in a fairy tale, and I was awkward in comparison, baby-faced and clumsy-limbed. I wished I had blossomed from preteen to teen as seamlessly as she had, and I hated myself for being jealous of something she had no control over. I wish I could reach through the portrait and hug her tight. I wish I could tell her I’m sorry, sorry that I didn’t know she was hurting so badly, sorry that I didn’t see the signs when they were right in front of me.
Cole. My Colie. Otherwise known as Nicole Marie Morris. My best friend since preschool. My sister by choice, not blood. My beautiful angel. She died the same year I took that picture of her, during the summer after eighth grade. She died, and it’s my fault. I killed Cole.
“I love you,” I tell Cole’s picture, kissing the tips of two of my fingers and tapping them against the glass, “Forever.”
Cole signed off on all our notes in middle school with this phrase, always drawing a crooked little heart in front of the word forever. She wrote it on the palm of my left hand in black Sharpie the night of her death, and I refused to wash my hand until it faded to an illegible string of blobs. I wanted to get my tattoo there, in the middle of my palm, where Cole last wrote it, but the tattoo artist I went to recommended I not do that. Apparently, palms are not great for tattooing since the skin heals up so quickly the ink doesn’t always take. I settled for my wrist.
Stretching, I reach for my cell phone, and climb out of bed. I turn on my Bluetooth speaker and cue up my Cole’s Greatest Hits playlist. It’s a collection of all of Cole’s favorite songs and artists. She was a huge fan of early 2000’s alternative rock/pop punk. I set the music to shuffle and ‘The Taste of Ink’ by The Used starts to play. Cole loved this song. I crank up the volume, smiling a little to myself. I slide open the top drawer of my dresser and start choosing an outfit for the day.
Suddenly, someone is pounding on my door.
“Too loud for 6:30 in the morning, Luce!”
I roll my eyes. George. My step-dad. At least he called me Luce, unlike my mother, who refuses to acknowledge how childish and basic the name Lucy is. “I love your name,” Mom always says, “It hurts me when you say that you don’t like it.” For that reason, I adjust the volume, turning it down just a smidge. Who really cares if it’s 6:30am? Everyone in this house is awake.
“Thank you,” George calls from further down the hallway. I’m sure he’d rather I turn the music off completely, but he must be playing the role of good cop this week. I’m guessing it has something to do with my 18th birthday being yesterday, and my not asking for a single thing from him or my mother. Mom made chicken parmesan for dinner, and a chocolate cake with buttercream frosting, so we did celebrate, in a way, but they respected my wish of no fussing and no presents. I got my tattoo, paid for it with my own money, and that’s all I wanted. Besides, I’ve been following their rules – no drugs, no alcohol, no cutting class, going to therapy once a week, been keeping my room clean – so he really has no reason to play bad cop.
I resume choosing an outfit, selecting something casual. I’m talking real casual; Monday morning and I’d rather be in bed casual. A loose-fitted, long-sleeved black top with a V-neck, soft grey jogging sweats, and a pair of plain white sneakers. I gather up my thick, chestnut-colored locks into a lazy messy bun and secure it with a hairband before going into the bathroom to wash my face. I also wash my tattoo, as instructed, and apply a thin layer of antibacterial ointment. I consider putting on some makeup, but fuck that. Seems pretty pointless to waste time doing that when I’ve got no one to impress. Most days, I walk through the halls of my high school like a mute, only engaging in conversation when absolutely necessary. I’m not there to make friends. I’m there because I have to be. I’m counting down the days – 49, including today – until I never have to set foot in that place ever again.
