Heal Me~Dawn

This air is supposed to be refreshing. It is, I guess, but not in the way I wish it could be.⁰ I want to feel its full love, the kind that kisses your skin and frees you, not this version that only reminds me how tired I am. My arms are cramped from holding0 myself too tightly. I feel like I’ve been rooted here forever, hugging my bare arms, skin and bone clinging together.

“Wooooo!” The sound explodes behind me. Carefree laughter, a group of young adults sitting on the window frames of a passing car, bottles raised, hair flying wild. Ah, yes. The good times. That phase of life when problems still feel far away, when you believe you’re invincible, when every night might be the last one you can waste before reality sets in. My heart aches for that. I miss it.

I should’ve done more back then. I missed out on so much. Alcohol was the only thing I ever kept up with and even then, it betrayed me. I never could decide if I liked it. Wine, ciders, it didn’t matter. I drank until I promised myself I wouldn’t, and then I drank again until I was hunched over, puking. Regret was always waiting for me the next morning. Now regret feels small compared to what I carry. If I could go back, I’d drink again, not for the taste, but just to feel like I had some kind of choice.

The ocean breeze brushes my face and I close my eyes. It soothes me, or maybe just tricks me into believing I’m soothed. The waves crash in the distance, steady, eternal. People say I’m blessed. I believed them once. But what kind of blessing leaves you hollow? What kind of blessing makes you feel like you’re the stupid one in the crowd, pretending to have it all together when you’re barely clinging to the edges of yourself?

Laughter drifts from the dining room, soft and familiar. They must be done setting the table. I should be helping. Instead, I linger here, because the thought of touching a plate and having them look at me like even porcelain would shatter in my hands is unbearable. They treat me like I’m death walking, fragile, ugly, already gone. I know I don’t look like Belle from Twilight, but surely I don’t look like a corpse either. Still, I suffer their stares.

“Lily, come over!” My mother’s voice cuts through, cheerful, polished, always ready for an audience.

I take a breath. I need to look okay. I need to be okay. Turning toward the glass door, I catch my reflection and wince. God, I hate how I look. What is wrong with me? Before I can spiral further, my second-born sister’s hand waves me in from across the room. I walk back inside.

The table gleams its a modern oval of polished wood, elegant and shining. I sit opposite my mother. My sisters take their usual seats, facing each other. My daughter Chloe sits beside Grace, my niece, both girls too young to know the weight that hangs in the air. Chloe is only three, healthy and glowing, as though she drained every ounce of life from me to build her perfect little self. Grace, Zoe’s daughter, laughs softly at something on her plate.

“Lily, dear,” my mother begins. Her voice is careful, but I know better. Words from her mouth always carve at me. Still, I smile, pretending to brace myself.

“I don’t know about you, but you need to deal with your issues.” She waves her fork toward me, toward this body she can barely stand to look at.

“Did you really have to say issues, Ma?” Zoe snaps, rolling her eyes.

“Why do you make it sound like I’m attacking her? She’s my daughter!”

“Guys, stop,” I interrupt quickly. “Mom, go on.”

Silence. My mother stabs at her vegetables like they’ve offended her. Breakfast is ruined because of me, again. She finally looks up.

“You’ve seen doctors, specialists, prayed, everything. God only knows what’s going on with you. But you’ve been hiding long enough, ever since your… unfortunate temple.”

Zoe scoffs under her breath. I glare at her, warning her to let it go. Clearing my throat, I force a smile. “Of course not, Mom. I do it for the family’s reputation.”

Her eyes brighten, proud of me for saying the right thing. “That’s my girl.”

And then she drops it. “Which is why you can’t come to your sister’s wedding.”

The table freezes.

“What?” Zoe blurts out. My heart stumbles. Four days. The wedding is in four days. Zoe had already spent her own money on a designer for me, spoiling me, pretending I mattered.

“Sure, Mom,” I whisper. I don’t bother to fight.

“Why?” Zoe demands.

“The last thing I need is your sister drawing attention. The future in-laws are business partners, Zoe. Maybe they can hear about it later, by December, like it’s new gossip.”

“December? That’s eight months away!” Zoe yells.

Chloe and Grace look up at her, startled. I press my lips together, fighting the lump in my throat. The heat in my chest burns, but I swallow it. My mother has carried me for nine months, yet she cannot bear the thought of carrying my truth for one day.

I glance at Mia, my older sister, glued to her phone, not even sparing me one glance. My gaze lingers on her, heavy, begging for her to notice what’s happening, to stand with me. She doesn’t.

So this is family. When I am skin and bones, when I am lonely and ugly, when I am dying a little every day, no one lifts me. Not even the woman who gave me life.

I look at my daughter, Chloe, still innocent, still free. Will she grow up shadowed by me? Will people look at her and see a curse too?

No. I can’t.

I stand.

“Where are you going?” my mother asks coldly.

“Home.”

“You are home.”

“My home,” I shoot back.

I meet my daughter’s eyes, my heart breaking for her more than for myself.

I walk away, through the maroon-and-white uniforms of the maids, ignoring Zoe calling after me. My hand grips the door handle. Zoe rushes to me. “Sis, let me take you home.”

I glance back one last time. My mother doesn’t look. Mia doesn’t look. They never do.

I nod at Zoe. She squeezes my shoulder gently. “Don’t worry about her right now.”

We step into the summer heat. The season of golden bodies, wild laughter, freedom. For everyone else. For me, it’s just sweat and shame, trying to hide in a world that doesn’t let you.

We climb into Zoe’s Lamborghini. The engine roars. As the gates open, Harry Styles’ Sweet Creature pours out of the speakers. My favorite song. A curse and a blessing. Zoe turns it up.

I don’t mean to, but the guitar pulls at my throat. The second hook comes in, and my voice breaks free. Sweet creature. You bring me home.

Zoe sings too, loud and bold, her voice filling the car. For a moment, just one fleeting moment, the pain softens. And I remember what it feels like to be alive.