The first blow came when I was four years old, and it left me a scar. The details are secondhand, but I wanted to run while looking down. I imagine I was enjoying myself until my head cracked against a corner of the wall. Blood was pouring out of my skull, streaming across my nose and lips, onto my feet below. My mom pressed a dish towel against my wound and held me close. It was hard to breathe.
The second blow came when I was twenty-two. The details are still fresh in mind. I wanted to run while looking down. Looking forward is too unsettling. I found myself running away from home to Tampa. I pulled my heart out of home and gave it away to the people I liked better. I discovered independence and true love. I came home to laughter and warmth. It felt like a new family. I was enjoying myself until her head cracked against the tile floor. Alone in her home, she bled from the back of her skull as it soaked into her hair. Weak and alone, all she could do was breathe.
Fifteen minutes after the first blow, the paramedics arrived. My mom carried me into the ambulance, and they brought me to the hospital. She stayed by my side while they cleaned the wound. I remember her big hands wrapping mine and her voice soothing my tears. When the doctor’s left, it was just her and I in the room. She held me close again, tighter than before even. It was hard to breathe, but this time I didn’t mind.
Sixteen hours after the second blow, I arrived at the ER back home. I carried myself up the stairs and into her room. I stayed by her side as they switched the tube down her throat. I remember her little hands wrapped in mine and wishing her voice would soothe my tears. The doctors came and went periodically, just as the machine periodically lifted her chest up and down. I asked to be alone, so it was just her and I in the room. I held her close again; it had been years since I held her so tight. It was hard to breathe knowing that she wouldn’t be able to do the same.
Two hours since the first blow, my mom and I sat in the emergency room lobby. We were waiting for the surgeon to stitch me up and send me home. The little blonde-haired boy with his head wrapped like a mummy didn’t want to sit down. He had been trapped in his sarcophagus, room 22, for too long. I messed with the magazines, pulled on my mom’s hoodie, and asked her annoying questions until I couldn’t take it anymore. The little mummy jumped up and began to run around through the rows of uncomfortable chairs. I was looking down and I noticed the spec of blood stain on my sneakers.
Twenty hours after the second blow, it was late into the night and most of my family went to sleep on the recliners in one of the grieving rooms. My mom and I sat in her room. We were waiting for the doctors to give confirmation on any positive signs before they pulled the plug. The little blonde-haired boy had a green buzz-cut now, but he still had a hard time sitting down. He had been trapped in the sarcophagus that was living with and loving an alcoholic mother for twenty-two years. I itched my arms, held onto her hand, and asked her everything I hadn’t had a chance to. By morning, I couldn’t take it anymore. The mummy stood up, kissed his mom on the cheek, and said a few final words before leaving the room. I left the room with my head down and stepped into the restroom to splash some cold water on my face. I lifted my head from the sink and looked forward.
I met the eyes of someone I didn’t recognize at first. He was only about as tall as my waist, his chin poking just over the sink. He had a big, bulky bandage around his head and tears that dried on his cheeks beneath his eyes. I wet my hands and reached through to him. I used my thumb to wipe them away. I grabbed his hand, and we walked down the hallway. He looked at every step he took. I knelt and looked him in the eyes.
“Look where you’re going, and you’ll be okay.”
