The Fall.

I was writing with a group recently and we were given what’s called a writing prompt. I might have spoken about this before or perhaps you are familiar on your own. As they often do, each of the prompts offered by the leader of this free write session, triggered something profoundly emotional inside of me. I’m going to take some time for both over the next few weeks.

My plan is to unabashedly and honestly share the piece that I wrote to the prompt, and they delve a little deeper into the meeting that lies behind the writing. The first prompt I wrote to was: you were bleeding?

Ready? Okay…

I’m face down on the concrete. A flattened cartoon. An imitation of a chalk outline from a cheesy 1990s police drama. My legs are splayed in different directions which is wholly unnatural and my arms have followed suit. A myriad of thoughts fills my brain instantly. Did I blow out the candles on the dresser? I wonder if my phone screen is cracked. Why don’t they pave this fucking sidewalk? Did I ruin my brand-new tights?

I half pull myself up, wincing at the pain. I had been flying. I wanted to get home in time. For what? For our dinner date. Our awkwardly scheduling meeting. Why the fuck was I running so fast? That has to be a metaphor for something. There’s a message in there. A sad tale of desperation and sadness lined with hope. Thin, weak threads of hope.

I find my ass on the concrete and begin the assess the damage. Looking at my palms, I have an instant need to throw up. I’m not usually squeamish or prone to vomiting, but this agony comes from deeper than my flesh wounds filled with gravel and stray bits of shattered beer bottle glass.

Why the fuck was I running so fast? What am I actually doing? I am completely out of control. Which has felt comforting up until this moment.

A spinning top, constantly in motion, no sense of where it lands.

I glance down. My beautiful tights are marred and filthy at the knees. There is no washing away this damage. Without knowing, it feels permanent. I have this sudden thought that I should throw myself away with my tights. That somehow feels simpler to me than sorting all of this out.

I imagine my limbs sticking haphazardly out of a dumpster. This makes me laugh. And then, I’m crying. I need to get the fuck up. I look around, suddenly realizing the traffic surrounding me. Well, not exactly surrounding me. Just in the world. I feel entirely alone and completely surrounded lately. Everything is a barrier. Everyone is a spectator. I am a prisoner in a prison of my own making.

I have no idea how to hoist myself up on my tarnished and ripped palms. I’ll use my abs. That’s a thing, right? That’s what we all strive for? Strong abdominals. They attract everyone and set up apart from our fellow peons. A laugh burbles somewhere deep inside of me, perhaps below the abdominals I assuredly do not have, and then stills before it can escape. The promise of a storm that always looms and never comes.

I think I have to…roll. I think if I roll to my side, I will somehow be able to find my way to standing. It feels very impossible but I know I can’t stay here. I can’t stay HERE. Can I stay here? Jesus. Get it together. A pull a deep breath in through my nose and exhale loudly through my mouth. My mouth tastes of copper and I can’t tell if I bit my mouth or lip on the way down to this hell. Something is bloody and ragged.

I roll onto my side and wince at the shooting pain in my hip. I feel as if my fall has shattered and torn everything. My bones. My cells. My skin. Everything is broken and nothing will be the same again. I think I’ve already resigned myself to this brokenness. I’ve just paraded around in this shell for months now, waiting for the paint to finally peel and the battery light to go on. I feel the slowing and also, I’m powerless to stop it.

I fucking hate him. I was running too fast and this is my fault, but also, his. My anxiety. My desire to please. All for him. All for nothing at all. I tripped on my agony and pride. Also, his betrayal and abandonment. I lean slightly forward, feeling a tenderness in my ribs, curl my toes under, press into my stinging palms and pull myself upright. I am a tin woman, rusting in the elements. Clunky. Uncoordinated.

I can feel blood trickling down the front of my tights and collecting in my palms, just under the place where my tender fingers are now wrapped. How the fuck am I getting home? Should I call him? Would he come get me? That’s absurd. He is the reason I’m here. Why would I call him?

Where the fuck is my phone anyway? I pat the elastic belt around my waist and feel for its familiar rectangular form. Nothing. I knew it. Fuck.

I look around at the grass underneath and around me. Suddenly, I see it smiling up at me a foot or so away. Spiderwebbed cracks dot its surface, reflecting the half setting sun. A maniacal smile. Fuck you, it screams. Now I’m broken too, it whines. Thanks for nothing, bitch.  

Bending over to pick it up feels like an unnecessary chore, like cleaning grout, or dusting behind the microwave. It isn’t though. Unnecessary. I need to get home and it’s a portal. The only option, really.

I bend down and audibly groan. Fuck me. That hurts. I touch the shattered screen and it alights. Thank God. I scroll down and then lift the phone to my throbbing ear.

Hey. Tears clog my throat. Can you come get me?

x.

L.