Her head presses against cool glass, stomach still turning. She doesn’t know why, but one of his favorite games is scaring them. Too many drinks and too late in the night, he pulled the three girls from the party. He woke her violent from her already restless sleep. Too many drinks and a loud, showy repeat of a previous fight. All eyes on him. And him, voice blasting across the party. And mama pulls at his wrist, but he can’t even feel her there. He’s all name calling and feet stomping. Broken bottles and cards strewn across the floor. And she’s all forced laughs, begging, and pleading. Because nothing is wrong. And none of them have ever seen a storm. And nothing is wrong. And he yanks them all past the whispers and pushes them into the car. And too many people watch from the driveway as the car screeches away into the night. Too many drinks, and too cold a night, and he purposefully throws the car in dizzying, lurching circles. Snowbanks dislodge and explode outside her window as the tires tread them, too quick. And she mustn’t cry. Her mama is crying. Her sister is crying. But she mustn’t cry. If she doesn’t cry, the storm will never come. And so she lets the glass ease her turning stomach. And when he asks if she thinks it’s funny, she stares straight into his eyes, silent, wordless. And he laughs like they’re party to a private joke. And she rests her head back against the glass. And she watches the snow rise and fall again like it’s been given a second chance to hit the ground. And she thinks how life is always just repeating. Pounding, angry snowfalls turning to dirty piles, too heavy to hold. And her mama is crying. And her sister is crying. And he’s still shouting and laughing. Great, joyous cries whooping into the bright, white night. And a little prick of her fear slips away as she realizes there’s no stopping the storms. And she can’t help but to laugh at the joke as well.

Malevolent voices command that I kill! I’m surrounded by harsh, condescending and abusive random words, swirling, twirling. You’re worthless, they say, you’re going to Hell. People are spying on me, reading my thoughts. Hammering and pummeling, they urge me to hurt myself or others with complete abandon. I can’t block the whispers to kill my mother. She is destroying my soul, I have to kill her to get rid of her threat.

Crowds of people scream at me, resounding with power as negative thoughts filter into my skin, disabling my brain and changing my behavior. I can’t fight the darkness; genes inside my bones strike blows as delusions surround me, urging violent acts. I inhale the fog of paranoia, engendering bitter resentment. My thinking is racing around me in circles as my speech becomes incoherent. I can’t talk, I can’t talk! I can’t live with the demons so must hide in my mean streets. I can’t make sense and walk, walk, walk in circles. I’m emotionally flat until the voices overcome me and tell me what I must do.

Eat this sandwich, the sympathetic girl offers as I twist her words around trying to sort out her motives. The food is poison. Kill her! Kill her! Black clouds flail all around, discord drumming, jarring, rasping, overcoming my mind. I can smell and feel the evil emanating, hallucinating my fear, knowing she means me harm.

I jump to my feet and grab her by her pulsing neck, squeeze until the threat oozes out. A few sighs of this she-devil is all that I hear, as her malicious presence ceases to exist. I have done what you said, I tell the voices. I have erased her menace. She is my mother in another form.

Why are people in uniforms surrounding me? It was my imagination, not real. I tell myself this, over and over, mowing down my doubts. I convince myself with the incessant chorus of voices, chanting, ranting, yelling, do it again, bane of my life, but guiding me onward.

My mother pinned me against the wall and screamed at me, her face inches away from mine.

“He’ll never marry you. He just wants to sleep with you, thats why he proposed.” she yelled and specks of spit flew at me.

As far as I could remember, my mother had always had anger issues. We lived in Mumbai, India in an apartment and my mother was notorious amongst our neighbors for that reason. My father, sister and I walked on egg shells around her and she was like a ticking time bomb who could go off any minute and say things no mother should ever say to her children.

“You look like a whore. Which corner will you stand on tonight? What’s your rate?” she said to me when at age seventeen I wore a short skirt to school.

“You should just kill youself now.” she said to my sister when she didn’t do well in college and came home sobbing.

She even grumbled at my paternal grandmother, who lived with us, as she attempted to tidy our living room with her eighty year old hands.

Of course, I know now that my mother’s anger was just the tip of the iceberg. My mother’s parents had never cared for her either. Her issues probably stemmed from the lack of love and belonging that was imprinted on her childhood. And she had managed to imprint our childhoods with hate and violence as well. My mother’s anger issues had gone unchecked.

As she pinned me against the wall, I decided in that moment I wasn’t a girl anymore. I was a thirty two year old woman who had picked a man of her choice to marry and my mother was not happy with that decision, becuase he wasn’t Indian. But also because he didn’t make a six figure salary. I decided in that moment to fight back.

So I back yelled at her, “Do you think I care about that? You think I am a virgin. Well guess what, I am a whore. He isn’t the only guy I have been with. I have spread my legs and accepted many men inside me.”

I was shaking with fury as my mother’s hold loosened. She stepped away, aghast at the obscenities crawling out of my mouth. I continued to shriek for what seemed like hours. I emptied my bucket of hate on her and drenched her in dark, gooey filth. And for the first time ever, mommy dearest backed off and was crying in a corner. I laughed at her helplessness; that part of me she could not control. In that moment, I saw the defeat in her eyes and I knew she could never catch me again.

I was free.

I was free.

We’ve created a paradigm in our society

And are living in a culture made to function the same as a fragile glass lens

As babies, we don’t see what’s not there

So as children, we’re taught to pretend to see through it

While letting it see through us the same as a projection

Casting a living shadow, an imposter; our reflections

Or, all these other people we find ourselves surrounded by

People who are more than happy to go along with the program

Can’t you see?

The smiles on their faces?

That laughter in their voices...

But be careful!

The majority of people on planet Earth are fickle creatures

Who spook easily, especially in large numbers

And while the foundation we’ve built our collective situation upon

Is non-existent

The glue that holds our human world together is tacit in nature

And when challenged, will shatter; breaking the lens

But it’ll be people, not sharp shards of glass

That’ll cut you to pieces both literally, psychologically and spiritually

Take it from me, just look; I’m a walking open wound

“He likes to throw jabs,” dad says. “Dodge and counter.”

My feet drag my body

off the wooden floor

back onto the mat.

I grip my gloves

and clamp down on my mouth guard,

the taste of plastic in my mouth.

I meet my enemy’s gaze.

His sapphire eyes

tower above me.

The bell tolls.

My foe bows

and I do the same.

We poise ourselves to fight.

Raising our fists,

he lurks towards me

and jabs,

just like dad said,

each one

landing.

One on my chest.

I stagger backwards

and wheeze.

He advances again.

Two on my stomach.

I gag,

hunching over.

Seconds… hours…

I duck a cross,

my vision hazes,

stumbling over to the other end of the ring.

Dodge and counter, dodge and counter.

I side step a jab and clinch him to close the distance,

impaling him with knees,

each time grunting,

heat rising,

skin turning red.

Sweat and salt swell my eyes.

“Keep going,” Dad shouts from the stands.

I release the clinch,

disengage,

and drive a front kick into his chest.

He reels.

I pounce.

My fist crashes into his chin,

bone grinding on bone,

spit gliding off his lips.

His knees buckle

as he thuds onto the mat.

I sigh

and stand up straight

to let the ref raise my hand,

and as I gaze into the audience,

my dad rises,

smirks,

and cheers.

I felt my face burst into flames. The night before he yelled at me and hung up the phone in my face, so of course the next phase was to arrange a face off. This fool had me standing in the driveway in my quite suburban neighborhood in my fleece robe arguing about my birthday trip. Except this wasn’t really about my birthday at all.

How could he accuse me of choosing anyone over him?!! Lies. Filthy lies. “You barely even know her and you paid for her to go on your birthday trip” he said. “I didn’t pay for her she paid me back the money I lended her to pay for her portion” I responded. “You didn’t even ask me” he said. I’ve been with you for two years, and for at least a year, I’ve been talking to you about my birthday trip! Not once did you say lets do it babe” I retorted.

She and I had been friends for about six months. Before I met her, my closest friend lived in Lubbock and was preparing to move to Los Angeles. I finally had a new friend to hangout with in my city. He didn’t see it that way. He saw her as a threat to our relationship. Clearly, I wasn’t allowed to divide my time. He was jealous and it was beyond ridiculous. He was my boyfriend and my best friend so I thought, but this fool in my driveway was a dark stranger.

He reached out to touch me and I jerked away. “Oh I can’t touch you now?” he asked offensively. I glared at him with eyes like laser beams trying to split him in two without a word. All of sudden, his voice went from shaky to quiet intensity. It was the calm before the storm, the muggy air on the back of my neck, so thick I could slice it. He folded up his arms and squared off in front of me. Love be damned.

He drove away and I was in shock of all the words left in that driveway. He called me the next morning. I had just sat my purse on my desk and turned on my computer. “I think we should breakup" he said abruptly. No good morning, no hello, no I'm sorry. I nonchantly said “ok.” The phone call ended. Down goes Frasier. In my mind was every expletive imaginable and I couldn’t dare fall apart at my job.

There I was, three weeks before my birthday and the present did not feel like a gift. The fight was over and I wasn’t sure there was a clear winner. I suppose it was him since he dumped me. I boiled with anxiety, anger, and frustration. On my lunch break, he had the nerve to call me! I sat in my car full of rage, screaming at the top of my lungs. The lava flowing from my heart burned his ego down to the ground. He erupted in tears as he pleaded with me to stop screaming. I was done. We were done. Three years later, after therapy and antidepressants, I cry every now again when I think about him. I’m still waiting for the day when I can laugh about it, but even now there’s a junk punch with his name on it. Some fights end in bloody noses and others end in broken hearts.

Emotions festering,

Filling my head

With morbid thoughts

And false lies

Internally panicking,

Anxiety brewing

Leaves my mind racing,

My brain a jumbled mess

A soul slowly dimming,

Its shine lost

To the cruel gears of time,

A merciless world

Breaking it down,

One trial at a time

Everyday, I fight to retain control,

I fight to remain myself

Why does she fight it?

These feelings she certainly has

I see it when she closes her eyes

Hear it in the catch of her breath

Sense it when she is so close

Would she but see?

What’s there before her

Perceive the racing of my heart

The blood coursing through these veins

Pounding the rhythm we might share

I bide my time

Fill inked pages with angst

Yearn in dark dreams

She has the key

Can unlock this mortal coil

I am watching them through the window not knowing how it will end, unable to decide whom I want to win. The web is hanging from the pillar on one side, connected by the arborvitae on the other, with an angle that wouldn't have been my first choice, but I am not a spider. The pillar is peeling paint, but perfectly aligned beside the arborvitae giving me just the right amount of privacy I seek from the street. Not even the mailman knows I watch him from the window when he crosses. Before the arborvitae was planted and before my hair was gray, I would sit out there on the porch, sipping tea and I would wave to all the passersby, and they would wave back. Some of them knew my name; I theirs. And if I saw a web, I would walk to the shed and fetch the broom, not apologizing to the spiders as I removed their home. Because back then I had the interest and the strength, still believing that a proper porch shouldn't have webs randomly hanging from the rafters and pillars. Jason….., no, Jerrod, was the mailman's name at the time, and I always put five dollars in his Christmas card, to thank him, but he's long retired, and his replacement wears headphones every day only waving to the music. And besides, I find no reason to thank someone for making me go out there to pick up junk mail, and then again to put out the recycle? Peapod now gets the five dollars, but not in a Christmas card. Even if I could still drive, home delivery of groceries just makes sense.

This year, and for several years, since the arborvitae has matured, the birds have been coming to make their nests, even though I can no longer afford to put out feed. They have staked their claim, and have a right to do so, because what happens out there with the birds is nobody's business. So it might seem like I am on the side of the birds, but that's not entirely true. It's been a long time since I've believed the spiders don't belong where they decide to make their home. If some of them are bold enough to make their way inside, and I am able to see them, I could just step on them, and be done with them, but I don't. I take the time to pick them up and put them back on the porch where they belong. And now they will all just have to fight it out without any further intervention from me. So I watch from the window. The birds have to eat, and so do I.