Read Online Castles by Benjamin X Wretlind - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Benjamin X Wretlind
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open and slipped outside to a cold night full of stars. When I reached the edge of the patio and stood next to Grandma's cedar chair, I heard the door shut behind me. I cringed as the deadbolt engaged and the chain was applied.
I knew I was alone in the world.
Alone and afraid.
I walked through the trailer park, hoping to find some place to stay. Michael wasn't going to come to the window even if I broke into it with a rock. I didn't really know anyone else well enough to ask for help. I had distanced myself from the other kids in the park—from Cade and Justin, from the girls that sat next to me in class. They didn't matter once I'd become a woman and let Michael inside.
How could I have done such a thing? I was twelve, damn it. I had just learned to use a pad less than a year before. A year before that, I was playing with Barbie dolls and toy horses. Responsibility was a word I couldn't spell and a concept I couldn't grasp. Had I forced myself to grow up, just to be with Michael?
Mama was wrong, though. A woman isn't made by the choices time makes. A woman is made by the choices she herself makes. She moves the clock forward a day or a month at a time. She decides when she's ready to accept a love presented to her, and she decides when she's ready to put away the dolls. A woman is made by the environment she's in, by the friends she keeps, and by the lessons she allows the world to teach her.
I leaned against the side of the maintenance shed and cried. I wrapped myself with my arms, oblivious to the cold outside but quite aware of the cold within me. I wanted to die, to crawl into the grave I'd already dug and disappear forever.
I looked out at the desert beyond the fence. I couldn't see the Bus, but I knew it was there. I'd been inside enough times to be able to walk the mile or so in the darkness and find shelter. Maybe Mama needed time to accept what had happened. Maybe if she got herself drunk enough she would pass out on the couch and forget I said anything at all.
I crawled through the fence and headed toward the Bus, crying. Inside of me, I knew there was a life—a tiny version of myself created no more than three weeks ago. In a fit of passion and a sudden urge to grow up, I'd made a mess of everything. I didn't know what I was going to do to make things better, but as I walked around cactus and sage bushes, I could hear Grandma's voice offer her advice.
"God is always aware of what people do, what they leave behind for others to step on. Storms are His way of making sure the messes don't hurt anyone else."
I stopped and looked up. If storms were God's way of making sure messes don't hurt anyone else, where were the clouds now? Were they building in the distance, waiting for the right moment? I couldn't see that far, but the season was ripe for it.
I shuddered at the thought of the dust eels inside the wind and wiped the tears from my face. I didn't need that right now.
When I finally reached the Bus, I'd stopped crying.
It wasn't long before I fell asleep in the passenger seat.
4
I dreamed of the carousel of singing men that night. I hadn't dreamed of them since I was ten, and I'm sure I tried to push those memories back. Like most memories, they had found a crack in the weather-stripping and seeped out of that closet where I thought I kept everything safe.
I found myself outside the Bus, leaning against the front bumper, naked and cold. The men circled the Bus, looking at me and smiling. There were faces I thought I recognized, but most were foreign to me. The one that looked so familiar the first few times I dreamed of the carousel when I was nine, stood apart from the others.
Michael held his hand. I felt my nakedness then more than ever.
Michael let go of the other man's hand and stepped forward. He wore pajamas I'd seen more than once, pajamas I'd removed from his body more than once. He slipped though the other men and stood in front of me, his hands opening and closing much the way
I knew I was alone in the world.
Alone and afraid.
I walked through the trailer park, hoping to find some place to stay. Michael wasn't going to come to the window even if I broke into it with a rock. I didn't really know anyone else well enough to ask for help. I had distanced myself from the other kids in the park—from Cade and Justin, from the girls that sat next to me in class. They didn't matter once I'd become a woman and let Michael inside.
How could I have done such a thing? I was twelve, damn it. I had just learned to use a pad less than a year before. A year before that, I was playing with Barbie dolls and toy horses. Responsibility was a word I couldn't spell and a concept I couldn't grasp. Had I forced myself to grow up, just to be with Michael?
Mama was wrong, though. A woman isn't made by the choices time makes. A woman is made by the choices she herself makes. She moves the clock forward a day or a month at a time. She decides when she's ready to accept a love presented to her, and she decides when she's ready to put away the dolls. A woman is made by the environment she's in, by the friends she keeps, and by the lessons she allows the world to teach her.
I leaned against the side of the maintenance shed and cried. I wrapped myself with my arms, oblivious to the cold outside but quite aware of the cold within me. I wanted to die, to crawl into the grave I'd already dug and disappear forever.
I looked out at the desert beyond the fence. I couldn't see the Bus, but I knew it was there. I'd been inside enough times to be able to walk the mile or so in the darkness and find shelter. Maybe Mama needed time to accept what had happened. Maybe if she got herself drunk enough she would pass out on the couch and forget I said anything at all.
I crawled through the fence and headed toward the Bus, crying. Inside of me, I knew there was a life—a tiny version of myself created no more than three weeks ago. In a fit of passion and a sudden urge to grow up, I'd made a mess of everything. I didn't know what I was going to do to make things better, but as I walked around cactus and sage bushes, I could hear Grandma's voice offer her advice.
"God is always aware of what people do, what they leave behind for others to step on. Storms are His way of making sure the messes don't hurt anyone else."
I stopped and looked up. If storms were God's way of making sure messes don't hurt anyone else, where were the clouds now? Were they building in the distance, waiting for the right moment? I couldn't see that far, but the season was ripe for it.
I shuddered at the thought of the dust eels inside the wind and wiped the tears from my face. I didn't need that right now.
When I finally reached the Bus, I'd stopped crying.
It wasn't long before I fell asleep in the passenger seat.
4
I dreamed of the carousel of singing men that night. I hadn't dreamed of them since I was ten, and I'm sure I tried to push those memories back. Like most memories, they had found a crack in the weather-stripping and seeped out of that closet where I thought I kept everything safe.
I found myself outside the Bus, leaning against the front bumper, naked and cold. The men circled the Bus, looking at me and smiling. There were faces I thought I recognized, but most were foreign to me. The one that looked so familiar the first few times I dreamed of the carousel when I was nine, stood apart from the others.
Michael held his hand. I felt my nakedness then more than ever.
Michael let go of the other man's hand and stepped forward. He wore pajamas I'd seen more than once, pajamas I'd removed from his body more than once. He slipped though the other men and stood in front of me, his hands opening and closing much the way
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