Cut Wide Open
Page 2
That’s where I spot you.
You’re smoking a cigarette. I didn't know you smoked.
I am fascinated by you.
You’re so young, yet you pull the smoke into your lungs like you’ve been doing it for years. You’ve changed some. Your hair is a tiny bit darker than when I first saw you through the glass. You’re taller too. You have a black T-shirt on, black jeans and black boots.
You look around the park. Your eyes roam and then finally still.
On me.
You’re staring at me and I can’t look away.
I watch as you pull the smoke into your lungs again. You exhale. The haze clouds your face hiding your eyes. Normally I’d run but I can’t today. You take another puff, then stomp out your cigarette. Your boot moves back and forth extinguishing the red glow.
You stare at me for another moment and then someone calls your name. You look up to greet your friend and our connection is lost.
I become invisible.
Twelve years old
I am changing. I got my period.
I’m suddenly sadder than normal. I let my thoughts drift to all that I’ve lost and all that I’ll never have. I wonder why I exist. I wonder what’s the point. I try to dream, but dreams are for girls with futures. I don’t see tomorrows, I can barely see today. Sometimes I wonder if I should just end it, but then I see you and you give me a reason. I don’t understand it since I don't know you, but you’ve become a beacon I hold onto. Even through your loss, you have light. I want that.
Mitchell and Claire are fighting. Claire throws a dish. Mitchell calls her a drunk. They’re yelling about money. They’re always yelling about money. Mitchell threatens to leave. I wonder what will happen to me.
Mitchell slaps Claire. Something crashes. I need to leave this room. The four walls are suffocating. I stay in my bedroom when I can, but today, I need air. This is all too much.
I tiptoe out of the house and quickly walk down the street towards the playground. I don't look around. I’m trying to be fast. I don’t want to be seen. I don’t hear you approach.
“You okay, Mouse?” you ask me. Mouse? I look up at you quizzically, but don’t say a word. I can’t, I’m too shocked that you’re here... talking to me. I slow my pace as we enter the park. It’s empty. I imagine children are at home sitting at dining room tables, sharing their day with their parents.
I move to the picnic table under the pavilion. I do this without saying anything, but my hand is trembling slightly because you’re near. I’m nervous. I’m always nervous around people, but you, who I’ve been watching for so long, especially make me nervous.
I sit at the picnic table and you sit down next to me. You’re close. I can feel your body heat and your leg brushes against mine. I stare at you, directly in your eyes. Flecks of green that I never noticed before contrast against the brown in your eyes. You're bigger this year. I wonder how tall you’ll get.
“Cat got your tongue, Mouse? You don’t say much, do you?” You stare at me. Your eyes penetrate me. I feel like you SEE me. Not the me that hides, or the me that can walk through a crowded room and not be seen. You. See. Me.
“I can talk.” My voice comes out quiet and meek.
You close your eyes like you’re savoring something, but I’m uncertain as to what could make you do that.
Your eyes open, “What’s your name, Mouse.”
“Why do you keep calling me Mouse?”
“‘Cause you’re quiet and sneaky like one. Now, what’s your name?”
“Charlie, short for Charlotte,” I shrug.
“Well, Charlie short for Charlotte, I’m Gunner Reed.”
I nod because I know this already. It does something to me to hear you say my name. I can’t remember the last time someone said it with any type of inflection.
“How long have you lived across the street from me?” You’re curious about me. This shocks me.
“Since I was eight,” I answer honestly.
“How old are you now?”
“Twelve,” I answer and I swear it feels like you’re doing a perusal of me.
“Damn, four years you’ve been across the street from me,” you say and take a cigarette from your pocket. Your fingers move to flick a wooden match against the table. You bring it to the tobacco-- a red glow and then a puff of smoke. I smell you, a mixture of smoke and soap.
“Your parents fight like that a lot?”
I shake my head. “Not my parents.”
You look at me like you’re trying to figure me out.
“Foster care. I bring them a whopping twenty-one dollars a day.” I’m startled by my openness with you. I’ve never admitted this much to anyone so freely.
You nod your head as if you can understand. I know that you don’t because I know you were happy once. But you do know pain. I see this too. Maybe you see the same in me and that’s why you’re sitting here. You exhale smoke then ask, “They hurt you?”
I shake my head. “They don’t put their hands on me, but does it hurt me to know that I am only a check? I do what I’m told and in return, I have shelter and food. I shouldn’t complain. I know what it’s like to not have both of those things. But the loneliness hurts.”
“You want to talk about it?” You ask inhaling your smoke.
“I don’t talk much,” I say simply.
“Maybe that’s ‘cause no one was listening.”
Thirteen years old
We talk. Not much, but you catch me when I’m walking and you try to make me smile. I don’t know why you do this, but you do, and it matters. I look forward to it and walk more than I used too. Every once and awhile, you’ll pry. Slowly finding out more about me. “What happened to your parents?” It’s a question I don’t want to answer. You catch my chin as I try to look away. “Don’t do that, Mouse. Don't hide from me.”
So, I tell you what I remember of my Mom. How we lived in crack houses where people sold themselves. I tell you how I didn't know who my dad was, but that my Mom cared more about her next fix than my next meal. I tell you how I woke to find her with a needle in her arm, her skin a bluish gray. I didn’t know what to do. I was only five years old. I stayed with her until a police officer eventually stumbled upon us. They took me and I didn't understand, but they fed me and at least it was food. They put a blanket on my shoulders and took me in the opposite direction than my mother’s body. I didn't see her again.
You’re smoking a cigarette. I didn't know you smoked.
I am fascinated by you.
You’re so young, yet you pull the smoke into your lungs like you’ve been doing it for years. You’ve changed some. Your hair is a tiny bit darker than when I first saw you through the glass. You’re taller too. You have a black T-shirt on, black jeans and black boots.
You look around the park. Your eyes roam and then finally still.
On me.
You’re staring at me and I can’t look away.
I watch as you pull the smoke into your lungs again. You exhale. The haze clouds your face hiding your eyes. Normally I’d run but I can’t today. You take another puff, then stomp out your cigarette. Your boot moves back and forth extinguishing the red glow.
You stare at me for another moment and then someone calls your name. You look up to greet your friend and our connection is lost.
I become invisible.
Twelve years old
I am changing. I got my period.
I’m suddenly sadder than normal. I let my thoughts drift to all that I’ve lost and all that I’ll never have. I wonder why I exist. I wonder what’s the point. I try to dream, but dreams are for girls with futures. I don’t see tomorrows, I can barely see today. Sometimes I wonder if I should just end it, but then I see you and you give me a reason. I don’t understand it since I don't know you, but you’ve become a beacon I hold onto. Even through your loss, you have light. I want that.
Mitchell and Claire are fighting. Claire throws a dish. Mitchell calls her a drunk. They’re yelling about money. They’re always yelling about money. Mitchell threatens to leave. I wonder what will happen to me.
Mitchell slaps Claire. Something crashes. I need to leave this room. The four walls are suffocating. I stay in my bedroom when I can, but today, I need air. This is all too much.
I tiptoe out of the house and quickly walk down the street towards the playground. I don't look around. I’m trying to be fast. I don’t want to be seen. I don’t hear you approach.
“You okay, Mouse?” you ask me. Mouse? I look up at you quizzically, but don’t say a word. I can’t, I’m too shocked that you’re here... talking to me. I slow my pace as we enter the park. It’s empty. I imagine children are at home sitting at dining room tables, sharing their day with their parents.
I move to the picnic table under the pavilion. I do this without saying anything, but my hand is trembling slightly because you’re near. I’m nervous. I’m always nervous around people, but you, who I’ve been watching for so long, especially make me nervous.
I sit at the picnic table and you sit down next to me. You’re close. I can feel your body heat and your leg brushes against mine. I stare at you, directly in your eyes. Flecks of green that I never noticed before contrast against the brown in your eyes. You're bigger this year. I wonder how tall you’ll get.
“Cat got your tongue, Mouse? You don’t say much, do you?” You stare at me. Your eyes penetrate me. I feel like you SEE me. Not the me that hides, or the me that can walk through a crowded room and not be seen. You. See. Me.
“I can talk.” My voice comes out quiet and meek.
You close your eyes like you’re savoring something, but I’m uncertain as to what could make you do that.
Your eyes open, “What’s your name, Mouse.”
“Why do you keep calling me Mouse?”
“‘Cause you’re quiet and sneaky like one. Now, what’s your name?”
“Charlie, short for Charlotte,” I shrug.
“Well, Charlie short for Charlotte, I’m Gunner Reed.”
I nod because I know this already. It does something to me to hear you say my name. I can’t remember the last time someone said it with any type of inflection.
“How long have you lived across the street from me?” You’re curious about me. This shocks me.
“Since I was eight,” I answer honestly.
“How old are you now?”
“Twelve,” I answer and I swear it feels like you’re doing a perusal of me.
“Damn, four years you’ve been across the street from me,” you say and take a cigarette from your pocket. Your fingers move to flick a wooden match against the table. You bring it to the tobacco-- a red glow and then a puff of smoke. I smell you, a mixture of smoke and soap.
“Your parents fight like that a lot?”
I shake my head. “Not my parents.”
You look at me like you’re trying to figure me out.
“Foster care. I bring them a whopping twenty-one dollars a day.” I’m startled by my openness with you. I’ve never admitted this much to anyone so freely.
You nod your head as if you can understand. I know that you don’t because I know you were happy once. But you do know pain. I see this too. Maybe you see the same in me and that’s why you’re sitting here. You exhale smoke then ask, “They hurt you?”
I shake my head. “They don’t put their hands on me, but does it hurt me to know that I am only a check? I do what I’m told and in return, I have shelter and food. I shouldn’t complain. I know what it’s like to not have both of those things. But the loneliness hurts.”
“You want to talk about it?” You ask inhaling your smoke.
“I don’t talk much,” I say simply.
“Maybe that’s ‘cause no one was listening.”
Thirteen years old
We talk. Not much, but you catch me when I’m walking and you try to make me smile. I don’t know why you do this, but you do, and it matters. I look forward to it and walk more than I used too. Every once and awhile, you’ll pry. Slowly finding out more about me. “What happened to your parents?” It’s a question I don’t want to answer. You catch my chin as I try to look away. “Don’t do that, Mouse. Don't hide from me.”
So, I tell you what I remember of my Mom. How we lived in crack houses where people sold themselves. I tell you how I didn't know who my dad was, but that my Mom cared more about her next fix than my next meal. I tell you how I woke to find her with a needle in her arm, her skin a bluish gray. I didn’t know what to do. I was only five years old. I stayed with her until a police officer eventually stumbled upon us. They took me and I didn't understand, but they fed me and at least it was food. They put a blanket on my shoulders and took me in the opposite direction than my mother’s body. I didn't see her again.
