The Day Begins.

The day begins.

Ringing in your ears. Grab the phone, grunt to symbolize your consciousness. Slam it shut. Another grunt as you roll out of bed. The routine begins. Clothes, check. Teeth, check. Hair, check. Makeup? In process. Grab a waffle and a colored eyeliner. You’re out the door, mother calling words after you that you can’t quite catch. Grunt and wave, hop in the car, put on your shades, and drive to the end of the street.

Turn right. You’re out of the range of vision from the large, front windows where you know she watches every day. Music, on. Gum, in. Makeup? Still in process. One foot on the accelerator, one crunched up beneath you for comfort’s sake. Let the music push you forward. Let the beat of the drums and your foot on the accelerator tap in tune. Let your soul fly in the vehicle; don’t look at the creeps looking at you from their cars.

School’s in view. Phone, off. Shades, off. Car, locked. Dash inside to the ringing of the bell. You’re safe. Unload. Listen to the laughter echo around you, the friends encompassing you from all sides. Cram for a few minutes – the test is next period. Shove the book in your purse and pay attention. Grasp your wandering mind and pull it into submission. Listen to the girl on your right make a joke. Share her laughter. You’re safe.

Third period rolls around. Doodle on your bookmark. Meet the teacher’s eyes every once in a while, to give the illusion you’re attentive. Let his words soak into you; simply absorb. Try to keep your closing eyelids wide open. Watch his image multiply as you go cross-eyed. Muffled giggles. The bell rings. Everyone freezes, watching the pacing man at the front of the class. Finally, he raises the green flag. You’re dismissed. It’s a race down the deck.

Lunch. Grab the half-eaten sandwich you’ve been nibbling on throughout the day. Finish it off. Busy yourself with listing all your ideas for art, so no one will notice how little you ate. Tiny tidbits of conversation flash by. Food flies from across the room. Distant laughter. Annoyed teachers.

That freshman guy is back again, merged with your circle. Your bracelet is swiped. A battle for friendship occurs. Time for a breath of air. The deck calls softly to you inside the emptying room. March outside. Sun, check. Friends, check. Bracelets…one is missing. Brush it off; you’ll steal it back later in the day.

The periods fly by. Spanish class – write a story, just to see if you can. Whisper to your friend. She shakes her head. “aba, not avia.” Stupid preterit tense…History class is next. Zone out during discussion, mind still engrossed in the Spanish story. Yearbook. Crowd around the computer monitors. Practice making captions for pictures. Pride flares up – you see a picture you took. Laugh at the freshman, so silent and scared. Your bracelet ends up back on your wrist. The bell rings. Art class.

You’ve heard all the lectures before. Feet tapping, eyes closing…patiently, wait. Anxious fingers move the tiny slip of paper with your list of ideas. He’s done with art one; he addresses art two. Idea time. He stares at your list. The excitement shows on both of your faces – they will work. Bell rings. Up, out of the class. School is done.

Run down the deck after dismissal. Sing loudly with your friend who’s had “DJ’s got us fallin’ in love again” stuck in his head all day. The louder the better. He sings low, you sing high. Annoyed looks. Laughter. The rush of people, of noise.

Hop in your car again. Blare the music – on to volleyball practice. Walk in the gym, change, slip on your kneepads. Coach is missing…substitute is filling in. Let the misery begin… Miss all your spikes. You’re too slow today to dig. Call your mom because you might be failing Spanish. What? Do it anyway; you’ll explain later. Spike in rage. It hits the net, rolls down. Harmless.

Anger. Spike again. Out. Great load of use you are…try to serve. The ball flies out. Grind your teeth into each other. Serve again. Barely over. Smirk. Sigh. New drill. Didn’t move fast enough – run laps. Run again. Run until I say stop. Run until you can’t breathe. Run until you can’t run anymore. Run so much you won’t be able to play in the game tomorrow. Trains of words you aren’t allowed to say rumble through your mind, and for once, you let them. You’re past caring. For today.

A few concerned faces pop up, ask what’s wrong. Press your mask into your face. Nothing, nothing at all… smiles, smiles, smiles. You’re dead, or dying. The minutes drag on. Finally, you’re done. Parched, dart into your car and head somewhere, anywhere, for a large Dr.Pepper. Entertain thoughts of a milkshake, only for a minute, to keep your cravings happy. Dr.Pepper it is. Speed home, music drowning out all thought. There’s no time to reflect on how poorly you did, of how much you hate yourself. Only driving, on and on, the music numbing your mind.

Home. Grab your stuff, walk up the steps. Open the door and smell the cooked rice and melted cheese, broccoli and chicken wafting up your nostrils. Dump your stuff. Steal the last bites of food. Slide into your seat. “What was the deal with Spanish?” “Oh, I’ve done all the work, I’m only ‘borderline failing’. That’s what she said.” The conversation spins on. Do well, go to a good college. You have to work hard. You have to pass. Make A’s. Droning, on and on, droning, droning…

“And about that sleepover tomorrow, can I go?” “No, you have too many activities…” “But it’s completely convenient. Everything works out, and it’s near where I need to be tomorrow anyway.” “No. Stop arguing. You have too many activities…” Silence. Because surely you know what I’m capable of, and how many activities I can handle, and how well I can survive with little sleep, since of course you’re exactly like me and survive perfectly fine with little sleep because you stay up as late as i do every single night with no signs of fatigue... Bite back your words, don’t let them slip out of your mind and onto your tongue.

Say nothing – head upstairs. Grab your backpack. Dump it in the corner. Grab the computer. Music, check. Facebook, check. Homework? Maybe, in a little. You grow tired of all the talk, all the chat, all the noise…close something down just to open another. Get out a book. Labor through the problems, if only to keep your mind from other things. Work, work, work. Build calluses on your fingers from writing so much. Build calluses on your mind to keep out your thoughts. More music. More noise. More distractions. Finish your work, finish your conversations.

YouTube. Images flash before your eyes. People, the things they do, they say, they know, they way they say them, they way they do them. Watch the strangers talking to you like you’re a friend. Wonder about them, but not too long. Another video. Another distraction. Happy distractions are beginning to become bothersome. Computer, down. Homework, done. What’s left? Shower.

Grab clothes. Grab a towel. Time to check if the leak is fixed…waltz into the bathroom; the walls come down. Your mask slips off. No music. No friends. No car. No phone. No computer. The water hits the tub, drowning out all other thoughts except for a slow, soft voice. You stare straight ahead, your numb fingers searching for the shampoo and the conditioner. There’s nothing left for you to distract yourself with in this silence.

Shakily clear your throat. You begin to hum a small tune. It’s not loud enough. It’s not loud enough to drown out the thoughts you’ve been refusing to think throughout the day; the thoughts that lay in wait on the other side of that wall you’ve built in your mind.

Worthless. Pathetic. Won’t amount to anything. Whispers, whispers... You stare straight ahead, pale yellow tiles all you can see as the water around you drowns out everything but the voice in your head. Can’t you serve a volleyball over the net? You made your teammates run today. You write stories in Spanish, you finish all your assignments, you memorize all the words, and yet you’re “borderline failing”. What an idiot. The song dies on your lips before you hesitantly begin again once confronted with the sound of silence. You know you’re never going to do well in art. You saw all those other people in yearbook with cameras. They’re all better than you. You’ll never amount to anything at all. No college will want you. No one wants you.

Your tune isn’t heard over the noise of a thousand drops of water hitting the walls all at the same time. They hit your face, they trickle down your skin. Hot, salty liquid streams down your cheeks…but the faucet is off. You’re standing, shivering, your face wet with tears. There’s nothing left to hide behind now. What was that song you were singing? You don’t even know…it was just a song, plucked from the fabric of your sub consciousness…perhaps you heard it on the radio on the way home. How did the chorus go?

You whisper them softly to yourself, through unwilling lips, trembling and empty, your head in your wrinkled, prune-like fingers. “Don’t you know I’ve always loved you…even before there was time…Though you turn away, I’ll tell you still… don’t you know I’ve always loved you…and I always will.”

Your voice cracks. You grab the towel from the hanger and wipe off your dripping face, half-mumbling another song you thought you might have heard on a radio station in passing. “You’re the God of this city. You’re the king of these people. You’re the Lord of this nation… You are...You’re the light in this darkness. You’re the hope to the hopeless. You’re the peace to the restless…You are.” Why are you singing these songs? You dry off, slowly, thinking. “There is no one like our God. There is no one like our God…greater things have yet to come, greater things are still to be done in this city…greater things have yet to come, greater things are still to be done here.”

And then there is silence. You’re not listening. You’re slipping into your clothes, walking out the door, plopping down on your bed. Your fingers twitch for your phone, computer, music. But you don’t respond. You close your eyes. And wonder why a God so great…could love a human so small.

How many hopeless, peace-less, dark, lonely, angry, afraid people know about this love? This love loved you when you were hurting inside. This love loved you when you thought you weren’t good enough. This love loved you whether the volleyball made it over the net or not. This love loved you whether you took good pictures or you didn’t. This love loved you when you thought you were all alone. This love loved you when you hated your substitute coach. This love loved you when you cried in the shower because that was the only place your tears would go unnoticed, unquestioned. This love loved you when you wanted to be left alone, unloved. This love loved you when all you needed was someone to love you, someone to hold you and not say anything.

The love that loves when no one else does. The love that remains when you’re all alone and your mask is off and you’re not safe anymore. The love that isn’t based on what you say, or how you act, or what you appear to be, or what you do. The love that loves, regardless. True love. The love that you can’t understand and can hardly accept. The love that loves you when you’re mad at the world and want to move faster than you know how to think. The love that hears every word you speak in your mind when you’re angry. The love that knows everything you want to say back to the authorities when they try to control your life. The love that sees into your soul and knows every thought, and memory, and action…and still loves you. The pure, perfect, holy love that can love a stupid, dirty, lowly, proud, worthless, miserable lump of flesh like you. …And you think you can keep this love to yourself…

And then, you open your eyes. Breath of air. Chilling, calming. Piano music, on. Laptop, on. Mind, open. Another breath. An open document. A blank page. And then, you write:

The day begins.