The Rope

He pulls me aside saying, I need it to stop. It’s intense life writing; I have to write about you because the only other option is… I trail off. I don’t want to write about any of that. I know, but try. I mean, yeah I’ll stop. There are a couple more stories coming out though, as a heads up. He nods. When I lie, I look my victims in the eyes.

We don’t stop there, for the first time; I realize that when I’m being honest about my relationship with God, that I don’t look the person in the eyes. It doesn’t make sense to me you whisper, resting your foot on the metal railing that you’re leaning up against. At least we agree on something, you’re the most puzzling thing about God. He asks his questions, if there were no religious background to you, would you still be the same person? How do you know the bible is real? Why are you so faithful to God, there is no proof of him?

No, I would not be the same person.

I know this because I have experienced the bible, it lives and moves and breathes just as you and I do, and he has saved me from the situations at home. Many times.

Well, it must have never… 

I shake my head.

Wooden, the kitchen chair, often covered in grime, and unwanted fallen food and junk. Sometimes paper, sometimes food. Not by groceries either, more like spilled jelly, peanut butter, I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter, and whatever stuck to those things over the last three months, gravy, orange juice, stuffing from Thanksgiving.

She was in one of her moods again. Dad was on the road as a truck driver; he called her and blamed her for the state of the home. Then family services was brought up, this was sometime after our vacation. Beth picked a fight with her. “It’s not my mess!” My sister’s signature phrase that often times set the fire to the bomb that is my parents.

One thing lead to another and that is how I am here, peeking around the corner, the edge of living room and kitchen. Mom is repeating every hateful thing anyone has said to her, including myself in fits of anger, as she slaves over the sink.

You okay? I mouth to Beth she gives a strained nod as another tear falls down her cheek to hang off her chin like hang man used to hang from the board in Sunday school when we were memorizing bible verses. “Love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you,” the verse would be. Snot drops from her nose, as if it were normal. I study the situation. Tape over her mouth, from the chest down, yellow rope weaved around her torso, the chair, her arms and feet.

I set her free and sneak her upstairs, either the beast doesn’t realize, doesn’t really care, or cares more about her own verbal abuse. Don’t you dare tell Kim about this; I say to her as we are running up the stairs, I say it strong enough to hopefully evoke some fear in her to keep her mouth shut, she nods. I turn around, she comes to a halt, and her eyes widen with her hands still on the wall and the railing. I point my finger in her face, if Kim finds out about this, we will be in the system for sure. This is better than being separated, and this is better than giving up our church, friends, sports and instruments to be free.

It must have never gotten bad enough, he says outside Bowen. I give a pitiful laugh, right, it’s never been that bad. There is no God that ever saved us from those situations, right I’ll forget about that and move on.

There is one more thing, I stop speaking, and he urges me to continue. I don’t know how to say this. Give me words, his voice breaks, and I can see it in the mist of his breath. We have been honest all night. Coming right out in the open. Standing in the cold, shivering, letting our bags weigh down our backs, and put the pressure on our shoulders.

I speak; this might be the most honest thing I have said all night. I touch my cheeks; they burn, not from the weather, from being transparent with him. Dave, Rachel and Michaela pull up to the side, want us to wait, or are you good?

You can go!