Broken Girl(50)

I let the awkwardness roll across my skin as I pulled open the closet next to her bed and stared at all of her things. Dresses and tops she’d let me borrow a hundred times before, methodically hung from the clothing rods. I thought about the moments where I’d been in this closet before, where she had let me rifle through her clothes because she insisted I wear something of hers. Now, I was in her closet rifling because she didn’t have a voice. Sybil would never have the option to tell me it was okay, ever again.

There wasn’t a square inch of her closet she didn’t use. Stacked boxes of high heels on the shelf above her dual clothes rods, and shoe organizer hung on the inside of the door. It was organized by outfits, and their matching shoes. She had so many dresses which reminded me of events that marked our lives beyond what we had in common. I pushed her clothes apart, noticing the little black leather dress she wore when she had an overnighter at the Sir Francis Drake. She was so excited to find red alligator skin pumps which looked like they were made for that dress. She looked beautiful with her deep red bristled hair and shoes to match.

I collected a heavy handful of her clothes from the closet and laid them across her bed. A ritual which tore my heart apart with each step I took back and forth between her closet and her bed. Tears poured down my cheeks as each stack I created became the story of her life where someone either threw her away or paid for who they wanted her to be. I added the last cluster of designer coats and sweaters, balancing on the disorganized stack of shirts on the bed when a hollowed clank of something that tumbled to the hardwood floor and rolled under my bed. Normally, I wouldn’t care but today life was different, my life was slow and heavy and moved at a pace where everything seemed thick and raw, magnified by who was missing in our apartment’s silence.

I crumpled to the floor, and landed rough against the shaggy black area rug between our beds. My knees rippled with pain. My face burned hot while cool tears clustered at the edges of my eyes, and I ached to go numb. I just wanted to disappear, get lost in my pain. I wanted to have one more moment where I had the chance to say goodbye, to tell Sybil that in my own twisted way, I loved her like a sister, she was the only person who made me feel worthy of having a family to love me.

My eyes heavy with loss, they floated closed for a moment longer than I anticipated. When I opened my tear clouded eyes, I saw the collection of white and brown boxes covered in a thin layer of undisturbed dust under my bed. Each package was a proposition from Mr. C, they were reminders I kept hidden of how much he still resided just below my skin, even a year later. He knew the power he had over me and seeing those boxes conjured an ache that thundered across my soul. He was my breaking point, the one I was convinced I could quit, just after this one last time.

I stretched my hand out to the closest box and pulled it toward me. In its wake the box scraped out an unmistakable clear path along the dusty hardwood floor, more evidence that I was disturbing the demons I struggled to keep dormant. It represented the agonizing moment when I would be at my lowest and seek out those who were the most damaging to my soul. I tossed the first box on the bed and collected another, then another. I didn’t stop pulling the packages out until they filled my entire bed. I welcomed Mr. C’s bribes like a lost friend, hoping by piling them up I would see the evidence of what I meant to him. I dropped my head one last time to the shabby hardwood floor and saw a silver cylinder tucked under the edge of a manila bubble mailer. The clank against the hardwood floor and the lopsided roll that led me to the buried past under my bed replayed in my head. Realization clung to me like an old friend . . . it was Sybil’s lipstick. I reached out and grabbed it and collected the last package from Mr. C.

I turned over and sat back against my bed. Chills rippled across my skin as memories shuffled through my head. Memories of Sybil as she dragged her dark-red lipstick across her mouth before she rolled and puckered her lips. How she would constantly go around and kiss all the mirrors in the apartment.



“Sybil, why the f*ck do you keep doing that?”

“It’s the best way to keep track of my new favorite colors.”

“No, all it does is create more work for me. I try and look in the mirror and all I see is your freaking kisses are all over it.”

“Nobody asked you to clean my lips off the mirrors. Maybe you should look at yourself so my kiss is on your cheek and lighten up a little.”



I craned my neck, I looked over at the mirror behind the front door, and my heart tumbled into my stomach. Just a couple of days ago I had cleaned all the mirrors in the apartment. Sybil’s colorful kisses wiped clear from the reflection, without a thought of never seeing them again. Something she did which was so irritating, and now a reminder of how desperately I ached to have them back.

All right Rose, it’s time to shut this shit down. Yep, time to pull your ass out of this f*cked-up moment and callous your heart. The familiar judgmental voice I’ve listened to all of my life echoed through my head.

Look at yourself, curled up on the floor! Nobody is coming to save your shit, Rose. There isn’t anybody who’s willing to shoulder Sybil’s life. Her family isn’t going to f*cking come pick up her shit. You know it, deep down; you have to admit that nobody ever cares about the broken girls buried in shady back alleys or abandoned buildings.

I was good at shutting down, better than most my age. I’d lived my entire life filled with the sheer agony of wounds rubbed raw by the people who were supposed to love me. You couldn’t offer your body to perfect strangers and not expect to have scars. Take it from me; it was for the best when you couldn’t find a place to bury your feelings. It was the only way you stay somewhat sane when your heart was trampled and you were numb.