The Trick

I ran into the bathroom and slammed the door behind me. After making sure the lock was in place, I flipped the switch that turned the light on. It was hard to keep my eyes open as I looked around at the tiny bathroom. The linoleum tile was an aged white, the same color as the dirty walls. There was a blue towel with large bleach-stains lying on the floor taking the place of a bath rug.

I went to the sink on my right and turned one of the knobs until water poured out. The water flowed over my hands, pooling into my palms. I tried to grasp it and watched it seep into the dirty, white sink and struggle to go down the drain. I looked up into the mirror at myself; I looked like shit. I looked into those sad, blue eyes my grandmother had given me. I always tried to avoid eye-contact with myself because when I did look at those eyes, it's as though I can see through them and into my soul. My worn, tattered, pathetic soul. I leaned in, trying to see the secret they were holding, holding my breath, waiting for the answer I've been looking for to be revealed. The rest of the world was mute, except for the beating of my own heart. It beat loudly like the bass of a drum, and I could feel my chest pulsing with the rhythm. I stared into those liquid eyes, tears forming at the ducts...but I saw nothing. Right. Exactly what I felt.

The hot tears began to run down my drunken face as I started to question my motive; the reason why I was in this place at all. I wasn't in love with this guy, so why was I fucking him? He isn't in love with me. He thinks he is, but he's not in love. Infatuation is what he feels for me. Nothing more. Why have I allowed myself to lead him on? Because it was easy. It's easy. He likes me, and he thinks he's in love with me, so why not just play along? It makes him happy so I'm not doing anyone any harm ... except that I am. This isn't going to end well. He's a nice guy, though. I've never had that. I've had men who see me and want to fuck me. But he's different. He actually listens to what I have to say, even though what I say is sometimes pointless or contradicting. He thinks I'm funny. Funny! So why don't I love him? Why am I in love with men who don't love me? Is it because they don't love me? Do I only love what I can't have? That's probably why I'm so miserable. But I deserve happiness as much as the next girl, don't I? Don't I deserve someone who cares about me and wants to take care of me? I'm tired of men who take me for granted. I'm sick of it!

My eyes came back into focus as I realized that I was thinking out loud. I stood back with a heavy sigh. The sounds of the world returned. I heard the running water and the jazz music playing in the next room. "You're just high," I told myself.

I bent over the sink and splashed cold water onto my face. I turned off the faucet and realized that there was no towel to dry my face with (aside from the "bath rug"). I walked two steps on wobbly legs, trying to stay standing in the spinning room, and I sat on the tiny stoop that lead to the shower. I rubbed my hands on my pants, and used my sleeve to wipe some of the dripping water from my face. I could hear him and his friend in the other room, laughing with each other. Why wasn't I laughing with them? Why am I sitting here on this dirty step? I closed my eyes and leaned my head back against the shower door. "Why can't I be happy?" I asked myself under my breath. "Why don't I want to be happy?"

I felt the tears come again. My parents would be so proud to see their baby girl shit-faced, sitting on some guy's dirty bathroom floor. They can't be surprised, though. I knew more than they thought. I knew he used to beat her. I knew that he would come into the quiet, dark house every other night after the boxing match, after fooling around with this week's girl, feeling as angry as he was drunk. And she would be there, hoping that her children would not wake up, but at the same time hoping that they might help her somehow. She would just take it. She couldn't do anything else. I knew where those bruises came from. I knew. I was young, but I wasn't totally oblivious. I knew she tried to leave him so many times... but we kept her in that prison. She loved us too much to leave. Maybe that's why I choose the wrong guys. I want to be like mommy. So what if you were beaten, mama? So what if he treated you like shit? You knew that deep down, he loved you because he came home to you every night. And you still had us, your ungrateful children. You still had me. You still have me.

But he's changed. He's changed so much, and so has she. They're happy now, and he's as harmless as a fly. He's a sweet man, and she's a strong woman. Things had gotten so much better, but she never forgot any of it. She still resented him for that, deeep down. She'd have her moments.

A warm night in Mexico, the night before Christmas eve, she was feeling very festive. She was delighted to be with her family again, with her friends, and with her children. She was laughing, her loud laugh, and telling stories and remenising. And drinking. She drank a lot that night. Her daughter, shy as she was, stayed sitting in that hard, woven metal chair. She was quiet, not wanting to interrupt, but enjoying the conversation the adults were having. The girl decided to look at the Christmas tree, and see if there were any more presents underneath it's branches. She recounted hers; still two. She studied the ornaments; quite different from those in her American Christmas tree at home. Her mother walked in to use the bathroom while her friend waited for her by the door. The girl sat in the living room, swinging her feet back and forth, wondering what would be in her presents this year. Her mom came out of the bathroom, and talked a while with her friend, but the girl was in her own little world at the moment; she wasn't listening to any of it. She thought of her daddy back at home as she looked at the ivory phone sitting on the end table on her left, next to the picture of Jesus Christ. "Mami, puedo llamarle a Papi?"
"No, mija," said the drunken mother. "It's late in Los Angeles. Ya esta dormido."
"But if he hears the phone ring, he might wake up and answer it." She just wanted to wish him a good night. She hated the thought of him without her. She imagined him to be so sad without his little girl there.

Frustrated, the mother's voice began to rise. The little girl didn't understand why her mother was so angry. All she wanted to do was make a phone call. "If it weren't for you kids, I would have left him long ago!" She said it so matter-of-factly, so non-challant. Without another word, she went back out to the patio to join the party.

That isn't something you tell your children, especially when they're only seven! I never repeated what my mother said to any of my family. I didn't understand when I was younger, so I felt guilty for forcing her to take care of us. But if you were so miserable, then nothing would have stopped you from leaving. You love misery. You love it as much as I do.

I snapped myself out of my daydream. I used my sleeve once again to wipe the tears from my face. It was unbearable how pathetic I felt. There was just too much sorrow in me, too much pain and regret, and yet I saw nothing in my eyes. There was no feeling inside me, just thoughts running through my head. My body had become numb. It could have just been the alcohol, but I had been feeling jaded for so long now...

I felt something poking my side. There was something in my pocket. I reached in and pulled out my ID. I forgot I had that with me. I must have put it in my pocket at the bar. It was bent in two places: one crease straight down the middle, and the other along the left edge of my photo. I looked so different then; my hair was so short. It was red then. I remember dying it specifically for that picture. I was unsatisfied with it after a week, and went back to black. If I'd have known then what I know now...

There was a knock on the door. "Hey, you alright in there?"
"Yeah," I replied too happily. "I'll be out in a minute. I'm just checking my makeup. Go back to the last track, I like that song!"

As I heard "Dante's Inferno" start up again, the guilt took over. I rolled up my sleeve and took the card to it, but nothing happened. I dug deeper and harder into my skin, and finally felt it tear apart. I shut my eyes and kept it going back and forth, back and forth, faster each time. Rather than focusing on that pain, I was hoping that my heart would give me a sign of life. I was waiting for it to ache, to hurt. I looked down at the blood trickling from my veins. I cried because it was all I felt, and I felt nothing anywhere else. I punched my chest, hoping that would set my heart off, but it still ignored me.

I gave up and just sat there, concentrating on my breathing, listening to the air flow in and out of me. It was soothing. "Just breathe," I told myself. It was all I could do.