Something is really wrong that is for sure. She finds herself on the floor in the middle of the room. Her room being a fetal sac, a sanctuary for now. Later, the room will be a cage once again. All the while, doing all the stuff that she wanted to do, that she thought she could not do without, that she thought she could not stop. She stops them and she crumbles to the ground.
Doing them. Blindfolding herself and fondling herself and releasing all the power she can from her body. Hormones and painkillers. She jumps up and down and up and down and moves like a crazy football fanatic around the room, banging her head in the air, her hair whipping the objects around her, them falling as the hair knocks them off the table, the desk, the chair, the bed, the shelf. She jumps, she bangs her head and she releases endorphins. She cries. The estrogen pills are working now. She pops them in with her coffee in the morning, her tea at night. She stumbles to the ground after she stops. She stops and she is dizzy. She is dizzy and she falls, the world spiraling. She closes her eyes and the world keeps on spiraling. Something is wrong that is for sure.
In the middle of the room, the carpet holding her in the darkness, in her room, in her fetal sac. She is still a little girl, inexperienced. She still has a lot to offer. She still needs to shine. She wants her daddy or her mommy. She wants the girl with her in class. She wants the guy she trades shy looks with. She wants someone. Just anyone because all you need is someone to keep you awake and conscious of the fact that you are only human, nothing any bigger. She needs one but she has none. She was fondling herself.
She played tennis. She gave a scream with every hit. In retrospect everything becomes nice. In retrospect, we become nostalgic towards a funeral because even a funeral is a chance for us to be around people. Moments of reprieve. After tennis, in the girls locker room, in the shower room, while blood dripped between her legs, she on the ground again, blood flowing around her everywhere, as if coming from the showerhead, she would spiral in her own mind because the blood is a symbol of tennis’ failure and of her own failure as a human being. The rivers of blood always reached the sea of salty tears.
Her fetal sac: a tinge of protection from the darkness. When she was a kid she wanted to be the wind. Be as free as the wind. She wanted to go anywhere, to roam anywhere and to be everywhere. She wanted her soul and body to go to places her mind could never have imagined. But she bangs her head and she hits the sharp edge and the blood drips down her forehead and she falls to the ground spiraling round and round and round and there is no escape and there is no exit.
Handle with Care is the sign she came with, but her fragile body was broken because everyone let her fall. In the end it only needs one person to be there, one person to push us. One person to tell us that he loves us as he tears us apart. One person to tell us that there is no other way. One person to be so strong and stab us in the center of our hearts. One person close to us to make us feel utter regret for trusting something as vile as a human being. One person to push and shove and push and shove to let us fall in a place we do not want to be or see. One person to do all this and make us push ourselves away the next time we see him. One person. Some ONE! Someone there is no escape from. ONE! Someone who manifests our fear and our regret. ONE! Someone to make us feel so marginal, so redundant that we feel as if we’re going to fade like a sigh if we stay alive, if we breathe another fleeting breath without thinking about it a million times; inhaling and thinking about the next breath, inhaling as much air as we can, thinking about it so intensely, our next breath, our next step, we think about it just so it lasts as long as we hold our breath, and sometimes a little bit longer.
In her fetal sac, trying to get born again in the darkness that feels like freedom because it is all she feels. In her fetal sanctuary feeling warm, feeling secure for a moment, but then the fist knocks on the door, and she remembers the moments that spanned into years when she could not move, could not think straight, could not get up in the morning without a feeling of nausea. The fists tell her that something is definitely wrong. She just needs to feel it, to breathe it so she can know she is alive, but she needs time. The fists knock on the door of her fetal sanctuary. Come out! Come out! They shout at her from the outside. These fists, this reality. Her blood is on the floor, and her fetal sac is now shattered and torn. Prematurely she is forced out to get pushed and shoved, to be in a place she does not want to see, a place she does not want to be in. Her room, her sanctuary, her reality becomes a prison.
But why is she a girl if she is me? A boy. Is it because I feel weak? Or perhaps just slightly thrown back by the massive demands of everything around me? Or maybe, just maybe, it doesn’t matter if I’m a girl or boy or a hermaphrodite. Maybe it doesn’t matter because this is all universal and absolute. Boy or Girl, we’re exposed too early and fucked intensely.