*Excerpt* Episodes of a Slowfade: That Was Not A Mask

DREAD IS halfway to forever in your gut, a hundred and fifty pounds of knowing tugging at your limbs. There is a hummingbird in your chest and your heart has flown into space without you. You do not feel the fabric of the sofa as you sit down, eyes still glued to the back of his head, lit up like a halo from the computer screen in front of him. You do not smell the pine of the Christmas tree, you are not comforted by the warmth of the fire caressing you. You are climbing mountains of air and your feet keep slipping.

You are frozen, realization a winter frost that has captured every cell in your body and halted their movement. You count the seconds dropping off the walls, the minutes shivering under your skin, the breaths you have to remember to take – maybe the repetition will block out the understanding blooming like a wave of panic in your lungs. But you pass it off, bottling your misgiving because there is no way that he is having an affair, much less with the friend you trust so completely.

Still, you are suspicious, so terribly suspicious. Your mother calls every day while she spends Christmas with a friend. You hide the doubt gnawing at you, decorate it with cheer and gaiety, greens and reds to match the holidays. But the idea steadily grows, flowering in your chest so that there is no room to think without the idea poking at your conscience. One day you had asked over Chinese food.

“Are you and my dad a thing?”

“What! No, we’re just friends.”

What comes after dread? You’re not sure but you’re there. And it’s rotting inside you. Clarity is a double edged blade and it’s all twisted up in your chest. When your mom calls that night, you feel your face set, feel the muscles solidify – the mask permanent. But behind the mask there is something that feels like earthquakes, that something echoes down deep into the darkness. The force of whatever is held down there threatens to rise and shatter the composure you are holding on to. While you talk, you count, trying to convince yourself with the numbers that you are just seeing things. That your lungs aren’t filling with I know I know I know.

One

Two

Three…

You are becoming a satellite, watching him. He disappears after a movie one night – to a bar with her. He returns at 2:34 am. You’ve have been keeping count. When your bedroom door opens, you close your eyes, breathe deeply, try not to gag as the smell of beer and sweat and perfume tumbles off of his skin, as he kisses your forehead and whispers he loves you.

You know

You know

You know.

New Years is just around the corner. Life has exploded into arguments. You were able to reassure your mother over the phone where she did not see the concrete lines of your features. But tension is a live wire in your living room, dark shadows that haunts the light fixtures. You know. You know the truth, yet you can’t give sound to the words, can’t release the syllables into the air lest they rip apart all those other truths you cling to.

Mom sleeps on the sofa, eats away her anxiety. She tries to pretend nothing is wrong. You might resent her for that.

When the new year lights up the sky, the stars fall to earth and hang like weights around your neck – he is leaving.

He is leaving.

Somehow, you always knew he would leave

You drop to your knees in the shower, praying the water will wash the knowing away.