An Ugly Pattern

ART DIRECTOR KATHERINE STALLARD PHOTOGRAPHER ALI WATSON MODEL SISI HUSING WRITTEN BY SYDNEY SEYMOUR DESIGNER KAELEIGH JAMES

It’s 4:26 p.m. and I’m coming home. The condensation on the bus windows blurred the distant black birds soaring through the air. I pulled down my sleeve and wiped the wetness away with my sweatshirt, now moist. The sky—blue and bright with white dashes of paint—revealed itself and I examined the flying birds closer.

The bus stopped a street down from my house. The girl sitting next to me was getting off after me, so she scooted out of the way as I quickly stood up and lifted my wheely backpack into the aisle. In the reflection on the rear view mirror, I saw the bus driver watching the clouds.

A few minutes later, I walked up the cobblestone stairs to my front door. A drop of rain fell with a splat on the back of my hand. Another one hit my forehead. I opened the door and the house smelled dirty and moldy, almost like a skunk. I kept walking through the hallway and into the kitchen with my nose scrunched and my lips almost puckered.

The light peaking through the bottom of the shades designed a shadow pattern on the wooden floor. The shadows carried onto the countertops and hid the empty pill bottles and drinks from me until I stepped a little bit closer. I stared at the pill bottles, gradually realizing what they were as smoke filled my lungs.

It happened again. It always happens. She was in the backyard with the porch light on. The light illuminated her limp body resting up against the brick wall. Her legs opened wide with her knees far apart and her feet pointed towards the other. The top of her head was extended as far as it could go towards her stomach. Her palms turned upwards and her left hand slightly grasped the half-smoked cig in between her fingers. The cigarette left ashes on the floor and tiny red specs of fire.

The clouds were burning orange. I wondered if that was on purpose. I wondered if the clouds hurt like my mom did. Like I did. I thought she was dead the first time I saw her like this. The burning orange swirled into a deep flaming red. I was terrified the sun would go down. I saw myself drowning in the darkness, getting lost in the navy blue midnight sky. Less of me understood the reason why some things had happened and why some things happened again and again and again. I wondered why some things never did. I couldn’t quite snap myself out of it.

The shadows across the room gradually died away as the light grew dimmer. The windows were dark and empty. And the pink and the orange and the bleeding red disappeared. I took a few steps closer to my mom, lost and faded and desperate. I snatched the lighter on the bench and started playing with it. Every time the little flame disappeared, I ignited it again and again under the pitch black sky until my finger turned blood red.

I knew she was going to be fine because she always ended up that way no matter which drug she took or however much she drank. I didn’t want her to see me. I was scared of what she would do if she knew I was there. I lightly poked her shoulder a couple of times to get her to wake up. Before her eyes fully opened and she made any sudden movements, I slipped through the back door and into the house. I scurried up the stairs and into my room, turned off the lights, pulled the blankets over my head, and told myself nothing ever happened.