Freshwater Literary Journal 2021

Sarah Martin Misplaced “If life was about happiness or love, I would leave with you right now, go MIA, but life’s not like that, Sarah. You’re too expensive.”

His words were acetone against my thin, painted-on skin, each syllable penetrating my weakened muscles. As a girl who never asked for a single materialistic thing in her life, the sentence seemed foreign, as if directed toward someone standing behind me in our apartment. But it was just him and me and my concussion, which seemed to be breathing more life than I was. Since my head injury, I knew I wasn’t the same, like I lost a piece of myself when I fell. My once independent lifestyle seemed to dry up and crumble like the oak leaves drifting in our lawn out front. I couldn’t drive, couldn’t work, and couldn’t get the feeling of dread off my skin.

“Do you want to break up?” I asked, my body tense.

“I guess so,” he said, his demeanor cool to the touch, unforgiving, and strong like slate.

My compressed frustrations erupted from my throat, my words coating every crevasse in the room.

“I left my whole life back in Connecticut for you! Do you know how embarrassing it is to leave behind your friends, family, your job, to be with a guy you love only for it to end after only months?”

“You need to figure out what’s wrong with you. This is never going to work.”

My anger seemed to quickly morph into lava, flowing up my pale, thin arms, searing my shoulders, and splashing its excruciating liquid up my neck.

Breath no longer inhabited my chest as I squeezed my fists into a fast-pitched softball, waiting to release into the next object that crossed my path. I had never felt so erratic before, and I couldn’t help but feel I was watching my actions unfold like a spectator in a fight between sanity and reality. My decision-making was overshadowed by the looming cloud of depression, and my anxiety attacks were the only signs of life I had left, their strikes sharp and cruel against my body. I grabbed the purple and green miniature fan I’ve had since ‘95 and catapulted it across our tiny kitchen, pans smashing onto the vinyl floor like dishes at a Greek wedding. His eyes were large; he was shocked, but not as much as me.

“I’m leaving, not that you care!”

I didn’t mean it; I knew he cared at least in some capacity, but the rejection, the humiliation, and the broken pieces of my brain were all battling inside my head, causing me to attack out of self-preservation. I stormed out of our apartment building, slamming the door behind me. My flip-flops slapped against the black rubber no-slip stairs, my legs shaking with each step.

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