Concealed

Concealed

I The lump in her chest felt like the time she swallowed a vitamin wrong and it was lodged in her chest for two days. Behind her eyes sat a pot of water on the stove and the piercing screams in her mind meant the water was heated and ready to be poured down her cheeks. Every part of her body simultaneously clenched. Her hands turned into one of those claw machines she gave up on after age 11. Tense and cold with fingers spread wide, but unable to grasp anything that she reached for. She wanted to yell so she could get it out of her system, but every time she opened her mouth nothing but a heavy yawn roared from her polished nude lips, her body and mind so exhausted that they condensed her to silent screams. She lay down. Sleep and when you wake up you’ll forget why you were upset. Sleep and when you wake up you’ll have forgotten the words that hurt you. Sleep and when you wake up you’ll forget the pain that makes your chest hollow, not because you’re stone but because your once rhythmically beating heart has turned into a muffled murmur and you wonder if this is what a bear feels during hibernation in the winter, so cold and so isolated.

II Lists were constantly spinning through her mind. Gas bill, electric bill, cable bill, rent. Toothpaste, coffee creamer, bananas, soap. Study, chapter seven, book report,

quiz. Always rotating through her mind like the blades of a ceiling fan. Round and round at a constant pace that will never slow down until someone hits the switch.

III Does caring for your appearance make you superficial? What’s more feminine – reading cosmetic reviews or reading crockpot recipes? Why is someone who puts no effort into the face they show the world considered more of a role model than the woman who wants to put her best face forward? Is it a sin to make self-­‐ improvements to the face that God created for her specifically? Is it wrong to conceal the dark circles resting under her sunken eyes to appear more awake?

Studies suggest that attractive people are more likely to get hired.

IV She hated the idea of coffee shops. She doesn’t drink coffee to sit in a room full of strangers and aesthetically pleasing but fake brick walls to create a certain ambiance that gave coffee an obnoxious and pretentious stigma. Her coffee came from one of her two coffee pots. One made a single serving at a time while the other made four. She knew the imaginary line that marked when to stop pouring the coffee into each of her mugs to leave enough room for the creamer to create her perfect blend. Barista’s didn’t get it. Her mom put Pepsi in her baby bottles so she was caffeine dependent before she had a full set of teeth. Two jobs, six classes, two teams, a year long internship and a new puppy in the family. Her options in life are

sleep, success and social life but she can only choose two. She lost what it meant to go to bed. She took naps when she could and some happened to be at night.

V “If you’re going to do something, do it. Don’t half ass it.”

VI They sat in between three green walls and a sliding glass door concealed by a pale blue curtain from the inside of the room. She’d never seen an anxiety attack before.

Was bringing her boyfriend to the ER too overbearing? He hadn’t said much since they arrived and she didn’t dare let a single syllable leave her lips. He knew what he had done was wrong and she knew he was humiliated. Three o’clock on a Sunday morning. They both had an 8am class.

The doctors pressed the needle through the veins bulging on the top of his hand she wanted desperately to reach for as she watched him resist the urge to ball a fist. Three energy drinks, two servings of creatine and a Vyvanse he bought off his roommate. “I need an A on my exam. I have to stay on the dean’s list to keep my honors scholarship. I can’t afford a B on this exam.” His complaints turned into a song on repeat and she couldn’t help him find the pause button.

VII She never could make traveling decisions. Never ask her who she wants to ride with because whoever she picks will be wrong. She will sit in the backseat staring out the

window watching the other car follow, analyzing every turn they make and keeping an eye on them praying to God that both cars make it safely. What if something happened to them and she were in this car instead? What if something happens to them and she could’ve been the one to stop it?

She cried every day for years when her mom left to and from work. She knew she had to drive through downtown Dallas, a highway that was on the news for an accident every day. Her dad was always falling asleep at the wheel. Her friends knew not to tease her and drive like a maniac. They’d all made the mistake before and had to pull over to calm her down and to reassure her that everything was fine. Anytime someone drove, she made them call the second they arrived to their destination. Her boyfriend would drive home after an argument and no matter how mad she was she always had to call to make sure he had made it home safely. Her grandma and sister once got stuck in a flash flood. Her grandmother’s ’98 Corvette barely hovered the ground. Rocks were sliding down the Arbuckle Mountains and all she could do was stay on the phone with her sister with a numbing pain in her ear from holding back sobs.

VIII When she sat down wearing shorts, she knew everyone was looking at her thighs.

How the cellulite was on display, almost begging for anyone’s attention. She was so hungry but she had already met her calorie intake, so she decided to sip on water.

How did Ashley’s legs look like uncooked hot dogs? So tone, smooth and thin. Was she taking Adderall? She had heard it makes you lose your appetite.

Her hair wasn’t long enough. She bought biotin, B12, and had pinned 14 hair masks recipes guaranteed to make your hair grow longer and stronger. Her makeup drawer was overflowing and had moved to three large mounds on the floor. She looked at her teeth, disgusted because she hadn’t whitened them once all week. Her skin tone was uneven and she tried everything to lighten the dark circles under her eyes. Her eyebrows had a horrible lack of definition and were close to resembling Anne Frank’s classic but unflattering look. She always had to adjust her pants when she sat down to hide “the pooch.” She thought of nothing but her thighs jiggling as she walked.

IX His superstitions are enough to make her rip out her hair. But she knocks on wood anyway. She can’t sleep unless the tags on the blanket are at the foot of the bed and the pillows are spread out in order from largest to smallest. But he waits to shut off the light until she’s adjusted. It’s been three years. Without him, she’s simply not whole. Checking on her between classes to make sure she had lunch. Pouring the creamer into the lipstick stained mug. Waking up next to her after she slept to forget.