The Comforting One by: Alexandra Williams, Silver Gelatin Print, 2019
Charlotte
In the mornings, we all shuffled to the rec room like zombies. Seven a.m. seemed just too early.
We sat in silence for a long while, still trapped in a morning haze. A handful of us were taking sleeping medication. I didn’t blame those who did. It was a hard place to fall asleep. Our wing of the hospital was right next to the intensive care adults, and the previous night, a man had to be put in solitary confinement for violence. He’d thrown a punch at the nurse, after repeating he was supposed to pick his daughter up from school that afternoon. All night his fists pounded against the metal door, and he screamed for hours to be let out. Even with my pillow over my ears, I could feel the vibrations. I was in the non-violent adolescent wing, at the ripe age of sixteen.
Across the table we were sitting at, Zoe looked at me with puffy bags under her eyes.
“I have a daughter.” She said.
It was so strange and out of place, but then again everything was here. Quickly, I remembered the t-shirt she had worn the day before in the gym which looked stretched out around the stomach area as if she had been pregnant. But Zoe was seventeen, I assumed the shirt once belonged to someone else.
The information was given so randomly, but I understood. She was trying to tell me why she was here. The situation with her daughter and, I would later learn, Zoe’s relationship with the father are what pushed her over the edge.
“What’s her name?” I asked.
She shifted her eyes to the ceiling, quickly catching tears that sprung from nowhere with her palm, and slightly lifted the corners of her mouth. “Charlotte.”
Where Do We Go From Here? by: Laura Gonzalez, Mixed Media, 2019
So I Guess Cancer is a Thing
So I guess cancer is a thing. I still wonder how I could have been so naïve to its commonplace existence. You know, when it’s diagnosed, it actually doesn’t happen like it does in movies. For us, it started off with a CT scan, then an MRI scan, and when they finally decided they had to open up the skull, they removed the tumor, sliced it, and sent one of those slices off for examination. “We’ll see you in 10 days,” they say, sympathetically. Just like that.
During those 10 days, you keep it cool. You just know the tumor is going to be benign. They’ll tell you it was a random growth and after she heals from the surgery, everything will return to how it was. You don’t allow your mind to go the other way. There’s no point. No point in worrying about what hasn’t been said. 10 days later you show up, and sign in as if you’re at your annual checkup. In a way, that’s what it feels like because you just know it’s all going to come to pass. You smile at the receptionist, thank her for checking you in. Smile at the nurse as she takes you to a room and hands you an envelope. “Don’t open it until after the doctor has spoken to you.” What the hell is that supposed to mean? After that, the memories move in slow motion. Brain Cancer. Glioblastoma. 11-15 month life expectancy. Personality changes. Seizures. Sleepiness.
Against my better judgment, I’ve Googled glioblastoma over and over again. Sometimes just for the heck of it because I want to make sure I still remember the facts clearly. The results are the same, every single time. Some cancers are so rare that there are only about two hundred thousand cases per year in the U.S. Two hundred thousand. What constitutes something being rare? I wonder if the other 199,999 families dealing with this, this year, wonder that too. Rare are albino alligators or that last white, male rhino that just died last year. This doesn’t feel rare at all. It feels…real.
You know what SHOULD be “rare”? Rare should be having to see your mother’s reflection as she sees her neatly stitched, baseball resembling, blood-crusted scar and buzz cut for the first time. Seeing her briefly look in the mirror and turn her head to get a better view of all that’s changed. Then looking away quickly for the fear of letting out more of her emotions than she cares to. Rare should be having to squeeze your mom’s stomach like a burger, daily, in your hand while you inject her with medicine that’s supposed to prevent a clot. You know, she’s always hated needles, and now it’s you having to inflict this pain for what’s supposed to be the greater good. Every week there are more and more bruises of all different shades of black, purple, and green. Oh, but the bruises don’t stop there! Take a look at the insides of her arms. Of course, when undergoing radiation and chemotherapy you have to get your blood drawn weekly to make sure your white blood cell count is looking okay. Rare should be having to see your mom lying on the ground, seizing, as her body jerks as if her whole body is gasping for air, fighting against itself. I don’t even know if it’s fighting with or against her. Rare should be having to see your mother’s reflection as she sees herself, once again, neatly stitched, baseball resembling, blood-crusted scar, but this time, there wasn’t hair to have to shave off.
Do the other 199,999 families ever get used to this? Or are they like me and feel that every poke, every cut, every pill, every jerk, every doctor’s visit is like digging a knife deeper into a still very fresh wound? Despite that feeling, I’ve come to accept that I may lose my mom at a young age. I’m not even old enough to have wrinkles fully formed on my face. As I stop and stare at my daughter, I think about how just in her lifetime there have been two million people diagnosed with glioblastoma. Just 6 months ago we were living with her grama and granpa. Mi mami y mi papi. I can only assume that as we moved out of my parent’s house it never crossed her mind that we may be leaving one of them behind, possibly forever.
Now, though, I’d rather just focus on the soul that still remains within her and who my mom is, and always will be to me. My mom is strong. Always has been. I knew that the moment I was old enough to realize all that she left behind in her country, in order to take a chance at starting a family with the love of her life, in a new land that held many unknowns. I knew it when I was old enough to see the courage it took to show up for every single event your child was a part of at school, even if you had no idea what was being said. The humility it took to allow your child to translate the conversation with a teacher, because you wanted to be a good parent and be involved. She got her license to be a public accountant in Mexico, but here, that meant nothing, especially not as an undocumented resident. So humility it took once more to start cleaning houses, in order to help provide for your family. I don’t even like cleaning my own damn restroom.
This month marks 11 months since my mom was diagnosed. I’ll continue to hope and pray, along with the other 199,999 families in this country.
waking up next to a corpse beneath ground and realizing all this time you felt dead—you really were. it was just an illusion, and you’ve been released. you wonder where it all went wrong and who you really are, whose name is on your gravestone, and who’s with you. but all you get is rotting. and you rot and rot and rot. and nothing ever happens except for the bugs. oh, the bugs. you spare details. you try to scream and find your mouth is gone. you try to move and find your bones have finally been released from your essence. you are nothing but a corpse. and you got what you wanted, what you dreamt about on sundays. you find nothing really matters but the cycle of things: the birth, the growth, the existing, the suffering, the death, and the nothing. you wait to be born anew, to be something other than nothing. but what might be 15 minutes is an infinity when you are dead. and that’s it. just rotting into nothing. into your own private oblivion. like walking into water until your head is beneath the surface, but you just keep going. even when your body fails you, your mind keeps turning. when your brains and your guts are soup, you still exist. you still exist. you keep going, even when they pave over your grave; even when the last descendant dies, you keep going. until you reach for nothing and get nothing. you got what you wanted
Cigarette Skull by: Alexandra Williams, Silver Gelatin Print, 2019
Children’s Story
Aliens can teach us a lot about humanity. More than any human could, probably. We are our own blind spot, a cool spot on the face of the sun. A heat wave in the form of a poem. What we don’t know can’t hurt us. That is, as a collective, of course it can. As individuals, absolutely. Radiation is radiation, after all. I’m pretty sure the effects go more than skin deep.
Rotting fruit can tell us a lot about the human’s disgust reaction. Knee jerk, gag reflex. Some are more easily disturbed than others. This goes for socializing, too. Although the same argument could be made that we are all equally sensitive, just about different things. And some are better at hiding it, of course.
The radio told me that empathy is not all that it’s cracked up to be. I think I agree. In any case, I would rather live alone on an island than with any of the last four people who told me they loved me. Deception is the most beneficial skill for someone to have. I don’t say this as anyone who is particularly good. I do my best. We all do.
It’s hard, living, when words don’t mean anything anymore. Maybe they never did. I think of Holden Caulfield a lot. Not as much as when I was 16. If this were a post-apocalyptic world, I would be dead. Can’t even tell if that’s a good or bad thing. Can’t tell good or bad things apart, really. It’s such a fine line, and good for whom? For me? Is a thing good because it’s good for me? I wish I could say fuck everybody else but there are so many mes out there. I will tell my children this.
I may be self-absorbed, but it’s better than absorbing someone else. I tried that once or twice. It’s disgusting. They get into your pores. I had a lot of acne then. It may take months— years—to get them completely out. I have scars on my face and back from trying to excise the pus. They are still trying to wriggle their way back in under my skin. Especially at night. I wake up sweating them back out. I’m not sure it works.
Cigarette Skull by: Alexandra Williams, Silver Gelatin Print, 2019
Children’s Story
Aliens can teach us a lot about humanity. More than any human could, probably. We are our own blind spot, a cool spot on the face of the sun. A heat wave in the form of a poem. What we don’t know can’t hurt us. That is, as a collective, of course it can. As individuals, absolutely. Radiation is radiation, after all. I’m pretty sure the effects go more than skin deep.
Rotting fruit can tell us a lot about the human’s disgust reaction. Knee jerk, gag reflex. Some are more easily disturbed than others. This goes for socializing, too. Although the same argument could be made that we are all equally sensitive, just about different things. And some are better at hiding it, of course.
The radio told me that empathy is not all that it’s cracked up to be. I think I agree. In any case, I would rather live alone on an island than with any of the last four people who told me they loved me. Deception is the most beneficial skill for someone to have. I don’t say this as anyone who is particularly good. I do my best. We all do.
It’s hard, living, when words don’t mean anything anymore. Maybe they never did. I think of Holden Caulfield a lot. Not as much as when I was 16. If this were a post-apocalyptic world, I would be dead. Can’t even tell if that’s a good or bad thing. Can’t tell good or bad things apart, really. It’s such a fine line, and good for whom? For me? Is a thing good because it’s good for me? I wish I could say fuck everybody else but there are so many mes out there. I will tell my children this.
I may be self-absorbed, but it’s better than absorbing someone else. I tried that once or twice. It’s disgusting. They get into your pores. I had a lot of acne then. It may take months— years—to get them completely out. I have scars on my face and back from trying to excise the pus. They are still trying to wriggle their way back in under my skin. Especially at night. I wake up sweating them back out. I’m not sure it works.
Under the Bridge by: Jonathan Sencion, Digital Photo, 2018
The Last Metro
Nobody can remember exactly when it happened, but the earth was taking its last breath. Most people already fled to shuttles to escape the inevitable disaster. Others are with their families spending their final moments with the ones they love. But I, I am walking amongst a few other shadows in the train station. I don’t have a destination and neither do they. We are just here. Who knows the reason why they chose here–I certainly don’t–but we all know that there is nowhere else we’d rather be. The train pulls in. The driver seems familiar. Maybe I once knew him, but I don’t know anyone anymore.
The driver blew the whistle but nobody moved. There was nobody to move, not a soul to be found, not a whisper to be heard, and yet it was so crowded. Too many voices, too many people hurrying to get on board, too many times the ground shook with fire as screams exploded in my ears. Too many times did I not hear the laughter of a child, the song of a bird, the echo of my own voice. The whistle did not blow again. It had no need. Everyone was already on the train.
The driver lingered there staring at me with a confused look. The station around me was calm and disgusting, but also chaotic and beautiful. It was bustling with life and it was bathed in fire. It was clean as could be and it was littered with debris. The driver took one last glance knowing that this was the last ride. Just like the reflections that boarded his train, he had no destination. He did not wish to get away. He did not wish to be with his loved ones, but he dared not be alone. The train started moving and I watched it go. I stayed behind at the station and I watched from inside the train as I was left behind.
The train took off and it was going nowhere. None of the people on board were going to return. They’d be replaced with different faces or none at all. They’d look like me, but I’d never know them. They’d be fighting for their lives and longing for death. There was no destination for that train. Everyone knew it. Some spoke of it, but none protested it. Nowhere is where everyone wanted to be. It’s where I belonged.
I waited for the train to leave, but it wasn’t moving. It was already gone. It had gone to nowhere taking many with it, and leaving me behind. But why would the train have to leave? This was nowhere. There were no families, no friends, no dogs barking, no cats meowing, no birds chirping, no music, no singing, no laughter, no crying, no hate, no war, no noise, no silence. There was nothing, but did that make it nowhere? Perhaps not. Perhaps nowhere was a place with everything, a place where everyone stood but nobody could reach. Perhaps nowhere is where I stood.
An Out by: Gina Acampora, Silver Gelatin Print, 2019
A Rainbow Bride
Everyone around me has dived into insanity and all the meanwhile I’ve spent my morning hiding in the wardrobe. Originally, I thought that maybe someone had overlooked it but then I saw it with my own two eyes—my wedding dress is missing. I get married in two hours and my wedding dress is missing.
I should be having a breakdown right now, right? Right?! I should at least be on the verge of one. Why aren’t I? That would be sensible of me. Yes, it would. But why aren’t I making sense? Why aren’t I disintegrating? It would be okay if I did. It would. It’s okay to be in shambles right now and yet I’m not. I’m nowhere near the point of breaking down. I know I should be. I’m just empty. I shouldn’t be empty. Today was supposed to be the happiest day. I was going to come into it as a giddy soon-to-be bride and then come out of it all lively and married with all the potential in the world. Now, none of that is going to happen. Honestly, I don’t think I even wanted it to.
I always wanted to get married. When I was young, I made a journal planning my dream wedding and now it’s a reality. Still, something isn’t right. I don’t understand. I went through the steps: I met a guy that I like, we went on great dates, a relationship blossomed, we got to know one another in every way possible, both parents approved, we planned out our lives together and we did it all while loving one another. Formulas are supposed to work. It’s why everyone goes through the steps. I did everything right yet something’s still off.
At that moment I hear a quiet tapping on the door and look up to see Ezra walking in. I know it’s Ezra by the old torn up shoes that still have my shitty drawings on the side. They make their way to me urgently and sit down back-to-back against my bare soles.
“We have your dress,” she exhales, “although it might not look the same as you remember it. There’s been some… alterations.” From then on begins the story of my wedding dress’s demise. Apparently, some of the younger kids thought the dress was a bit dull and made a plan to “liven it up.” It turns out they’re not enthusiasts about the white wedding tradition, so they got a hold of some brushes and painted the bottom in a vivid rainbow order.
As pretty as that may sound, a heavy sigh is released. I loved that dress. It was only when I wore it that I genuinely saw a bride staring back at me. All the other times I thought I was just pretending. Maybe it’s a good idea the kids ruined it. I wouldn’t allow matrimony to ruin it. Alone, I loved it, but maybe I wouldn’t always. Maybe when I got to the church I wouldn’t. Maybe when I walked down the aisle with the heat of everyone’s stares burning into my body I wouldn’t. Maybe when I took my soon-to-be husband’s hand I wouldn’t. I was dreading that part the most. I absolutely despised holding his hand. It was always too sweaty and no matter how much I protested he never quite learned to let it go.
“Is there where you’ve been all morning? Camping in the closet?” She snorts and shakes her head, “You should’ve hidden in the basement. There’s still some pizza there. All you’re getting here is the violet perfume your mother savagely sprayed on the bridesmaid dresses this morning.”
I don’t say anything. I never have to with Ezra. So with shut eyes and a million withheld sobs, I lean my head against Ezra’s shoulder. She holds out a hand and intertwines it with mine. It’s strangely moist and yet I don’t mind. I don’t mind it at all.
