The Hart residence was covered in pictures. Her mother took them at any excuse; birthdays, holidays, vacations, graduations, girls' night out, childhood tea parties, an especially productive dentist's appointment, really anything. Even though Nona didn't get out a lot without her, there were plenty of pictures of her at all ages throughout the house. There wasn't a year left untouched, most had dozens of examples if not more. It was the sort of thing most people would limit to a photo album, and while Tara had stacks of those she wanted her family displayed through every inch of their home. She was proud of them, so fiercely proud at every little thing. You couldn't go into any room other than maybe the bathrooms and Nona's own bedroom without being surrounded by their faces. Despite that, Nona couldn't remember the last time she'd paused to look at them. Over the years s he'd grown so used to them that they were barely there, but her whole life was laid out around her in intimate detail.
Her first day at preschool, age 3. It had rained that morning. Her mother had her in a bright yellow poncho. The thunder had frightened her so much it was impossible to pry her off of Tara's leg long enough to expose her face for a picture. All she'd gotten was the hint of a small, scared eye peeking up into the lens. That was probably for the best. She never would have managed a smile.
Her father teaching her to ride a bike, age 5. It shamed her, looking at how much things had changed. There she was, beaming from atop his shoulder with scrapped knees and her hands in the air. Nona had never been much of a Daddy's Girl. They loved each other, but he didn't have presence in her life. Maybe that was her fault. He tried to reach out in his way, maybe, but she didn't understand him anymore than he did her. It might be the fatigue speaking, but she couldn't even be certain what he did for a living. What his middle name was, or when he was born. It ached, but not enough to make her change things. It never had.
Nona tried not to focus on the details so much after that.
Her first lost tooth, age 7.
Mom and her at karaoke, age 17.
An A+ on a test, age...9, maybe 10.
A cousin's wedding, age 6.
Vacation in Dollywood, age 14.
The family gathered around for Christmas Dinner, age 11.
Her grandmother's funeral, age 8.
Kyle Harrison's birthday party, age 13.
Easter Service, age 15.
Her holding her acceptance letter to UTC, age 18. Just last April.
Nona tried not to focus on the details. She couldn't avoid the fact that none of the pictures looked like she did now, though. She'd worn dresses before, but always very plain, conservative cuts. There was no elaborate make-up, not so much as a painted nail. Her appearance had felt abnormal all night, but she didn't realize just how far out of her comfort zone she was until now. Nona was suddenly very awake and aware. Her heart was beating faster than it had at the height of her dancing. Sweat dripped across her body with every shaking breath. Her face felt caked in thick, itchy, hardening glop. So much of her skin was exposed yet at the same time wherever the dress touched felt smothered.
There was a sudden pain in her knee. Then her elbow, then her head. She was spinning, tumbling, falling, carpet burning patches of exposed skin. It clicked as she landed in a heap that she'd tried to run up the stairs. Something had caught her off balance, probably the hem of her dress. The panic passed before she was even fully aware of it, and for a time she lay at the bottom of the steps silent and still save for an occasional whimper. She wasn't hurt that badly, but she was exhausted. Every time she started to zero in on her discomfort her anxiety spiked. Certain...curiosities...had the same effect on her, but it had never been this intense. Escaping into stories was one thing, but all she could identify in this was a visceral urge to abandon the role she'd forced herself into tonight.
There was a lot to unpack there, but she was too disoriented to dig in. Undress. Clean up. Go to sleep. Whatever this was would still be there in the morning, or it wouldn't. That sounded nice.
------
The water ran, and ran, and ran. Nona's eyes stared into her reflection with confusion. Mom had put all her make-up on for her before she left and tried to give her advice about how to take it off, but she was coming up blank. There was a cream, or a wipe, or...with a groan she snatched a washcloth off the rack. It had to come off with enough effort, right? Small, gentle circles. Even strokes. Patience. It would all go away. It'd all go away and she'd never have to do this again. There'd be no pictures of this waiting on the wall, she hadn't taken any while they were gone and her mom hadn't been home so-wait, no.
Before they left. The staircase. Theo's hat. Her mother's teasing. Flash. Before the end of next week they'd be everywhere. In her texts, on her mom's phone screen, family Facebook groups and instagram, but worst all over her house. Pretty alien eyes judging her every time she ventured out of her room. She'd never escape, never forget, never never never never never never never never-
Her face burned all over. The water was too hot, much too hot, it was steaming in the basin but she didn't care anymore. It had to come off, it had to, no matter how hard she had to scrub no matter how much it hurt it had to stop, she didn't want to see it again. The pain didn't bother her. She could feel something much worse over it. That thick, packed on mush, slop clinging to her eyelashes, waxy build up all over her lips, it wouldn't wash away. It was like every pass of the cloth splattered more of it all over her, she could feel it and she couldn't think about anything else, couldn't open her eyes to see what she'd done to herself, couldn't run, couldn't breathe. Her scream as she threw the washcloth across the room was almost as feral as her hands pawing at the vice-like dress. She tugged at it every way she could but it wasn't coming lose. It was trying to strangle her. It was going to kill her.
She wasn't sure where or when she found the scissors. Long and sharp, more than a match for the delicate garment trying to choke her without ever touching her neck. So strange, though, that they brought so little relief even when it lay in tatters around her midriff. Even after every shred that hung on her body was cut loose and she lay in a make shift meadow of fabric her heart had barely slowed. It went deeper than the dress. There was something more and it was hurting her. It hated her, so she hated it. She had to get away. It had to be destroyed.
The scissors shone in the corner of her vision.
Enough realization set in with the first cut along her fore-arm to leave it shallow. Not enough to stop her from repeating the movement two...three...four times? It was hard to tell without looking, and she wouldn't look. She'd made the mistake of glancing in the mirror when she dropped the scissors. Just for a moment, less than a moment. It was enough to know it wasn't her. Enough to doubt whether the filthy, bleeding creature on the floor was even human. Whatever it was dragged this body into the shower. The water was too warm, not scalding but uncomfortable.
Nona didn't notice. Nona didn't do much of anything for a long time.
------
Her parents must have been having a great time. They still weren't home when she managed to pull herself out of the shower. The band-aids on her arms would all be hidden under a thin hoodie by the time her mother came to check in on her. Tara might be surprised to find her under the covers instead of at the computer, but she wouldn't be suspicious. The bathroom wouldn't yield any more evidence. No one would walk in on her cleaning up the scraps of her dress. Her cuts were shallow enough that she'd mostly bled on herself, and the scissors...she'd hid them deep inside her closet. As far as she knew her parents never went through her things. They trusted her.
Nona didn't want to think about why she hadn't thrown them out with what was left of her dress. She hadn't been able to look at the closet since hiding them. If she didn't look they could just, just be there in case. Not in case of anything in particular. Just in case.
Just in case.
Nona lay under her comforter and flipped through her contacts one by one. So many wouldn't understand, but she should reach out to someone who did. She wasn't stupid. Even if this never happened again it should never have happened once, and she needed to get some sort of help.
siyanda wrote: if you're not too busy could we get coffee? maybe tuesday?
katelynne wrote: need any help before the trip?
regina wrote:i could really use an ear. are you up?
adele wrote:i made a mistake.
zen wrote:can i ask you something personal?
She paused and chewed at her lip nervously before drafting the last one.Theo wrote:i'm really really sorry,
Nona stared at each of them with her finger hovering over the send button. What was she doing? What was she going to tell them if they asked how it happened? Why it happened? Her problems were so, so small compared to others. She had no right, absolutely no right to take sympathy for this. Nona wasn't a victim, some sick part of her was just looking for attention again. Their effort was better spent somewhere more honest.Mom wrote:i need to tell you something when you come home. please don't be mad.
Each one was deleted before the next started. She swiped away apps until she came back to an open picture. Dark braided black hair, deep blue eyes, a confident smirk and relaxed posture. Hours ago she'd dreamt it looked like her, that she could be him. The phone went dim and slipped from her hand with a dull thud. There was no more movement underneath the covers. Nona lay awake for an hour, maybe two without stirring. At any other moment in the last several hours she was one wrong impulse away from crying, but there were no tears in her bed that night.
Nona did not deserve to cry.
((Nona Hart Pregame Concluded))
