I Breathe You In
By Rita Edward
Editor’s note: Please be advised that the following story contains descriptions and imagery of sexual abuse and domestic violence.
You find me in a store on your fourth birthday and your eyes light up. Your mother laughs when you jump to get at me, and picks me off the shelf for you. You bring me to your face and breathe me in, all wool and thread and plastic. I breathe you in, all baby powder skin and strawberry shampoo hair. We are the best of friends, your mother, you and I. Until she dies.
You bring me to her funeral and stain me with tears. We bend over the coffin and I see her, the woman who hosted our tea parties and tucked us into bed every night, white and still, like me. You reach out to wake her up, but they pull you away. We go home and you crush me to your chest and cry yourself to sleep. I breathe you in, all salt and saliva and sorrow.
You squeeze me tight when you hear the doorknob turn and clutch me to you. Your father misses your mother, and he sometimes thinks you are her. The bedsprings creak and you turn me over so one of us doesn’t have to see. My nose to the covers, I smell the urine from nights past. When it’s over, you press me to your face. You breathe me in, all dirt and tears and saliva. I breathe you in, all shame and fear and loathing.
You pull my eyes out and cut my ears off with the kitchen scissors. You color my body blue-black and twist my arms off. You fling me off your bed and I stare at the ceiling for hours, waiting for you to forgive me.
But it is he who picks me up and dusts me off, and he smells like you, all shame and fear and self-loathing. He washes me and puts me back together, then places me on your bed. You come home from school and cry when you see me. You whisper “I’m sorry” and bury your face in me. You breathe me in, all water-clean and soap-fresh and you are disappointed, because I no longer smell like your grief. You kiss me on the nose and put me on a shelf.
Your new boyfriend knocks me off your shelf. I lie on my side and watch you cower in a corner as he shouts and punches. You reach for me. He kicks me under the bed. I find the lost plastic ring your mother bought for you when we went shopping one day, the one which reads ‘My Princess,’ and I listen to your pain and his anger until they both ebb. You pull me out and hold me until you fall asleep. I breathe you in, all blood and regret.
You sit on the bed and caress your bulging stomach. You’re clad in white and light. You stand up and adjust your veil in the mirror. I think that you look just like your mother. You see me in the mirror and you smile at me, and when your skin pulls up I see the bruise under your jaw. You see it too, and touch it gently. He says he’ll change because he loves you, and you believe him. You blow me a kiss and leave for your wedding.
You hold me over the baby’s crib and wiggle me about, but he doesn’t stop crying. You turn me to you and your eyes are red-filled and black-ringed. You slump down against his crib and your eyes close tight when you breathe me in, all memories and youth. But I choke when I breathe you in.
You sit in the bathtub with the bathroom door ajar. Your wrists are red and the bathwater is baby pink. Your eyelids flutter and your breath is shallow. You look up, and catch my eye. Your eyes are empty for a moment, then you see your mother, picking me off the shelf for you, tucking us into bed and whispering that you’re her princess. You raise yourself and come to me, naked and shaking, and leave pink handprints on my white belly, like they left on yours. You breathe me in, all love and promise and your eyes light up like they did twenty years ago. I breathe you in, and you smell like the jumping little girl on her fourth birthday-but the baby cries and he screams for you to shut it up or he’ll do it himself- and the little girl is fading, fading, gone.
You take me with you to the bathtub and hold me under until you stop shaking. I rise to the surface and bob on my back. I can see your face now and your eyes are black plastic, like mine. I float in circles in your red insides, and breathe you in, all metallic clean freedom. You don’t breathe. They take you away from me and he throws me out the window.
I lie on the street outside your building, listening to your baby cry. A dog breathes me in, and rips my belly open to taste me, like they did you, over and over again. Only I’m all wool and thread and plastic, and feel nothing. But you were all baby powder skin and strawberry shampoo hair, and felt everything.
THE END
Author Bio: Rita Edward is an art teacher and occasional artist who lives in Singapore. When she isn't trying to explain the concept of Cubism to 10-year-olds, she can be found reading, writing, or cleaning up after her parrot. One of her stories is forthcoming in Shotgun Honey.