THE NEW ME VERSION 2.0

I don't know much. I don't know why I didn't see the door open. Click the close button. Why didn't I lock the door? Would you mind? When the mattress began to distort under his weight, I knew something was wrong. Why didn't I scream when I opened my eyes and saw him crawling between the beds? Or why didn't you fight when you still had a chance?  I don't know how long I lay there and said to myself, "Pinch your nose." Try closing my eyes and just forget about it. Let go of anything that doesn't feel right or never feels right again. Forget the taste of your tongue, the soggy dampness of your sheets, the flames radiating from your thighs, the excruciating pain when something like a bullet penetrates your stomach and somehow gets stuck there. No, I won't cry because there's nothing to cry about. Because it was just a dream, a terrible dream, a nightmare. It's not true. It's not true. It's not true. I keep saying to myself: Not Real Not Real Not Real. Repeat, repeat, repeat, as if it were a mantra, as if it were a prayer.  I don't know if the image that runs through my mind, something else, a movie somewhere else, really disappears, doesn't stop playing, and doesn't bother me. I close my eyes again, but I see his skin, his arms, his legs, his hands too strong, his breath on me, his muscles tense, his bones aching, his body crumbling, weak and withering. It can only be seen, felt and heard. Only they exist.  I don't know how long it will take to wake up to the sound of pots and pans banging on the stove every Sunday morning. Food smells waft from under the door: bacon, pancakes, mom's coffee. Telekahelid - Cold front and storm system passing through the area before noon - Father's Weather Channel. The dishwasher beeps. Yippie Yappie, the dog across the street, is probably silently wheezing as usual. And then there's the almost imperceptible rhythm as the basketball hits the box. Asphalt and creaking snowshoes run along the driveway. Our stupid, sleepy suburbs, like all other stupid, sleepy suburbs, withdraw, unaware of the consequences, and also wanting to be together on Saturdays while doing housework, church, doing I dread Monday mornings, like to-do lists. Life just goes on, just happens, goes on as usual, usually. And I can't shake the realization that life goes on whether you wake up or not. Very normal.  When I force my eyes open, I don't even know that the lie is moving. I try to swallow, but my throat hurts. I tell myself that your throat hurts. I think I'm sick, that's all. You might have a fever. I'm confused. I'm not thinking clearly. Touch your lips. They sting. And my tongue tastes like blood. But it's not. Incorrect. That's what I think when I look at the ceiling. If you dream, you will surely get into trouble. Such a terrible thing. About Marco. He is my brother's best friend, effectively my younger brother. My parents love him just like everyone else, but even I will never love him. It is impossible. But I got up and tried to move my legs. It hurts so much, no, I feel like my heart is going to break. And my jaw hurts like a hole. I closed my eyes again. Take a deep breath. Please reach out and touch my body. No underwear. I sat down too early and my bones were screaming like I had grown old. Scary to see, but there's something like: A casual ball that fell to the floor. Even though it was Saturday, it was my Tuesday. That's what I thought when I wore them yesterday. And now I'm sure it happened. It really happened. And the pain in the middle of my body, deep inside me, triggers the torture again, as if on cue. Discard the covers. Generational birthmarks cover his arms, hips and thighs. And there was blood on the sheets, bedspreads and feet.  But it was supposed to be Sunday again. I had to get up, get dressed, and have breakfast with my family. After breakfast, I went to bed and did the homework I didn't do on Friday night. Geometry, practiced new songs I learned in a band, hung out with her best friend Luna, visited her later, and did other stupid and worthless things.  But I know today that won't happen. I sat on her bed, staring curiously at my dirty skin, the hand on her mouth trembling. There was a knock on my bedroom door twice. I flinched. "Are you awake, Mia?" is no longer possible." "Mia, have breakfast!" I knocked on the door. I pulled down the negligee as hard as I could, but it was also covered in blood. "Mother?" I finally called back, but my voice was hoarse and scared. She opened the door. She stared into my eyes now. She saw the blood. "Oh my god" She took her breath and sneaked out and quickly closed the door behind her. "Mom, I'm..." But what can I say, the worst word. What do I know, should I talk about this?"Oh well" she sighed and turned her head towards me with a sad smile. "It's nothing." "What..." I began to say. Why is it okay, in what world is it okay? "Sometimes it happens when you least expect it." She hops around. While cleaning my room, she barely looks at me and explains menstruation and the calendar and counting days. "It happens to everyone. That's why I." I said you must obey. Then you don't have to worry about this. . . Surprising it could be you. . Has completed. " That's what she thinks. Now that I've seen enough TV movies, I know I need to talk about it. teeth she had to say it. "but-" "Why don't you take a shower, honey?" she interrupted. "I was worried here. . . ah. . . "She started with a big wave over me." I look for the words "this mess" in my bed. This confusion. Ah, now is the time. now or never. is it now "Mom~" I try again. "Don't be shy," she says with a laugh. "It was really good, I promise." She stand on me, she's taller than ever, hand me my stuff the dress I had forgotten about Tuesday's outfit was crumpled at her feet. I started saying, "Mom, Marco..." but hearing his name makes me want to throw up. "Don't worry, Mia. He's with your brother. They play basketball. And your dad is glued to it." TV as usual. No one can see you going now, but turn it on first. " I feel so small when I look at her. And Marco's voice moved like a movement Whispering in my head - His breath on my face - No one will ever believe you, you know it. Then my mother shook my clothes and suggested lies to me that she didn't even have to think about. She had that look in her eyes - very impatient, it was... on vacation - and I didn't have time for that - that look, was, obviously, it was her time to handle this s**t. and apparently no one would listen to me. No one would see me - he knew it. He was near long enough to get an idea of ​​how things work here. I try not to look like everything is broken when I'm standing. I keep on stomping. Tuesday is hidden under her bed so she can't find it. I put on my bathrobe. Look at the lies. And when I look back at her mother, and see her gather the dirty sheets in her arms, and see the evidence of that, I realize whether it is now or forever. No one would believe me if they were right. Of course they don't. I never have.  In the bathroom, you carefully remove your nightgown and keep it handy while you pick it up and slide it into the trash can under the sink. I adjust my glasses and take a closer look at myself. I have some faint marks on my throat the shape of his fingers. But it's really small compared to my body. I have no bruises on my face. A bike accident two years ago in the summer left a 2 inch scar on my left eye. My hair is a little messier than usual, but it basically looks the same. i can deal with it. When you get out of the shower - still dirty after scrubbing, I vaguely thought I might wash the bruise off, but there he was. I am sitting at the kitchen table in the dining room with my brother, father and mother, drinking a glass of orange juice. I will use the glass that came out of his mouth someday. A fork that quickly stood out from all others. His fingerprints were on everything, not just every inch of my body. This house, my life, the world - he is infected.  As I cautiously approached, Jameson raised his head and restrained me. I knew he would see it. Someone has I wanted to know if I could trust anyone. It would be my brother. "Okay, you're really weird and hot right now," he explained. He always knew me better than I did, so he knows. So I stood there and waited for him to do something. He put down his fork, got up and pulled me aside, led me into the backyard, wanting to know what was inside me and what had happened. Then I told him what Marco had done to me and he gave me the following big brother ism. Don't worry, Mia, I'll take care of it. Like when someone barks at me. Then he went back inside and stabbed Marco with his butter knife. But that won't happen. What happens is he just sits there. He looks at me, then his mouth slowly turns into one of his laughs, our inner joke laugh, and I reply or signal, or I sneak up to prank my parents. Wait for them to start laughing as if he hopes to get it. But he doesn't understand. So he shrugged his shoulders, turned his plate around, and tore off a large pancake. As I stood stiff in the hallway, the bullet went a little deeper into my abdomen. "Seriously, what are you looking at?" he said in the familiar brotherly tone he'd learned over the years, "You're the dumbest person alive." Mutter in tone. Marco doesn't look up. No menacing look. No warning gestures or anything. As if nothing had happened. He always showed me the same cold indifference. I’m still kind of like Jameson’s boring little sister with bad hair and freckles, no-one-hit-back-and-no-clarinet-bag-carrying rookie band geek. But I'm not him anymore. I don't want to be him anymore. She was a very naive and stupid girl who would allow such a thing. “Come on baby,” my father told me, using pet names, because I was so quiet. He pointed to the food on the table. "Sit down. When I stand in front of them, their loved ones, it's as if nothing happened to me. I finally got the point. The previous 14 years were just practice, a preparation to be really calm now. And Marco almost said it to me, and when his lips touched mine, he whispered: shut your mouth. Last night there were orders, orders, and tonight it's true. I raised my glass and then I felt sick to my stomach, I felt something like stage fright, and I moved slowly and carefully. Try to pretend that every part of my body, inside and out, is groping and not groping. I have sat next to Marco at countless family dinners. We thought of him as part of his family and my mother said so many times. He was always welcoming, every time.