Wednesday, April 27, 2016

Okay by Julia Johnson

Okay
        I peer over the counter. My big brown eyes widen as a man stops at the front of our door. He just stands there. His fist hovers above the colored wood, and he knocks. Slowly. Once he realizes no one is coming, he knocks faster. Louder. I stare. My younger brother comes over to me. I see his glossy eyes and immediately take his hand. He’s trembling. But so am I. Leaning down, I whisper in his ear, “It’s okay.” Finally, our mom stumbles into the room, finds the doorknob, and lets the man in. “Who are you?” she asks, tightening her grip on the wineglass until her knuckles turn a shade paler. I strain to hear his response, but his whispers are too soft. She sways like the music beats within her. Then, he notices me watching them. I freeze. He strides into the kitchen, and somehow, seeing his eyes fill with warmth, I believe everything’s going to be okay.
        I wake up with a start. My heart feels like it’s being wrenched out of my chest. My whole body shakes uncontrollably. My forehead breaks out into a cold sweat. It’s been ten years since that day. Every night the same dream haunts me. Every night I have to stifle my cries, so my little brother won’t worry about me. I’m the one who has to take care of him. Gradually, I ease myself out of bed and tiptoe to the bathroom. With every creak the floorboards make, I cringe, fearing the consequence of someone hearing me.
        Seven foster homes.
        I’ve lived in seven foster homes. Fortunately, my social worker has been kind enough to keep me with my brother. Most people aren’t as lucky. The only thing worse than living with these people would be living with the knowledge that an innocent boy has to survive in this dreadful world without the protection of someone who cares; me.
        Inaudibly stepping into the bathroom, I catch sight of my reflection. Those big brown eyes filled with sorrow. Yellowing bruises scattered across her body. Her frail figure looks as if it could shatter at even the faintest touch. A slight quiver lines her jaw as she tries not to release a single tear. Her once luscious hair is now matted down and dead. The smile playing on her lips isn’t real. She’s only sixteen, but the crinkles outlining her face tell another story. The girl I see in the mirror can’t possibly be me.
But she is.
I slip back into bed, and too soon, sunlight filters into the room.
Only two more years until I will be free. Only two more years I have left of this suffering. Only two more years loaded with terrifying memories. Only two more years I will live in incessant fear. Only for the rest of my life will I be burdened with memories that act like dreams.
Dreams I cannot escape.
I have to be strong, not just for me, but also for my brother. The only way out of this is to hold my head high and step forward into the unknown.
“They can’t break you if you don’t let them,” my mom slurs her last words to me. I nod. Tears spill across her face as we pull away, and then I realize, my face is soaked too.
Now, all I have left is hope.

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