The Half That You See by Rebecca Rowland (best summer reads .TXT) 📕

race back to my room, close the door, and pray the boogeyman hasn’t beat me here. I jump as somebody knocks loudly on my door. It’s my sister saying it’s breakfast time. I get dressed in some clean panties, my grubby jeans, and a plain green t-shirt, and then I stop for a second with my hand on the door handle before taking a deep breath of my courage and step toward the kitchen.

It is there.

Sitting in the regularly empty chair, It turns and grins at me with Its rotten teeth and tattered clothes. It looks old today. Old and hungry.

My dad and my sister with the baby and my brother sit silently eating their porridge, as if we were all alone. I feel like screaming CAN’T YOU SEE IT?! IT IS RIGHT HERE!! IT WANTS TO EAT ME! My dad looks up at me and says, “Eat up.”

I don’t know how I can eat when I feel like barfing. Usually It isn’t this bold. Usually It hides in the dark corners of the house. Usually It’s sleeping while we eat. Why do they make me sit right beside It? Why aren’t they scared too?

The second my dad gets up to go work outside I jump up, tipping my chair over, run to the toilet, and throw up.

Barfing and barfing, all of a sudden, I feel Its hands pull back my hair.

“It’s okay. Mama’s here now. Mama’s here.”

Part 2

I can’t make them stop.  They torment my thoughts with their scraping talons, taunting with their prickly words and tricking my mind with their convincing lies. They shout their profanities, scoffing, laughing, sneering eerily through their rotting teeth. One is especially loud, its voice stronger than my own. It sinks Its teeth into my brain and chews and swallows, chews and swallows, gurgling wheezing sniggering. Small bits of me disappear into Its belly with each bite. So sharp.  Teeth so sharp.  Like razorblades slicing my eardrums, making them bleed into my skull. wheeze growl hiss. I hear shrieking from somewhere far away, only it gets closer and circles around my head. Are those screams my own or Its? I must run. I must get free. hiss pant wheeze. It is not working. I bang my head against the wall trying to shake It, this boogeyman swimming in the blood under my skull.

You’re no good Awful mother GO GET IT Babies Dizzy Foghorns BLASTING too many notes Whispering SHOUTING GO GET THE KNIFEWe must hide Hide from it RUN Sleep GO. SHOUTING Whispers More foghorns CrAsHiNg SYmBoLsSTOP GO GET THE KNIFE Spiders everywhere Crawling crawling Biting Ants Snakes in my bed GO NOW GO GET THE KNIFE

The closet. I must get to the closet. It is safe there.

I will bring the knife with me. Its blade so sharp it slices through bone like butter. The gleaning metal will save me. From me or from It, I cannot tell.

The bugs are here. A spider. And another. And another. Thousands. They creep over my whole body, getting tangled in my hair which grows inward, inward through my skull, split ends a knotty chaos inside. Flies are buzzing, waiting to feast on my flesh like a dead dog carcass. Circling, Circling. Sliding. Slithering. The snakes are back, constricting my throat like the noose I sometimes hang in the attic.  They slither up my body backwards, their scales catching and snagging, leaving my arms and legs scratched and raw.

Moments or hours pass.

ONE DEEP SLICE. JUST ONE DEEP SLICE. One Deep Slice. one deep slice.

Slowly, slowly, It disappears, leaving only a footprint in the heavy sand that has settled underneath the gloomy loitering fog of my mind. My memory fights to move. One step, two steps, so slow, tiny stones sucking it down. Why is there skin trapped under my nails?

I’m tired. Too tired to remember. Too tired to think. Too tired to breathe. Rust has eaten through my joints, leaving holes in my bones, an excruciating ache left in the absence. Knowing I can’t hide in the closet forever, I crawl my way up out of the sticky cobwebs the spiders have left behind, drag myself back to my room and fall onto the mattress, praying no one has seen this disaster of me. Pulling the covers up and over my head, I try to disappear. I try to be small. What if It comes back? It can’t. I can’t. Rest would be so easy. It would only take one handful of doctor-prescribed, multicolored candy. With just a couple of sips.

Then, then I could dance on the ocean, letting my toes dip into the cool blue waves of freedom any moment I chose. Then my hair would blow in the salty breeze. Then my head would feel weightless, soaring above cloud and darkness, where sanity dwells in blissful ignorance. Then angels would hold me and sing me lullabies, only there would be no need for sleep. I might even join them in their song.

But I am too tired.

He’s making me go to the basement. Banished.  Says he can’t stand the sight or smell of me. I know it’s bad but I’m just too tired. So very tired. Getting undressed. Turning on the water. Getting the temperature just right. Shampoo. Conditioner. Lathering up. Rinsing off. Turning off the taps. Climbing out of the tub. Towelling off. Combing my hair. Underwear. Pants. Shirt. Even just a nightgown. Day after day. Month after month. Year after year. All too much work.

He doesn’t touch me anymore. I know I disgust him. My body, my mind—all of me is repulsive. It wouldn’t matter if I showered. When I reach for him with my fingertips, he shrivels and hurries away. He doesn’t understand. And thatI can understand. I am a gross, unlovable raving-mad lunatic in the disguise of a woman. He doesn’t see my curves anymore—only my insanity.  I just wish he would hold me sometimes. Obviously, I am not a child, small enough to be rocked