sacrament & salt

It was around the age of nine that my mother left. She would come around from time to time and bring groceries and check in on us at the apartment we all lived in, but that she was rarely at. She abruptly stopped.

No more mom. No more grocery visits. That meant three very small, and very hungry children.

I believed that if I told my father I wanted to be with him, he would then feel loved. And if he felt loved, everything would be okay. I was sent alone.

No more brothers.

Every day, as the hours whiled past, the clock ticking, ticking, closer to three pm, my anxiety would grow stronger. It was always at an absolute high once I passed through the front door of our two-story condo.

Tick-tock.

Please, God, let him be in a good mood today.

The clock reads three. Right on time.

There he stood. A bottle of bourbon firm in his hand.

There I would sit. Still. Only the hands on the clock could move freely. Good girl.

Rage filled the space. Hours, upon hours. No logic. Only emotion. And a body learning how to disappear while being visible.

I would fantasize about running into the bathroom and vomitting. I would imagine about how my sickness would make him snap to and how he would feel terrible for upsetting me.

Of course, that never happened.

Eventually, I was dismissed and told to go to bed. I would only crash into sleep, not from reprieve, or comfort, but exhaustion.

Morning always came. And with it, the countdown would begin again.

Some days I catch myself. Waiting for three o’clock.  Waiting for a cruel force to burst in, and I’m not allowed to move.