VXELEVEN

Cambria’s hands trembled where they covered her face, her breath uneven, catching on itself like it didn’t know how to leave her body cleanly.

“I wouldn’t lie to you.”

The words replayed.

Wrong, her thoughts intrusively responded. Not only was it wrong in truth, it was wrong in timing, in delivery, and completely tone-deaf in a house where truth had to be dressed up for survival. Her chest tightened as another suffocating wave hit her—hot and familiar—because this wasn’t new. It was a vicious cycle she had spun in time and time again. It was stacked like matted layers of the same sickening rhetoric repeated again and again. Years of:

“It’s nothing.”

“You’re overthinking.”

“That didn’t happen like that.”

But it did—it always did—and that was the problem; she always saw it.

Cambria dragged her hands down her face, nails pressing into her skin as if she the action would ground herself in something real. Because if she could see it, and if she could feel it…then why couldn’t she change it?

She inhaled sharply, gasping to drown out the low and controlled echo of her father’s voice, but just loud enough to disrupt her psyche. But her mother’s silence? There was no quelling the deafening effect; it was always so much louder. Cambria’s stomach twisted, causing her to wince.

“He’s winning…” she whispered, the words slipping out before she could stop them. She was spiraling. The room felt smaller: the air thickened as the walls began to seem close enough to crush her. Her thoughts began to overlap:

Say something. Do something. Fix it. Help her. Why won’t she let you? WHY WON’T SHE CHOOSE YOU?

She started to lose control of her breathing.

“I can’t—” she started, but the sentence collapsed under the weight of everything she couldn’t finish. Her vision blurred. Tears started to fall again, but angrier;  this time the streams seemed to dissolve to steam. “I can’t sit idly by” she said, louder now, not to anyone but aloud to herself in the room.

“I can’t—” Her voice cracked. The silence in the room appeared to answer and instantly, her breathing calmed as if something in her had shifted. Tilting her head with her posture straightening slightly,  her hands fell from her face. For the first time since the tears started, Cambria stopped questioning and a clear, quiet, but undeniable thought moved through her mind: Stop asking.

The house was eerily quieter now, like the pressure of the air before an earthquake. 

Cambria slowly opened her bedroom door. Its slight creaking faded into the faint clatter coming from the kitchen: Ceramic against ceramic under running water. 

Her mother.

Cambria stepped into the hallway, her bare feet firm against the floor. Each step measured and unhurried, she started towards the kitchen with no hesitation. No more second-guessing. 

The incandescent kitchen light spilled into the hall, warm but overshadowed by the bokeh of the streetlights beyond the window. Her mother stood at the counter, back turned, hands busy with something unnecessary like drying an already dry dish. Cambria watched her for a moment from the hall.

“You’re still up,” her mother said, too quickly, still not turning around.

Cambria tilted her head slightly and immediately responded,  “I never went to sleep.”

There was a small, tight pause. Her mother nodded, like that made sense — like everything made sense if it wasn’t looked at too closely.

Then she shook her head. “You shouldn’t say things like that,” her mother added, quieter now. “What you said earlier.”

Cambria stepped into the doorway, crossing her arms, “Which part?”

Her mother finally turned and for a split second confusion flickered across her face—Not at Cambria’s question, but at her.

“I didn’t lie to you,” her mother said, the words softer now, almost pleading. “I just… didn’t want you to worry.”

Cambria held her gaze, unblinking, arms still crossed. “You did lie,” she said.

Her mother’s expression tightened, like something invisible had pressed against her.

“Cambria—”

“You always do,” Cambria continued, releasing her arms. “You just change the shape of it.”

The silence was heavy now.

Her mother swallowed, eyes searching Cambria’s face for something reachable. “Why are you talking like this?” she asked, the words running like the faucet.

And there it was—Not usual misplaced anger, or dismissive defensiveness, but fear. 

Cambria took a step closer. “You know why,” she breathed.

Her mother shook her head quickly and turned the water off. Hand still on the knob, she answered, “No. I don’t. I don’t know why, but—”

“Ah,” Cambria interjected. “I see.”

Her mother crossed her arms, dish and cloth still in hand.

“You see what exactly?”

Cambria stepped closer. “I see everything.” Her mother blinked in disbelief.

Cambria continued, softer: “You just don’t like that I do.”

Gasping slightly, the dish slipped slightly in her mother’s left hand, clinking against the counter.

“Lower your voice,” she whispered, glancing toward the hallway, toward where he would be. She was always looking for where he would be.

Cambria followed her gaze and, for the first time, smirked at the thought. Gesturing enough to show that she understood. “He’s not here,” Cambria said, as she turned away.

Her mother froze, “How do you—”

Cambria looked back at her, and chuckled, “I would know, just like you should know, exactly where he is right now.”

There was a pause. Her mother set the dish down slowly, shakily, a bit unnerved.

“You should go to bed” she said, but it there was no authority in it now. 

Cambria shook her head once, “I’m going out.”

Her mother spun around, splashing flicks of suds about. “At this hour?” She snapped.

Cambria reached for the metallic jacket draped over the back of a dining chair and answered, “Yes.”

Her mother stared at her. Really looked at her this time. Taking in her own stillness and Cambria’s certainty, her absence of hesitation.

“…Cambria?” She pitifully asked, trying to form some sort of recognition of the young woman departing her.

Hand on the handle, Cambria paused at the door. She didn’t turn around when she spoke, but tilted her head back slightly as if to speak to the ceiling. “I won’t ask you again, stop lying to me.”

And then she left.