4.6.22<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The Morning Taste Of Blood<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I wake for the fourth night in a row with the lingering taste of blood in my mouth.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I am healing, <\/em>I tell myself. This is not uncommon.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n The last images of the dream begin to fade as my consciousness tears them away. The ring of a phone. The glimpse of a message. The way my heart constricted and my spine stiffened.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I know you don\u2019t want to hear from me, but you can read this message later\u2026<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n Focusing on the text while fighting to save others from the endless halls of a metal building does not come easily. I glimpse the beginning, see the name of the sender, and let a bitter laugh echo through the square space around me. I stand near the only exit to this place, the dim fluorescent lights buzzing as insects overhead, the outside world spilling natural light into the interior of captivity. A surgical curtain on wheels stands askew next to me, an untouched wheelchair and an aging operation table hinting at what this labyrinth holds within its clutches. The facade is that of a school, of winding hallways, of endless corridors, of rooms filled with students who never leave, who never attend another class, who sit down to lectures and spend their lives growing old.<\/p>\n\n\n\n But that is not all that is in here with us. I know this well. <\/p>\n\n\n\n The woman who texted me is Teresa. She is my mother\u2019s mother. The woman who wished upon me and my queer siblings to learn the \u201ctruth\u201d of our history – the legend of Sodom and Gomorrah. The so-called \u201chistory\u201d of death. And death is what stalks the white-tiled floors of this freedomless campus. A monster of black and brown and silver. A beast stalking, hunched, on two legs, that fills the foyers it haunts. Fangs drip with drool, hands grasp at corners, and its tail trails behind it, radiating a sound that tempts the mind to think of a body bag, dragged along behind its victimizer. When I entered this place, unaware of how difficult it would be to leave, I saw it during my exploration. It sniffed the air, it entered a classroom, and it left with bloodstained claws and hungry eyes.\u00a0<\/p>\n\n\n\n Escape would be my only option. My only chance of survival.<\/p>\n\n\n\n No one listened to me when I tried to warn them. The students believed me insane, the teachers squashed any interruption to their lessons. I tore through room after room, seeking some sort of window, some sort of doorway out of this nightmare.<\/p>\n\n\n\n There were none. <\/p>\n\n\n\n I wound my path, dipped through auditoriums, through artists\u2019 abodes, through scientist labs. I did not know if the beast hunted me, but I would not make my scent easy to follow. I would not be easy to track.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Discovering a set of double-doors in a room that appeared to be forgotten proved to be my savior. They opened to show a grassy knoll, an aqueduct of spring water, and other massive buildings like the one I found myself in. Five, ten, fifteen spires, and hardly a person alive walking between them.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I basked in the warmth of sunlight. I took an inhale of the sweet scent of petrichor and stone. I propped the doors open, rolled up my sleeves, and went back the way I came.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Not many believe. But I dragged those who showed a hint of doubt to the edge of their salvation and let them decide for themselves. <\/p>\n\n\n\n Teresa texts from somewhere inside the building and her message comes as I stand guiding those to their first experience of grass between their toes. I believe her to be somewhere higher up, on a different level, where windows and falling seem to be the only way to freedom. I do not have rope. I do not have a ladder. I do not care to climb those stairs to find her. <\/p>\n\n\n\n There are surgeries happening, in a room set off from the one I stand in. Women are peeling back the skin of the scalp and drilling holes into the craniums of each other, modifying the mind, laughing, sipping on sodas as their patients bleed to death. The floors are spotless there. There is no evidence of their crimes. They watch me when I weave through the surgical tables, as I find the waiting room and insist to the others that the offered solution is going to kill their minds. A few hear me. But more do not.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Teresa approves of the surgery. She does not need to utter the words for me to know this truth. All those I can save have left the building, and I can hear the thundering steps of the beast, I can hear the crunching of bones, the splattering of organs against unloving jaws. I step into the light and let the doors swing closed behind me, take a glance over the faces of those who left. We are a small group. <\/p>\n\n\n\n My phone buzzes to remind me of the text, and I peer at it once more. <\/p>\n\n\n\n I am reminded of last night\u2019s dream. <\/p>\n\n\n\n The wooden chair beneath me bites into my skin, poking at the button-up I wear and prodding against the black jeans I managed to fit my legs into. I clink the rings on my finger together, idly, my eyes elsewhere and my thoughts allowed to wander. I do not wish to be here. The table is full of my blood relatives.<\/p>\n\n\n\n A restaurant lays out around us. This would be a safety for much of common society, but my blood is not common. The conversations that tumble from their mouths twist around praise for their intolerant religion, hatred over marginalized groups, and finally, eventually, about me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Roasted chicken fills the air with the aroma of salt, and cream, and pan-fried carrots. The drink in front of me sits empty, but even still, I reach for it, sip on the melting squares of ice, and let the glass thump as I set it back down. I tug my blazer closer and stand up, my chair screeching against the hardwood floors. All eyes turn to me and I offer a smile, one that holds the same violent chill as a storm in the arctic. <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cKeep my girlfriend\u2019s name out of your mouth,\u201d <\/em>I say. Brows lift high. There is a mouth that opens to condemn me, to tell me to sit down. \u201cI am not going to tolerate your homophobia any further.\u201d <\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n I turn, and I walk out of that restaurant. <\/p>\n\n\n\n As the evening air bites along my jawline, I am reminded of another dream.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Teresa sits in front of me, surrounded by my blood relatives. She is talking, her voice pitched higher, her gestures exaggerated. I am lounging in my chair, legs spread, arms crossed, eyes half-lidded and unfocused. I stopped listening five minutes ago. <\/p>\n\n\n\n The house smells of cinnamon and clove. I can taste dessert on my lips: sugar, and milk, and banana, and caramel, and betrayal. Teresa was not supposed to be here. <\/p>\n\n\n\n My phone digs into my back pocket, where it deems it suitable to vibrate. I pull it out to consider the message I received, only for my blood to lambast me for being disrespectful.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Your grandmother is trying to talk to you, <\/em>they say, a sort of uncaring hatred in their voice. <\/p>\n\n\n\n I smile at the message. It is my friend, asking that I get a video if I throw hands. I tuck the phone away and stand up. <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cYou are not my grandmother. And as long as all of you support her words, none of you are my family, either.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n I leave my mother\u2019s house. The afternoon sun bakes my skin as I climb into my car. The smell of hot plastic brings the final dream to my mind.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I am fourteen. And I am crying. <\/p>\n\n\n\n Portland smells of wet ferns and dirt. It smells of oil on the roads and gasoline. It smells of acceptance, but my home reeks of homophobia. I sit on the deck, rain drenching the clothes I wore, seeping into my ribs and chilling all within me. I hear footsteps and look up. <\/p>\n\n\n\n I see myself at twenty-eight, climbing the steps to reach me, and I feel the warmth as she pulls me into a hug. She tells me we will be okay. She sets headphones upon my ears. She rolls up her sleeves, unbuttons the top of her shirt, and walks into the home to speak with my parents. There is shouting. And there is her voice, cool, and even, and firm.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cThere is nothing wrong with me. And there is nothing wrong with your daughter.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n The taste of iron lingers through my waking hours. I push myself into a sitting position on my bed, inhale the safety of my own home. There is a breath where it smells of dandelions outside a forest\u2019s grasp, where it smells like my girlfriend. There is another where it smells like me, like stone and metal, like clay hardening in the morning light. <\/p>\n\n\n\n My heart aches for a time as I drink my breakfast tea. I wish for a moment where resting did not bring work, did not bring experiences where I needed to set boundaries, where I needed to mull over skirmishes that may occur sometime in my future. I wish for a moment where I could close my eyes and let my mind find peace as well, but I tell myself that this is what happens when you are healing a lifetime of trauma. <\/p>\n\n\n\n Sometimes when you close your eyes, your work is not yet done.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" I wake for the fourth night in a row with the lingering taste of blood in my mouth.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":2209,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"jetpack_post_was_ever_published":false,"jetpack_publicize_message":"","jetpack_is_tweetstorm":false,"jetpack_publicize_feature_enabled":true,"jetpack_social_post_already_shared":true,"jetpack_social_options":[]},"categories":[525,283],"tags":[41,793,794,847,158,157,12,814,795,238,466,845,846,114,97,37],"jetpack_publicize_connections":[],"jetpack_featured_media_url":"https:\/\/winter-publishing.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2021\/05\/pexels-photo-2541310.jpeg","jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"jetpack_shortlink":"https:\/\/wp.me\/p27tjX-BI","_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/winter-publishing.com\/welcome-to-winter\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/2338"}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/winter-publishing.com\/welcome-to-winter\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/winter-publishing.com\/welcome-to-winter\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/winter-publishing.com\/welcome-to-winter\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/winter-publishing.com\/welcome-to-winter\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=2338"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/winter-publishing.com\/welcome-to-winter\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/2338\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":2339,"href":"https:\/\/winter-publishing.com\/welcome-to-winter\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/2338\/revisions\/2339"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/winter-publishing.com\/welcome-to-winter\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/2209"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/winter-publishing.com\/welcome-to-winter\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=2338"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/winter-publishing.com\/welcome-to-winter\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=2338"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/winter-publishing.com\/welcome-to-winter\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=2338"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}