The ear-splitting ring of my decades old landline jolted me awake, shattering any remaining slumber left inside me. My head throbbed from a ruthless hangover, the wine bottle fragments shattered on the floor confirming that I had drunk a glass too many last night. The chaos of morning traffic seeped through my open window—the honking, the shouting, the relentless fucking symphony that danced in my head only further increasing the migraine that pulsed through my neck. Without another lingering moment, I got out of the warm embrace of my bed and closed the window, pulling the curtains over it, covering the bright sun that pierced my eyes like nails against a thin piece of wood.

The landline continued to tediously ring as I sighed deeply—hoping to God that I wasn't being called into work, as I had today off and had plans to go to Brighton Beach—almost feeling the waves crash against my sore feet. I leaned down against the side table and squinted through unfocused eyes at the caller ID. Dread pooling through my stomach as I recognized the name—LANFIELD, JOVANA—my Mother. I sat at the edge of the bed and began to run my fingers through my curled hair—groaning as I knew that sooner or later I would have to answer. My Mother and I's relationship was like navigating a field mine, and I never knew which side of her I'd encounter.

My Mother was officially diagnosed with Bipolar disorder when I was thirteen, about the time I diagnosed myself as a homosexual—she happened to deny both diagnoses. She was intolerable, quick to anger with her cruelty often being through snide remarks, slurs or comments—her love language was that of passive aggressiveness and emotional unavailability, both of which I had grown used to.

There was no good reason for her call, and I was tempted to ignore it altogether. But she'd know, as she always did, and the ensuing drama and disdain would be almost worse than answering. Reluctantly, I picked up the phone, putting it on speaker and placed it on the bedside table, creating a symbolic distance between us, despite the hundreds of miles that physically separated us.

"Hey Momma." I greeted, my polite southern voice laced with slight annoyance. "What can I do for you?"

"I'm sorry to disturb you, I know you were probably sleeping." she pauses, as if the words had been erased from her mind, her tone sounding slightly worried yet almost detached.

I sat there waiting in agony for her response, but nothing, she fell silent for what felt like minutes—but was probably only mere seconds. "There was a body found in the lake late yesterday morning—" she paused again, an unease creeping through the phone speaker. "I saw it on the news last night, and I didn't think much of it. But this morning, Sheriff Brody held a press conference and they identified the body—it was Alex Matthews."

Her announcement struck me like a sledgehammer, her voice as hollow as the bottle fragments against the wooden floor that sat there, taunting me. I stared at the fragments, my stomach twisting into knots. I hadn't heard that name in almost a decade, and yet the raw emotions that clung to the name, still stung like a day old wound. I couldn't stomach past a word as memories flashed and the thought of his body being pulled from the lake struck me, his beautiful skin white as a sheet, his warm soft body now an icy shell.

"They think he was murdered." she barely whispered, a sigh in her breath.

I clamped my hand over my mouth, suppressing a sobbed scream that desperately clawed at my throat. Tears now freely flowing down my cheeks, as a choked sob came out from my throat. "Mama...I'll-I'll call you later." I mumble through the sob, my hands trembling as shock coarsed through my body.

"I love you." she says almost sympathetically, I'm silent, not knowing how to respond to those words, as these aren't words that usually come out of her mouth, they're occasional like an overdue holiday.

Without responding, I click the receiver and drop the landline onto the bed. My legs becoming putty as my back slowly sinks down against the wall.

"Fuck." I mutter quietly, my teary eyes gazed at the flowery velvet green wallpaper of my one bedroom apartment.

They say ghosts only return to haunt you after death, but my ghosts happened to be very much alive and thriving, a memory singeing at my mind, my brain an inferno of old wounds slowly but surely coming towards the surface.

The urge to veer off the road or to just jump out of the car completely—had been clawing at my mind since I had first started off, but the warm embrace of the needle pressed lightly against my finger had somewhat soothed me out of the idea, as I sat against the highway currently nestled in rush hour traffic, the dread coiling around my spine like a lurking serpent. Home, I had decided, wasn't always where the heart was. Sometimes, home is laced with carbon monoxide, smothering you with memories, the toxins overtaking you before you can even realize it—no alarm in sight, no phone to call for help.

The car I had rented—seeing as I had no car and no money for a last minute flight—was quite unremarkable, a cherry red 2008 Chevrolet Trailblazer—it quite literally stood out like a sore thumb amongst the traffic, but then again I had always stood out like a sore thumb—I wasn't well-liked in high school, nor did I really care much for being well-liked. And as for Church—most people saw me as the prodigal son, except I hadn't returned home yet. I was bullied pretty aggressively in both places. I was used to it—the slurs, the gossip, the bruises underneath clothes that painted my body both purple and black, the hand over my mouth as he told me he wouldn't be long and that no one would believe me—so I may as well. I had been used to this kind of environment—an aversion to it, yes, but simply used to it as I had no other way to adapt. The years I spent trying to forget about it—only plummeted me into a thick murky cloud, a nightmare.

You see I've tried support groups, therapy, medication—a cocktail of them—but eventually I gave up on healing, and was let go by my former therapist—this was mostly due on how I basically made no progress as I avoided talking to him about my problems, or it could have been due to me showing him the deep cuts and burns I had inflicted on myself—I happen to side with the latter.

The cuts and cigarette burns were against my shoulders, my arms, my legs, places I usually hid over long black sweaters and denim jeans, fabrics that often caused me to endure any type of weather—even the long sticky sweltering summers that would leave me nearly collapsing.

I had collapsed once—inside a restaurant I worked at, while waiting tables, in the end they saw the scars and cuts and I was then awkwardly asked to go home then told the next day to not ever come back. Most people say they can handle your scars—but when they actually see them, the physical scars, how you've branded and carved yourself out like a pumpkin for Halloween—most often then not people will not want anything to do with you. It's nothing personal you see, it's more-so people's discomfort to such topics, how they grimace at the word 'suicide' it's our culture's way of avoiding accountability and how they just might be the root of the problem.

I don't personally blame anyone for the harm I've inflicted upon myself; I take full responsibility. However, what I've observed is that many people tend to twist the narrative of who you are, what you've said, what's happened personally to you—as to completely absolve themselves of their role in the harm they've put you through.

But seeing as how half of this country sees itself—in a more heroic patriotic light, history-wise. It's not that surprising to see the reactions of people when you happen to tell them that you've been outright traumatized by them and how they just outright reject the idea, holding onto this coddling thought that they did what they could and you are at fault—the result of simple narcissistic behavior in a country so fueled on bending the narrative their way.

A craving began to overcome me, a yearning—or more accurately a need—a need for a water bottle discreetly filled with vodka so that when I arrived home, my Mother wouldn't know I was drinking again. I like to think I'm more of an occasional alcoholic, because ironically enough I don't seem to drink as heavily unless I happen to be around her, the holidays a time filled with more alcoholic cheer with either one or too many glasses of white wine, champagne or a seemingly more wider interest in her bile-flavored eggnog that was laced with cinnamon whiskey and rum. But the vodka would also do just the trick.

The wind breezed against my hair as I let the windows down, letting out a heavy sigh, realizing I only had about thirty miles to go. Thirty miles that my mind wasn't ready for. The noon sky was overcast, a gentle rain turning into a roaring pour, blocking anything in my line of sight. I then pulled over to the side of the road and saw that a mere fifty feet away from me was an old rundown roadside motel, the whole ordeal screamed as if it were something in a horror movie, yet only intrigued me more seeing that I now had a reason to delay my very unwanted arrival into town.

I pull up into the parking lot and turn the car off—pulling out a carton of cigarettes from the glove compartment and light my last cigarette from the box. I inhaled deeply, pondering on the thought of whether or not I should stay. The motel appeared nearly abandoned—with the exception of a large semi that was parked just at the edge of the lot, it's headlights piercing the rain—not a very savory situation. Suddenly the headlights switched off and before I could realize it a hulking, middle aged man donned in a red baseball cap began to approach me. His fiery red hair and beard drew my attention as he approached closer, you could tell he thought he was hot shit by his toothy-grin, which were discolored, decaying and tobacco-stained as he chewed on the mud wad he began to spit out. An immediate turn off that almost made me want to extinguish my cigarette and quit smoking altogether.

With his unsettling grin approaching to me further, I sat there petrified, a statue in my seat, silently wishing he'd retreat like the dog he was. But his steps continued further towards me. I hastily grab at my keys and turned the ignition, only to be met with distinct silence, the car had stalled. I turn the key into ignition once more, rolling up the window and locking the doors, turning and turning the goddamned key, only to be met with heavy knuckles knocking at my window. I jump to see the toothy grin standing only inches away. I then reluctantly crack my window halfway, my eyes on alert, scanning him for any weapons.

"Seems you're in a bit of trouble there, little missy." The trucker says with a smirky tone, a toothpick now between his sickening teeth. I wanted to gag.

I offer a polite smile. "Yeah, it seems my car has stalled." I say, a nervous chuckle leaking out. "I think I'll be okay."

"Sure I can't assist you, miss?" he mocks. Now bending down and leaning further against my car, his yellow eyes leering at my green eyes, his smirk almost uncannily becoming wider.

"No thanks. I think I can handle myself." I spit back exhaling the smoke in his face, illuminating my disinterest. His smirk turns to a frown of utter disappointment, he's not getting laid by me, that's for fucking sure.

"C'mon miss... don't be like that." he says rolling his eyes, annoyance and desperation in his voice.

I turn the ignition once more but am yet again met with nothing but silence.

"Mind if I take a look?" he says, half-sincerely.

I can practically feel his eyes groping my body as I turn the ignition harder this time, and am met with the glorious sound of the engine. I feel a sigh of relief leave my throat. The comforting sound of the roaring engine soothing me like a baby in a crib, as I'm desperate to get the fuck out of dodge.

Without another word I begin to pull out of the parking, and speed away, the thirty miles not sounding as bad as of this moment—as I didn't want to become the next cold body against the slab. And as I sat there, driving against the rain-coated road, he began to enter my mind—Alex.

I was approximately about five miles away as the sun began to set, an empty energy drink can, a protein wrapper and a new pack of cigarettes sate beside me, items from a 7-Eleven I had stopped at fifteen miles back, to pass the time and to keep myself alert as tiredness began to seep through me. The cashier was handsome, a young tall scrawny Latino male—probably just turned twenty seeing as though he barely had any facial hair, his hair brunette and his eyes brown, a sort of surfer boy look—but straight. Obviously straight.

You can often tell when they are, but this one was an easy guess—seeing that a photo of him and his girlfriend at the Grand Canyon was his current wallpaper on his phone, and he also just so happened to be looking at a Playboy. I wanted to take my chances and flirt with him—but in this neck of woods, even the slightest gesture could get you left in the middle of the road, beaten, bashed and bloodied.

The area began to feel familiar—the trees, the fields, the lower class houses, all of them planted in the middle of nowhere on the outskirts of the town, an area that I would frequent often when I was younger to get away. Yet here I was back in their clutches, gravity pulling me ever so closer to a place I hadn't ventured since I was eighteen.

I exhaled the cigarette currently hanging in my mouth, my stomach tightening as I could feel myself getting closer to the town, three more miles and I would be there. My Mother's old saying kept rummaging through my mind like a broken record—that I desperately wanted to smash into pieces. "What doesn't kill a man makes him stronger and wiser." There's truth to her saying for some, yes, but for me—I would say what doesn't kill a man, doesn't make him stronger; it just drives him further away into madness and makes him want to slit his wrists.

I found myself retracing my steps like a dog returning to it's own shit—a disconcerting sense of Deja Vu. It felt as if I were the dumb blonde in a slasher flick, blissfully ignorant of the lurking killer tracking her every move. Yet, unlike her I could almost feel their eyes all over me—the whispers, the judgment—a simple yet malignant small town currency that fueled their lifeless existence. But yet again, what else is there to do in a place like this? I often wondered if I had stayed if I would have wound up the same way—ignorant, arrogant, envious of the life I could've had. And yet in some ways I do examine those traits—or at least the arrogance and envy for that matter.

Entering Woodsfield, I drove past a rundown McDonald's, the local pharmacy, two churches that sat side by side—the Baptists and the Church of Christ, which was ironic seeing how they both equally hated each other. On the right was the aging historic movie theater, screened mostly old classic films but was occasionally graced with a "new" release, most of which had already become outdated by several years. There was the few remaining quaint Mom and Pop stores, a dimly lit bar, a Chinese restaurant owned by a white family for the last two decades, the library, and the police department, which with pride displayed a Republican flag fluttering proudly in the window. To sum the town up, in a nutshell; they were white trash, with more wealth than your average white trash.

The other half of town was festered with homelessness, an odor that clung to the air, a nauseous blend of trash, piss, and shit. My heart ached for the poor souls, the ones who had likely toiled tirelessly but reaped no rewards in this cesspool garden, those who lived hand-to-mouth, relying now on needles, worn pipes, or a daily dose of kindness in a pill form. The town had turned a blind eye to their existence, its focus limited to arthritis or the occasional cancer diagnosis that befell an unfortunate privileged few. Mental health struggles and trauma-born afflictions found no place in their conversations nor their community. Something I had known as I was mostly the centerpiece headline—classmates, neighbors, church members—painting me as an unstable psychopath. Something I had been tainted with since I first started high school—due to the fact that it was about the time I had started cutting.

I turned right into a private drive enclosed by assorted trees and wildflowers, the view of a three-story tour de force of a house slowly coming into my view, an old bed and breakfast showpiece. The house I had grew up in. Not a stone had been unsettled, everything was as I had left it, standing magnificently in my presence as if it were some grand museum piece or a most prized doll in a young girl's collection. Well kept and exquisite.

A few cars were parked in the driveway—she had invited these people to her house, to remember him, his life, a house where she most likely destroyed it. She was no doubt holding a luncheon, in the kitchen scattering away—preparing tea sandwiches, Hors d'oeuvres and—God only knows what else.

I notice this a lot about tragedies—that if there's one going on, my Mother likes to throw herself in the middle of it, head first, offering up her dollhouse as refuge. It's always the strangers who barely knew the dead who are give themselves a sense of attention, as if it's their own funeral they're attending. For her though, perhaps she was fantasizing this was my memorial luncheon—it's fucked up coming from your own kid, but what why else would she insist her house for?

I got out of the car and began walking against the curved gravel road that was enveloped in fallen leaves, the rocks and leaves crunching beneath my feet, as I take each step as slowly as I can—I examine the house, watching for my Mother's eyes glancing, she was the top-notch security guard in this highly maximum security prison—that I used to call home.

I could remember the times I would sneak out when she would be watching me walk down the road—judgment and coldness in her expression—though thankfully, this time I didn't feel any eyes on me this time. She didn't know I was here just yet—and I planned to keep it that way for as long as I could, my stomach filling with anticipation with each step I took. I was home, and there was no turning back, no backsliding—no way in—no way out.