Tumble salts

…enter The Librarian.

At the Shell, before it was, the Shell, I had just come from a very hot bath in the Andy Gumps basement, climbing up the stairs quickly, all the way up to the landing right in front of my bedroom. I told Mom I wasn’t feeling well earlier and right away, “Oh, no! You’re not getting out of going to school— you’re going— I don’t care how sick you say you are! You’re going.”

She starts hollering for my Father— I hear his name over and over again in her high pitched shrill way with just the right amount of mocking sing-song that will piss you off. I’m 9 and standing at the top of the steep wooden steps which was often the place for my punishment for just being in the way or in trouble, but more than likely, in trouble. I was always sitting on my hands. Don’t move anything or he will know. Windows dropped shut on my hands more times than I care to remember. I’m bad for just existing. You can ask her. I messed up her whole life. I have been told countless times to where she took it so far as to say— “You were going to be aborted, if your Father had his way.”

She saved me?

I hear her arguing with my Dad— he’s going to hit me— I hear him making his way out of bed— I hear him pick up the paddle, use my full name and before he can make his head around the edge of the door frame and see me standing there in a towel and with dripping wet hair— I fall backwards down the steep steps and I hear a clunk— I see them both standing at the top of the steps— and I go dark. Echoing off as my ears began buzzing, “Oh, no! Go get her… see if she’s…”

I open my eyes but can’t move anything else. I’m cold. The linoleum is so cold and smells like cat pee this low. I feel a towel go over top of me. My name is called. I hear finger snaps. The buzzing returns and I’m gone again. I drift off thinking about Grover telling me about not reading a book because of the monster at the end of it… where is this monster? I’m gone again.

This time, I’m sitting in a chair and there’s so many bloody paper towels on the kitchen table in front of me. A red that is so red it looks cartoonish. I hear and feel my parents behind my head. Somehow, I have clothes on. They’re telling me to sit up in my chair— yelling at me to sit straight— nope, this is too much— Dad makes a joke— “I guess you got your wish, you didn’t have to go to school today.” I’m gone. I feel my head fall back and my mouth open… as I fade out, Dad says, “You better close your mouth or flies are gonna land in it.” You’re an asshole… I’m gone again.

Something smells so bad— something being waved in front of my nose, Mom shrieks his name— I’m up— I taste and smell iron. They’re doing something to the back of my head, I see white tape being called “butterflies” and hear how it won’t close that way and that it’s really bad. This time, I’m staying awake so far and they go off to the side of the room, murmuring between one another. Mom goes over to her sewing kit— I see a needle and thread with scissors come out. They argue about how I am not going to the hospital and they can’t afford to take me. Also, what are they going to say happened? Everything is kept away from me visually— I hear them say they have to cut some of my hair, back there. Long brownish blonde hair with blood, is on the table near my right hand along with more paper towels, clown red all over them. Kool-aid meets beet juice. I’m gone, but I feel this strange tugging, cold liquid—

I’m gone for a really long time— while I’m gone in the away— I made a friend. A pleasant woman, a librarian— she tells me she will help me keep things straight now that things have changed and that I now have a new gift. She holds my hand and walks me back into the kitchen. I see myself at the end of the table, face down with my arms around my face. I do not see my parents, just me, how I was dressed a little bit ago. She leads me to the little girl in the wooden dining room chair telling me to go back to her. I look back, I do what she says. She says she will always be with me now.

I wake up for good this time and just start crying— I go to touch the back of my head and my parents rush into the room— “No, no, no!! Don’t touch the back of your head! Leave it alone!”

They explain what happened and she laughs as they both describe what comic relief and a scare I had given them. I’m crying. They tell me to cut it out and start laughing again. I tell them I wish I had never come back. They look puzzled at one another with crossed arms over their hippie 70’s clothing. They give me some apple juice— the table is clean, but my shirt smells like— I dunno— I don’t know this smell from a clear bottle that they always keep up high with others— and iron still.

I lost a lot of blood from hitting my head on the back of a sewer pipe that was at the bottom of the stairs— I hit it on the large nut around the bolt attached to the sewer cap. There’s still blood all over the floor from where I was. They tell me sorry about the clothes, but they had to get me dressed in case I had to go to the hospital. I keep crying and they both keep yelling at me. Mom sponges at my hair to get the blood out the best she can. My hair is crusted together for a while until it’s safe to wash it. There’s little flecks of dried red powder when I crush the matted hair together. My head has been sewn shut.

At night, in bed, a week later, that’s when the fucking vampires start appearing outside my windows. I sleep with a blanket around my neck all the way into my 20’s. I never think it’s weird until I have a sleep over guest. I don’t care, I still sleep with it around my neck— the guest can find out on their own, I guess.

Levatating vampires, knocking at my windows. Every night. I’m exhausted at school when I go back a week later. I wish vampires had a better schedule or could do my school work at least. I’m falling behind, I’m always tired. There are bruises all over me. My body is so tiny— I am a Macy’s parade float above my body. Later in life in my 20’s— I watch, “Twin Peaks” and there is a scene with Leland Palmer and Bob where they are hovering above their bodies— I’m shocked— that’s what I felt. David Lynch is now my hero.

(…stay tuned)