LOwly Nights

First, I felt the floor beneath my body. Hard and cold, pressed against my entire aching body. My skull was buzzing and there was a thick, wet substance down the side of my face. For a moment, I crushed my eyes shut. Opening my eyes meant being forced to take inventory of the damages and look myself in the mirror. Ears still ringing, I finally opened my eyes and looked around, listening to be sure that I was alone. I was lying on the kitchen floor and the pot he had used to smash in the side of my face was about three feet away, tossed carelessly on the floor, still covered in my blood. The house was the type of cold that chilled me to bone and dead silent, not one sound. Still, I didn’t move. I was convinced the second I moved I would hear footsteps or snoring, and the nightmare would begin all over again. After what felt like an eternity, I somehow found the will to move.

Moving, was a mistake.

Though my face undoubtedly hurt, the rest of my body ached as though it had been run over by a Greyhound. With everything I had, I crawled on all fours, ribs screaming with each breath. When I made it to the doorway, I braced myself and used every ounce of strength I had left, to pull myself onto my feet. Stumbling through the dark house, I found my way through my bedroom and into the attached bathroom. As I reached for the light switch, I hesitated for a moment, terrified to stare at my reflection head on. But then I heard my mother’s voice inside my head:

“Oh, my sweet baby. I love you, but I did not raise you to be a punching bag. What are you doing to yourself?”

Mom had always been the queen of being straightforward, especially when I was making poor decisions, but she also had a way of always helping me remember who I was deep down. Her voice faded and I finally flipped on the light. In the mirror was someone I didn’t recognize. Her body looked weak and frail, and her dark hair was matted to the side of her head with blood. Her skin was covered in bruises, some old, some new and some of which were so much more painful than they seemed. I looked like I had been run over by a Greyhound. I stepped back into the bedroom and glanced at the small, digital clock on my bedside table.

10:30. Perfect.

Last call wasn’t for a few hours, giving me plenty of time to make my escape. As I made my way over to my dresser and began haphazardly throwing clothes into my black duffle bag, a strange tapping caught my attention. When I looked up, I almost couldn’t believe what I saw.

Outside my bedroom window, perched perfectly on the sill sat a beautiful, white barn owl. She seemed out of place amidst the skyscrapers and city noise outside as she sat there, tapping her beak gently against my window. She was probably just as confused about how she found herself here as I was, but in an instant, just as quickly as the confusion had come it melted away as I heard my mother’s voice in my head once more:

“Owls represent death, but not in a grim reaper-y kind of way. If you see one, it’s time to release the old you, let it die and welcome in whatever comes next.”

Tears started to spill out of my eyes in a way I had never experienced and for the first time in what felt like years, a smile pulled at the corners of my lips. With only a black duffel and the sound of a lock sliding home, I left the old me to die inside that apartment and whispered, “I love you, mom”, as I set out in search of whatever came next.

I had no idea where I was going, or what was ahead, but I knew deep down that I would make it somehow, and that was all I needed.