issue 8
// fiction
The View
by Kelly Murashige
Eight years ago, you tried to end things.
Eight years is a long time. Almost a third of your life. You still remember how far down the ground seemed.
Do it. Just do it, you kept telling yourself. Do something for once. It should be so easy.
It wasn’t. It scared you. You stepped back in and cried.
The next morning, you admitted you needed help. You felt so stupid, saying this when you were supposed to be an adult. What were you doing, scampering back to your parents? What was next? Sleeping between them on their too-small queen bed?
When you were young, you were convinced their lumpy mattress was one of the only safe places in the world. The other one was the lone chair on the lanai. Your father kept it there to unwind after work, but sometimes, on the bad nights, your mother took you out there.
She would sit on the chair and pull you onto her lap, your head resting on the curve of her chest. You listened to her heartbeat. The strong, steady thump. Together, you counted the stars in the sky.
At the sound of your name, you turn from the balcony. Your mother stands on the other side of the screen door, one hand pressed to the mesh like a child at the aquarium.
“What are you doing?” she calls out to you.
You glance back out at the horizon. The sun has already set.
“Enjoying the view” is how you reply. She does not know what you almost did. She remembers you struggled, was there for your worst, but you did not tell her what you couldn’t do.
“It’s beautiful,” she says, her eyes on the sky. Then, dropping her gaze to you, she adds, “Just like you.”
You roll your eyes. “Mom.”
“What? I mean it.”
You know she does. You love that she says it. Even if, most days, you still can’t believe her.
You keep trying, though. It’s all you can do.
For so long, you refused to even consider getting better. You hated when your mother said you seemed happier.
“Well, I’m not,” you would tell her, anger choking you. “I wish every day I’d just—”
Then you’d stop. You couldn’t hurt her like that.
You know you ended up hurting her anyhow. You just wanted to minimize the damage. Your damage. The hurt you kept causing again and again.
While everyone around you wished for you to be healed, this small part of you was afraid of what that would mean. What were you, really, if not your sadness? How could they take the darkness dwelling in your bones without realizing that was all that you were?
Turns out it’s nice to show people you care. It’s fun to talk about things that don’t matter. There’s nothing you love more than crying at something that moves you. Each day, you search for something new and beautiful, filling your calendar with the things you can’t wait to see. Shows with weekly releases that give you a reason to look forward to Mondays. Games that leave you frustrated until you have that great breakthrough. Albums that pop stars claim are their most personal yet, an assertion you love even when it’s not true.
If you wrote an album, what would you say?
That you care. That you’re happy. Not always, but enough.
That you’re loved. That you’re wanted. That despite everything, you’re still here.
Somewhere behind you, your mother calls out for you once more. When you turn, your eyes catch on her face. She’s older now, with the faintest wrinkles. You love every one because they are all hers.
“It’s getting cold,” she says. “Come in before you get sick.”
You open your mouth to tell her you’re not five. You have a degree. A job. You have stocks.
Six years ago, your mother underwent cataract surgery and emerged with eyes that, when she’s in the right light, shine like stars. You always think you’ve gotten used to it, but every once in a while, she looks up, her eyes gleaming, and you think, Beautiful.
“One more minute,” you say, as you did in high school, back when you and your friends couldn’t stop chatting online.
She waits for a second, then grabs her slippers and steps out. She joins you by the railing. Bumps you with her hip.
“Why?” you ask, laughing.
“‘Cause I can,” she replies.
When your mother takes your hand and presses it to her chest, you feel the familiar thud of her heart.
You watch darkness fall around you, your eyes bright. You gaze up at the stars. At the moon. At the clouds. You take a breath. Hold it. Count to three. Let it out. As long as you live, you’ll keep looking up.
about the author // Kelly Murashige
| Born and raised in Hawaiʻi, Kelly Murashige is the author of the award-winning YA novels THE LOST SOULS OF BENZAITEN and THE YOMIGAERI TUNNEL, as well as the upcoming adult novel MILKIVERSE (2027). Her work has been nominated for Best Small Fictions. Though she can be shy, she loves obsessing over books, video games, and strange animals. |
