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320 pages, Hardcover
First published September 18, 2018
Pressing her palm against her chest, Lizzie whispered, “I’m just so tired of trying so hard all the time and failing every time, even at things I know I can do.”
She’d learned to expect scorn, because expecting anything more only led to disappointment. She didn’t know how to deal with kindness. Kindness scared her.
Her entire body ached with the fatigue of carrying around her anxiety, this twisting, mutating monster inside her. It was barely manageable inside her bedroom. Outside was too much. The monster inside her had grown too large, too heavy, too much.
“She’s out of pain. At least now she’s out of pain.”
That’s such a weird phrase. Out of pain. Like pain is a place. One you can visit. And your only consolation, the single glimpse of silver lining you could find, was the fact that your beloved aunt Rebecca wasn’t like me anymore. Better dead than in pain. But I live here, in this place. And I don’t know how to tell you that.
Her hands cramped, and her fingers clawed. She wanted to push her nails so deep into her joints that that would be the hurt. A pain that she could increase and decrease. A pain that she could control, instead of this unsteady burning from the inside out.
Some days the pain merely wore her raw. Some days, like today, the pain settled itself deep inside her and deconstructed her, whispered her failures, her worthlessness, her despair.
Sometimes when it’s like this, I feel like I’m an old appliance and I wonder how long it’ll be before they throw me out.
I wanted to hate him for me, too. For leaving me behind to daddy his children when I still needed one myself.
But I was too tired.
Hate like that took work to keep up, and all my energy was dedicated to surviving.
He was gone.
I was here.
”But he said I was ungrateful and selfish. That I should learn to repay kindnesses. He cursed me. Laid out the ground rules. I haven’t seen him since.”
“But you were nine! A kid!” Mia gapes.
“Yes. I know.” An autistic kid, Sienna thinks, confused and petrified.
“The word freak”—Edwin sidles up to me at break—”or freke, freca, frech, variously, once meant ‘brave, bold warrior.’” He grins shyly. “The only meaning I’ll ever condone.”
I think I’m actually blushing. Then he adds, so quiet I can barely hear it, “Freak,” and I definitely am.
Fuck that nonsense, I did not say. Fuck the machismo you’re using to hide the clear discomfort that I cause you by existing. Fuck your need to channel that discomfort back in my direction. I am not here to make you feel better about the fact that I am here.
“This company is made of grit and steel. A thousand stories, told and still unfolding.”
- A Play in Many Parts, Fox Benwell