Mantra

I'm standing in the doorway, half in and half out of the room. I can hear music from the study downstairs. My brother has shut himself in there, turned the volume up high.

I'm listening. I don't want to hear the words, I'm listening out for anything else. For something that tells me I have to go down there and step in.

I lean against the doorframe.

There's a noise like maybe a plate being slammed down on the table, but not broken.

I'm thinking about how he said that I was strong. That he liked me because I was strong.

I don't feel strong. I feel like calling him, just to hear a voice.

Outside the firecrackers are going off.

Sometimes I wonder if I want something to happen. Something broken, not just cracked. Then I wouldn't be waiting, half in and half out.

Maybe I'm angry at her for doing what I hope I never do. For how I'm afraid that I will.

Downstairs, the kitchen door opens and they are momentarily louder.

I will not be this. I will not.

I go in and lie down on my bed, still listening. I start putting this into words, describing it to myself. Thinking about writing about it helps put a structure on things, pins it down. Calms me down.

It's only a small thing after all. Something to write about.