Time That Flew By My Window

Green pastures. Lengths of decaying wooden fence. A lone bird, sitting in the field. These pass outside, framed by the train’s window in a way that makes it resemble a film strip. Still, yet in motion. Almost like time, in a way. Always moving forward, yet forever carved in stone.

        Another stretch of grass flies by the window, green and yellowed, alive and slowly being drained of life. Blink and you miss it. It is hard enough to see in the early morning light.

        The flashes dredge up a memory. Like walking through a tall grass field, moving forward in time, blind to what’s below you until you run into it.

        It must have been in middle school. My hands, smaller than they are now, pick at the dry grass of the school’s PE field. I can feel the rage boiling under my skin then, tinting the memory red. But the longer I linger, I can feel something darker. Something that turns the red to purple, deep and lonely, that runs hot through my body.

        The knob turns, rewinds the film.

        “Only three to a group. Someone has to leave.” The PE teacher, frisbees under her arm. We are supposed to practice in small groups.

        Natalie, Lindsey, and Ava giggle together in our criss-cross single file line, with me in the back. They point at each other like it's a joke, voting each other out of the line.

        “You go, Ava!”

        “No!” she cries, rolling back on her tailbone to hug her knees. “I don’t wanna. You go instead.”

        “Why me?”

        Their heads turn back, almost in slow motion, like I can see it coming. In my memory, their faces blur into one. Even though I’ve known one of them for years, elementary school falls away like sand between my fingers in the face of a whole new world. Now they share the same oblivious, expectant face, unfazed by casting someone off. Unfazed by the hurt they have the power to cause.

        It's a sunny day. Is it the start of a sunburn or the anger sizzling under my skin? We ran laps earlier. Is it exhaustion or rage that causes my hands to tremble?

        I lift my hand from the train table and examine my nails. It has been too long since I cut them. The orange paint is slowly moving away from the cuticle.

        The vibrant color plucks up something else, lost in the tall grass of time.

        I stalk over to a mostly vacant group and sit. A storm cloud hangs over the lone boy there. He is already in the field, chucking a bright orange frisbee with all his might toward a cone. I think that he seems to have his own frustration. Good, says the voice in my head. Misery loves company.

        I wait my turn. Pull at the grass with my small hands. Can’t stop thinking about what just happened. Rip out the grass to mimic the feeling of my own skin being pulled back, being left stranded and vulnerable and alone. To take it out on something without the consequences.

        The boy in the field faces me, frisbee in hand. He is far enough away that I can’t make out his expression. He rotates his body to the side, then undos the motion, elbow extending outward, hand following through.

        A flash of orange. Pain and heat explode under my right eye, on my cheekbone. My hand flies to my face. It already feels tender.

        “Are you okay? Sorry,” he says when he approaches. But he still sounds angry. Still looks angry.

        “I’m fine.”

        Later, after the bell has rung, after I’ve changed back into uniform, I’m washing my hands in the locker room bathroom.

        I look into the mirror, scratched and cracked at places. I hope it doesn’t bruise. I don’t want to explain it later, don’t want to think about it. Don’t want to show the weakness I feel.

        Into the bathroom comes Natalie, Lindsey, and Ava. I can feel fissures giving into the pressure behind the wall. My hands tremble as I pump soap onto my palms. I bite my lip as I begin to cry.

        “Are you okay?” one of them asks. I’m not sure who it is. I can’t make myself look. I lower my head and try not to let out any sound.

        I can feel them looking at each other. I can feel the awkwardness before they unanimously decide to leave. I can feel the emptiness around me when they do.

        So this is what hurt feels like. This is the power people hold. For the moment, I can’t stand the sight of their faces. Like pressing a hot branding iron into my skin. It's just PE, but it's so much more. 

        For the moment, I think I hate them. I think I hate that all three of them chose me, that all three of them saw me as the weak link. I think I hate the boy, for his carelessness and for taking his anger out on me. I think I hate myself, for not making better friends, stronger connections.

        The push faucet turns off, and I am left with my head bowed over the sink, silently crying.

        I see myself in the reflection of the train’s window, made from the rising sun. I lift my hand to my cheekbone. It never did bruise, so there was never a story to tell. But bruises don’t always manifest on the surface.

        I sigh, resting my forehead on the window. The memories don’t hurt as much anymore. They are just a light pinprick on the skin, an uncomfortable sensation.

        More dashings of civilizations fly by the window. A small ramshackle barn. A far off stable, where I can see the flick of a horse’s tail.

        The train soon grinds to a halt. I feel the brakes lurching beneath the body of the train as I make my way to the front. The doors open, and an employee hangs off the side, wishing travelers a safe trip as they step out onto the platform.

        I take a deep breath. It’s a whole new world out there. I exhale, telling myself what I should have told myself when I was younger: Be strong.