12. Poppy Wells

12

Poppy Wells

Many years ago.

T he scream that tore open my throat was raw and guttural. Every part of my body hurt. Every inch, every muscle, every limb and bone and tendon. I was blue and purple and pink all over. A walking painting. A soul full of misery.

My dad hit my mom, so my mom hit me.

It went on all night.

Every night.

And when the curtains shut and the light outside died…

My house was haunted.

It was where dreams came to die.

Looking down at the river below, my grip loosened on the railings of the rope bridge. My chest felt lighter as I took in a breath of fresh forest air. This place, it had always been my safe space. The one place I actually felt at home.

All the tension in my body simply drifted away.

The river looked so far down from all the way up here.

Calm and peaceful.

Flowing and meandering between the trees.

The river was free.

I wanted to be free too.

One of my legs swung over the top of the railing.

Followed by the other.

Soon my back was pressed against the wires.

My toes hung over the edge of the bridge.

But between them, I could see the river flowing below.

I should’ve felt scared. Terrified, at the very least.

But I just felt calm,

because I knew the river was beneath me,

flowing freely,

waiting for me.

I took one hand off the railing.

Tucked my curls behind my ears.

Took in a breath.

Itched closer to the edge.

And I stared and I thought and I wondered and I dreamed about everything.

About all the things I wanted to do.

All the ways I wished my life was different.

That I was different.

All I had to do was let go.

But, instead, I climbed back over the railing, picked up my rucksack and started my walk back home. Because, in the end, I never had the courage.

But, someday, I would.

One day.