Fractions. I disliked fractions in school. I dislike fractions now. However, fractions seem to make up parts of me. I am 1/4th confused, 1/4 certain, 1/4 feeling guilty, and 1/4th in denial. I contain fractions. I don’t like that. I don’t like being broken by uncertainty and split by moments that flash by.
I remember celebrating the seven years of my friend. I also remember the smell of alcohol and smoke. Fraction. I couldn’t breath. Fraction. He was on top of me. Fraction. It was dark except for the streetlight I could see from the car window. Fraction. What was happening? Fraction. I was scared. Fraction. My eyes rest on a mix of car ceiling and streetlight. Fraction. Screaming. Fraction. I was being squashed. Fraction. My friend’s face. Fraction. Her mom, his wife. Fraction. Yelling. Fraction. I could breath. He was off of me. Fraction. No more streetlight, just darkness. Fraction. Silence.
Yes, silence. The car ride home was silent. He was in the passenger seat in front of me. I was in the back seat with my friend. Her face was enveloped with shadows. No one dared talk. All that remained was fractions of what happened. No one wanted to talk about those fractions. They got tossed aside on that car ride home. Only darkness remained, with an occasional flash of someone’s headlights reminding me of that streetlight that I stared at not so long ago.
I don’t remember what happened. I only have fractioned off moments. The truth of what occurred that night is lost to me. I can only make educated guesses. I have these flashes of moments and feelings, but nothing more. Was this abuse? Or did he just pass out on top of me? I don’t know. But I know my fractions all too well.
I can remember the shoes I wore that night. I even remember staring at them during the car ride home, but I can’t remember what I experienced. I can remember noticing that one of my gold clip on earrings was no longer on my ear. I can even remember finding it lying on the car floor, but I can’t remember what I experienced. I can remember only fractioned off moments, but I can’t remember the whole. I never wanted to know fractions in this way.
These fractions haunt me in a sense. I sometimes feel isolated by them. I don’t know where the fractions fit inside of me, and I don’t know where my fractioned self fits in the greater society. I just know that these fractions exist. I know that my story exists. In its confusion and uncertainty, it is valid no matter that it is a fractioned narrative.