Leaking

The pillow cases were missing on the pillows I was using as I sat on the floor in the living room with my siblings that late Saturday afternoon. Our chores were done (as far as we knew) and all four of us kids sat around watching a pointless show that effortlessly sucked the brain cells out us. Mom was sewing again in the other room and dad was working on who knows what. My oldest brother, Kevin, had dibs on the couch. He was propped up by a few pillows, one knee bent and the other straight out. Whatever it took to maintain his own boundaries, he knew how to achieve it. Tony, glaring over at his general direction, sat on the love seat. Smaller, no pillow, and ranked of dungeon. We got it for free from a neighbor. My mom did the best to clean the basement smell out, but to no alas, it was destined for a lifetime of impurity. Emily, my one and only beloved sister, sat in the chair farthest from the T.V. Her furrowed brow folded so loudly I think my mother could hear the repercussions. With my arms numb from propping my head up, a kink in my neck, and the flat, stained pillow-without a pillow case-did nothing to easy my comfort, I sighed.

“I’m bored,” I was thinking aloud and hoping someone might hear me but then again might not. I could hear Emily’s eyes rolling. Who cares if we didn’t watch what she wanted to watch; Kevin always had control over the remote. Kevin glanced at me and then back on the T.V. He changed the channel. Why? Simple. Because he could.

Suddenly I felt a sudden shock of energy explode throughout every sensory gland within me. Tony had jumped on my back and decided to tickle me. When I realized what he had decided to do, panic struck. Tony doesn’t simply tickle to make you laugh. He was out for a puddle of yellow running down your leg and a thundering laugh within the bellows of his cold soul.

His weight crushed me as I attempted to release myself from such torture. Being the youngest, this type of cruel enjoyment was commonality within the confines of a bored household. My toes crushed into the old, tattered carpet and my fist shook mom’s breakables on the walls. With a stroke of luck and my big brother throwing one of his precious pillows at Tony, I managed to escape. I ran to the other end of the house away from my two brothers, who were now wrestling on the floor; and Emily telling them to knock it off and give her the remote! Gasping for air and holding onto the kitchen counter, I looked down. I was leaking.

Writing to me is to leak. There is a stillness before I write. A sense of boredom and wonder. Will anyone hear me? And yet there is this tantalizing energy wanting to be released. There is a sense of strange entitlement with the remote at my fingertips-like my oldest brother-and yet anguish and hurt boiling under my surface. This moment that I recall so many times makes me realize leaking happens. Leaking thoughts, leaking energy, leaking anger, and even leaking undeserved righteousness is necessary in my life. So here I am. Soiled pants and gasping for a chance to get my revenge, I leak for you.

Leaking