Six Minutes

    The house was quiet when Amala got home, the air was still, almost as if it were waiting for something to happen. A bad feeling had acid burning her throat, but she ignored it. Her hands searched for the light switch on the wall and when she found it, she turned it on once, then turned it back off. 

    She did this six times, the bulbs cascading her in red, in darkness and light.  A knot loosened in her chest each time she turned it on and off. She placed her keys on the counter and went to the sink to wash her hands, counting the cracks in the tile. There were so many cracks, spreading like little rivers, running throughout the surface. It was amazing how something so broken could still function. She couldn't understand how something with so many fractures and breaks could still be in one piece. 

Counting things calmed Amala’s mind. She counted when she was afraid, she counted when she was anxious. It helped her pass the time and distracted her from all the things that would swim to the surface of her mind. Counting helped drown them and helped keep Amala herself. She could remember a time when she didn't need to count when there was nothing that needed to stay tucked away behind that bright red door of her mind. She wondered if she could ever go back to that. 

Amala made her mind go numb as she readied dinner. She didn't like having her thoughts run wild, especially around sharp objects. After everything was prepared, she grabbed the bed tray and placed the food on it, the greens and browns on one side of the plate, the yellow and white on the other. She made sure to space the meal apart enough that there was an inch of the plate between each food. It had to be exactly an inch, no more no less.     

    All that was missing were the pills. Her hands were steady as she opened the pill bottle and poured them out, rolling the white capsule in between her fingers. She counted every last one of them, making sure there was exactly enough for the rest of the week, planning out each pill in advance. Amala liked to control what she could. She places a single pill on the plate, spinning it around six times before she is satisfied. 

    After setting everything up, she took the tray to her grandmother's room, counting her steps as she went. She made sure to only look at the ground, and not at anything else, in fear of what might come crawling out of the corners of her mind if she saw the nightmarish realities of her past. The smell of her grandmother's room hit her in the face when she entered, the dust and anger seeming to hang in the air.

    Amala placed the tray on her grandmother's lap and went to sit in the chair by her bedside window. She could feel her grandmother's eyes following her, tracking her, as she made her way across the room. She hated her grandmother's eyes. They seemed to absorb all the light and good, letting evil and darkness take place. Every time Amala looked into her grandmother's eyes, she had to brace herself for the onslaught of emotions and memories that would follow. Memories of hands where they shouldn't be, secrets that should not have been kept. It was just all too much. 

    When she finally made eye contact with her grandmother, Amala watched as her grandmother blinked four times, signaling she wasn't happy. She never seemed to be happy, Her boney hands were clutching the side rail of the bed in frustration. Amala knew what her grandmother wanted. She wanted Amala to feed her, which Amala hated more than anything. Amala stomped on the feelings that were blooming inside their chest and forced herself to get up and go feed her grandmother, counting every spoonful along the way. 

    Amala froze as her grandmother's shaky hand reached up to brush against her cheek. As soon as contact was made Amala was no longer here, but there, in that room, with the spiders crawling all over her body, biting her, all while she lay there, so still, because if she moved they would bite harder, staring out the window at the moon, silent tears running down her baby face and onto her neck. She was no longer here, but there, in that room, counting the stars in the sky waiting and begging for it to stop, those six minutes of her life seeming to last a lifetime. 

    Closing her eyes, Amala took those memories and shoved them behind her red door of shame, counting and locking the locks, double and triple-checking to make sure it couldn't open again. When she was done, Amala locked eyes with her grandmother. Her grandmother blinked six times, quick, short, blinks, signaling the need to hurry. Amala just stared at her grandmother, an overwhelming pressure building in her chest. 

    Six blinks again and yet Amala was frozen. She couldn't move from her seat to get up and walk the twelve steps to the dresser, grab the remote, and turn on the tv. Her feet seemed to be rooted to the floor. She was stuck here, unable to move, her grandmother's eyes dissecting her, judging her, remembering her.  

    At that moment, Amala realized she was trapped here in this place with the one woman she feared and hated most. She would be forced to remember everything that was done to her, unable to forget. As long as Amala still lived in this house, her pain still lived with her, festering and growing every day, allowing no room for healing. And there is no escaping, she couldn't leave. 

    Amala was stuck here, counting down the days until her grandmother's death and her freedom.