A Girl is a Gun

I am brushing her hair. We are sitting on her bed-- me, legs crisscrossed behind her while she perches at the edge of the bed, feet dangling off, toes unable to reach the beige carpet of her bedroom. The room is lit with a pink glow from the sun as it sets in the distance, bleeding through the sheer curtains. There are two twin beds, originally bunk beds but separated now because she is afraid of heights. There is one on each side of the room, and every night she gets to choose which one keeps her slumber. I run the plastic brush through her fine locks, rarely stumbling upon any knots or tangles. It falls a couple of inches below her shoulders. She is reading, her second book of the week. Granted, she would probably prefer to be playing on the computer downstairs, but she knows that is not allowed right now. So, she continues to read, enjoying the feeling of the brush as it lightly scratches her scalp. 

I am brushing her hair. She is sitting at the kitchen table, the pages in the open math textbook stained with a few tears. I stand behind her as she curls up on the wooden chair, hugging her knees to her chest, glaring at the empty answer spaces with frustration and contempt. Tears brim at her eyes; anger has her gripping her pencil with a steel grip. Her mother is in the kitchen, only a couple of steps away. The tension in the room is suffocatingly quiet, only interrupted by the rhythmic chopping of her knife hitting the cutting board. Apple slices, for whenever she has finished. She continues to stare at the page, the numbers and symbols blurring in her vision. Sweat beads on her forehead, and not from the summer heat but something else simmering within her.  She knows that if she tries, if she truly focuses, she can figure it out, but something holds her back. Stubbornness, maybe? It’s not clear. She bites on her tongue to hold back a complaint, that this work isn’t even required, it isn’t even something assigned to her by school. It is her mother and father who command her to do it because summer is not the time to relax but to get ahead of her classmates. I am struggling to brush, holding her head steady as I gently but firmly untangle the coils of hair at the nape of her neck. I yank, a little too hard, and she winces.

I am brushing her hair. Only the ends, though. The top of her head is covered with the graduation cap, the rest of her shrouded in the gown. I stand behind her as she adjusts her cords in the bathroom mirror. Her phone lights up with a notification on the counter below her. It surprises her, and it takes her a second to pick it up. She’s surprised, not because of the contents on the screen but rather it’s the fact that she has her phone upstairs and it’s not sitting on the breakfast bar downstairs. It’s another reminder that she is so close to escaping, so close to freedom. Vitalized with renewed joy, she puts on her final touches of makeup. I run the comb once more through the bottom of her hair, making sure the curls have been brushed out properly. She smiles at her reflection. She’s ready. 

I am brushing her hair. She is sitting at her desk chair, her laptop screen that has long gone asleep staring at her. I struggle to keep my strokes steady. She is shaking, body wracking with sobs. Her heart is broken, less than an hour ago. She doesn’t know why she’s sat at her desk, her legs sort of just led her there, and she doesn’t have the energy to move anywhere else. It is deafening, the pain. It barrels through her continuously, and she struggles to catch her breath. It’s debilitating. I continue to brush, not so much in an effort to actually untangle any of the knots but rather just a calm and constant motion to keep her grounded. She cries, she calls out for her mother. I hum quietly, a nonsensical melody, and I tell her everything will be okay. She does not believe me. 

I am brushing my hair. I stare at my reflection in the bathroom mirror, absentmindedly running my comb through my newly washed hair. I see her. Myself, freshly out of the shower, towel wrapped tightly around my torso, water still dripping off my shoulders. Eyes, tired but bright. I see her. Me at nine, sitting on my bed in my pink bedroom reading my favorite series. Me at fourteen, forced to solve equations and practice violin while my friends played outside on warm summer nights. Me at seventeen, ready to leave the nest, unaware all that awaits her outside of her small town. Me at twenty-one, reeling in my most earth-shattering heartbreak, reeling in all of the pain that will continue to haunt me. I stare the infinite number of versions I have been, the infinite number of versions I have yet to become.

 I am a Russian nesting doll. Look at me. Here I am: my pain, my joy, my fear, my anger all in full glory for anyone to see. But open me up (gently, please) and see. There is the pain and joy and fear and anger I held at twenty-one, at seventeen, at fourteen, at nine, all tucked in between my ribcage and my beating heart. Open me up and see, but please, be gentle. I am the woman I am now because of the girl I used to be. The little girl still lives inside me. The child, she is still here. They are all still here; they are all still living inside of us.