by Briauna Hayes
I’m bleeding. The record has broken again, and more of the shattered fragments have pierced my skin, burying themselves in the scar tissue. Normally I would patch it all up and continue on. But I can’t. Not this time. I can’t stop the bleeding.
“We can fix it,” she assures.
“I don’t know if we can,” I say.
“It will be fine.”
My mother gets on her hands and knees, sweeping and picking out the pieces from the floral rug, some of its flowers already dampened from the wet prints of our feet. It’s been raining for hours.
Now there’s shards of plastic embedded between its fibers.
“Just help me put the pieces back together. It’ll be good as new.”
As good as new. What mockery. No matter how many times we’ve taped the record back together, the songs never sound the same. Not after the first, or even the twentieth time.
“Come on! I’m asking nicely, please help me pick up the pieces.”
I remember when the record was once beautiful and serene. It played the finest tunes. An album of memories we loved. Sunday morning coffee. Ice cream and french fries on my birthday. Surprise breakfast in bed when I was only old enough to make her cereal and toast, bringing it to her on a metal cookie pan as a TV tray.
But the record is unsalvageable at this point. No new songs have been recorded. Why can’t she understand that?
“Why aren’t you listening to me,” she asks.
I pull a piece of vinyl out of my side and apply pressure, my left hand hugging the wound. I stare down at it, frowning.
Maybe if I were to help her once more, she would finally get on her feet and try to see. Maybe I am being too harsh. Judging her too critically to the point of resentment. I do resent her. I don’t mean to, I can’t help it. She’s not the only one who misses the record for what it once was.
But what if she breaks it again? It’s only recognizable by the pieces we forced back into place. Everybody sees the damage each time we present it. You really need to get that fixed, they say. But we did, we reply. They never believe us. I can’t say I blame them.
“You’re going to break it again,” I tell her softly, defeated. “No I’m not,” she says. “It’ll be different this time.”
“You said that last time, Mom.”
“I mean it this time, I promise.”
She chipped it many times as I was growing up – judging me for my body, my grades, my attitude.
“I’m bleeding because of it. It’s hurting me. I don’t want to fix it anymore…” I say.
“I understand. But I was in a bad place when I broke it. I didn’t mean to. You need to forgive me,” she says. “It’s not my fault! I’ve been through a lot.”
She never lets me forget.
“And I haven’t been through enough?” I ask.
I miss her voice when I called with good news. I miss bothering her while she tries to read, as I lay on her chest, listening to her heart beating – a far reminder of my own.
Oh my baby, you’re getting so big, she would say, patting my back like she did when I was six – a time when I saw her without so much as a blemish.
“How can I help you when I can’t even help myself?” I ask.
How are we supposed to fix the record when pieces of it are embedded into my skin? How are we meant to save what seems lost, when the fragments of the memories have torn me apart? I warned her. So. Many. Times. But here we are.
“We’re supposed to help each other!” she cries out. “Please! I need your help! I need it.”
It’s beyond repair. I see it. Everyone else sees it. There is no salvaging it. The songs now blur together. I’ve had enough of it.
“Here’s a crazy idea,” I suggest. “How about…you help me stop bleeding and we just get a new fucking record?”
Briauna Hayes is currently studying English; creative writing as an undergraduate at Oklahoma State University. Much of Briauna’s work targets emotional subjects surrounding complex interpersonal relationships with family members, friends and loved ones alike.