lorelei ; district 3

lorelei ;

"My mother and I used to live by the ocean shore," pressing on my index finger, digging the nail into my skin as my brain stumbled on itself, "it was beautiful."

White sheets, white walls, grid lock. My mom named me Lorelei, smiling as she saw my infant face, I've always been that soft. Lorelei King, the last name passed from my father, he swore I'd be King of the world. I told him I would be too. My hand holds my patient's, her name Irma and she blinks like there's stars dusted in her eyes; "we built sandcastles out there, my mother and I."

Sandcastles for a King, I wish. 

"I thought you lived by a forest?"

My mother brushes my hair, eight years old. Hard strokes, digging into the scalp of my head and I count each one. Narcissistic mothers are like tornadoes, they never tell you that. There's never much to tell you about much, I don't know how I got here. June holds my hand as we lay in those white sheets; ripred I swear it follows me. My white childhood home, the white hospital walls, my clothes and these patients, our apartment. I hate it. Our, she's holding my hand, "Lore," my palms clammy and the sweat on my bare chest apparent, "I love you."

I hear it in my mother's voice, "I love you too."

A lie, for as long as I've said it. 

"Sometimes you can have both, Irma," I smile.

She laughs a doubtful laugh, bubbly like a five year old. We never lived by a forest. 

When I was a kid I always wished I did, against the ocean a forest didn't seem so much like a cage. My mother was a gorgeous women, the two of us lived alone on the land's edge, I would dangle my feet over the ocean imagining it would swallow me whole, that if I slipped from the bridge I'd be apart of an underwater empire, a new soul in a water prison; it terrified me and I let it. It was the world's end, the cracked edges of land hanging over like a paramour. 

"What was her name?" Was, I bite my tongue.

"Uh," I piece this universe back together, "May."

I retrace my own timeline, picking at the side of my nail, was. My mother passed away, I remind myself, why? Irma asks me another question and I can't pick it up; I told her she died of something, of second nature. Of habit, of instinct, pseudologia fantastica. 

"Lorelei?"

"I lov-" I lie like it's the air I breathe, a train echoes in the distance; that's the thing about narcissistic mothers, (I love you,) I have no idea what's me and what's her. And I hear her in the echoes, Lorelei, that wasn't love, I remind myself, like instinct. The safety net of being able to hide in a forest, I never had, only the ocean dangling under my feet, Lorelei, I tell myself  things are different and I bite my tongue because for as long as I remember I've been a compulsive liar. 

"I have to go check on another patient, Irma."

Early morning trains pass by, the sun model grin dusting her face and my presence, (Lore,) June. "I love you," and in her presence I feel everything I haven't felt, and everything I have. Lore, a fallacy. They call me it because it's my name, and because a fallacy is all I've ever been. The train howls at six, shaking the tracks by our apartment. I leave earlier than I need, earlier than I should. June frowns, "why do you always leave so early?"

Because I can't stay here.

"I can't afford to not be early, June," my hair's a mess. 

("She doesn't deserve to be stuck with a man like you, Lorelei.") 
Frosted, the door knob stings my hand like love bites and I question if I like it or not, "see you tonight, Lore-" the apartment door hisses as I open it. 

"Love you," I whisper into the hinges as I leave.

It stings my lip, love you, bitter and melting from the apartment's frost now into the warm August hug; I sit at the train stop, watching trains pass by like time for an hour until mine arrives. My childhood was kissed with moments like this, sitting alone at the bricked train stop, I never complained about it. Never did I have much, baggy clothes and ripped khakis and my mother told me not to ask for much else and I memorized the boundaries. An elementary kid memorizing cigarette burns and numbers, I had a talent for multitasking I guess. 

But she got me here, she was a doctor before retiring and she reminds me every day she sees me; I'm only here because of her. I never graduated, my mother forced me out of public school without the dedication to put me through anything better, a drop out like me wouldn't be here without a mother like her. 

My mother loved the color white. 

The color of sea foam and hospital walls, clean teeth and bed sheets; my entire life was coated in white polish and I only told my mother I hated it once. My childhood was littered with "you're being unreasonable, you'll thank me later, we'll talk about it when you're no longer hysterical," and at fifteen I tried to persist it. I tried to fight it like the wind tries to stop a moving train, I tried; "you think I'm a fuck up huh?"

"This is all my fault," I don't remember what I said.

She collapsed, like the world's edge was under her footstep and "you hate me, I'm a terrible mother, I try so hard and I just, I don't know how-" the train stops. Yellow and shimmering in the sun and I take the first step in line, my mother's scream in my head and "what the fuck do you want from me?" 

"I'm sorry, I-" I lied, like I always had, reeling myself from the ocean of honesty I never learned how to swim in. 

"I love you."

The train howls as it leaves the station, echoing in my mind and I stare at the white of my hem. The white of my mother's clean teeth, the white of the hospital's walls and the white of the bed sheets between June and I. 

White like sea foam, a mattress like on top of the world's edge waiting to catch me when I fall.