The Bone Hotel

July 18
Cypress Bend, Texas
Journal Entry
Twilight folds into darkness, leaving the moon blurry behind thick, humid air. I am stalking my personal phantoms into unfamiliar territory. Earlier while out for a drive, shouts of raucous laughter beckoned to me from a public picnic area by the Medina River. Several teenage boys pretended to ignore me—showing off, bragging, and chugging too many beers while swinging on a frayed rope over clear green water. I’m not sure why, but their bold antics made the bands around my chest relax.
In the days before alcohol trashed my will to live, wild antics and drunken night prowling were my favorite risk-taking behaviors. With survival instincts numbed, I didn’t care about personal safety. Now, after a few months of slapping myself sober, I sit alone somewhere in central Texas, contemplating how shaky and bizarre my life has become.
What will I do this summer without Micah and Dula? The two mother-orphaned children continue to beat on my chest with tiny fists of need, worming their way under my crocodile skin. Little parasites. Their sharp sparks of love make me feel vulnerable and alive.
My portable citronella candle flame flickers and attracts flying bugs as wax drips onto the limestone boulder under me. The tall shadows of Cypress trees are giants, and for good or ill, they loom, surrounding me. Should I be afraid to be out here by myself? The waist-deep grass rustles as if someone or something is crouching, waiting to pounce. Did one of the horny boys sneak back to harm me? Screw it. I’ve given up trying to predict the next life-shattering moment.
One thing I’ve learned is that the Devil wears many masks—my father’s face as he crept into my childhood room at night as well as the blistering grins of judgmental do-gooders. I still hide from the multiple expressions of failure that superimpose themselves on my reflection in the mirror. Even though I sometimes experience a shaky sense of peace, many of the shadow-walkers from my past still wander unexamined hallways.
One of the ghosts that haunt me claims to be my personal Celestial Guide straight from the Seven Heavens—armed with maps showing the way out of Hades. I know how crazy it sounds, but sometimes the words from this metaphysical cheerleader bring comfort.
If I have invisible protection, then why can’t I sit by myself without worrying about getting raped, or worse? I’m afraid of so many things—being a woman, being alone for the rest of my life. Maybe I’m just afraid to exist at all.