The Question I Asked

I keep hearing myself ask Jolene how many envelopes she has given me. I meant to sound quiet and careful, but the question was already a choice. I could have kept my eyes on the clothes and pretended not to notice. Instead, I made sure she knew I had noticed. That feels like courage until I imagine what she might do with the fact that I asked.

The torn sleeve is more than damaged fabric. I hate that my body has become evidence I have to preserve, photograph, and then hide away. The clinic stitches, the bruise, the new red line: I can sort them into details, but I cannot make them feel ordinary. I wanted to look composed enough that nobody could decide I was easy to handle. The sleeve splitting open ruined that performance in the most literal way.

I am still trying to rank the risks as if one of them will become manageable if I put it first. The envelopes, Jolene’s answer, the guard’s camera, the things I do not know about the people behind that door. I hate needing an answer from someone else. I hate even more that I may have made myself important to whatever is happening there.

I drafted a message and left it unsent. I want to press for the truth; I also want to be able to say I never asked twice. Those are not the same kind of safety, and I know it.