The first time I did it, everything inside me went electric.

I sat on the edge of my bed, rocking, mumbling something unintelligible.

Tears fell from my chin and hit my denim-clad thighs.

My left hand gripped a steak knife I kept in the back of my panty drawer. Three times, I’d taken it out, pressed it hard against my skin, ran my tongue over the blade, willed the urge to act to come forward.

It didn’t.

It did now.

Jaw set.

Eyes wide, bouncing around the bubblegum pink walls of my room.

Heart pounding in a way that made me snatch a breath with each beat.

Right hand balled into a tight fist that shook with confusion.

“Do it,” I gritted through clenched teeth. “Just do it. Stop being a bitch. Do it.”

I closed my eyes, and the darkness gave way to flashes of memories I prayed to escape from.

“Take,” I said on a breath. “Away. The. Hurt.”

Anger built inside me.

I opened my eyes, and without a thought, I stroked across my bicep like a bow over a violin string.

I screamed one short, high-pitched note then bit my bottom lip and went dreamy-eyed as my blood gushed from the slash then pooled itself down either side of my arm, staining my white tee.

Shudder breaths pushed from my mouth as I watched the “ra” of rape well itself up from the slash.

I stared, mesmerized by the stickiness of my tee against me, the lines of blood that trickled down my arm like veins.

“Stars,” I whispered as my brain went fuzzy and my heart skipped beats in my chest like hopscotch.

I didn’t go under. I wouldn’t. I couldn’t.

This was my first time, and I wanted to experience every nuance of it.

I watched as my blood thickened and congealed on my arm, on the blade.

I grabbed the white towel beside me and pressed it against the slash.

I stood, and on too-light legs, I walked to my dresser and stared into the mirror.

Blood laced my bottom lip where I had bit it. I sucked it up, closed my eyes, and sighed.

In the bathroom, I dropped the knife into the hot sudsy water in the sink.

I stripped off my clothes and stepped into the awaiting steamy bath water.

I leaned back and watched the blood warm itself and leak from the slash.

I moaned, satisfied, ravenous.

There would be more nights like this – when my parents were gone and I was alone to think about things humans should never have to think about.

There would be more nights like this.

“pe” and other bits of words threatened to overcome me if I didn’t release them somehow.

Out back of my house, there is a clothesline. When we don’t want to be stifled by the heat of the dryer, we put our wet clothes there. On strong summer days when the sun beats down on backs and a stiff breeze blows, we pin up jeans and tees, dresses and shirts, to be whipped about and dried in God’s dryer. We bunch small corners of the clothing and pinch them onto the line with wooden clothespins. Along the green wire line, thirty clothespins stand at attention, holding tight to the fabric its job is to hold on to, to keep from falling below.

Out back of my house, there is a clothesline. Clothesline does more than just dry clothes. It’s the net for a game of volleyball in my Pop Pop’s backyard, but it’s so much more than that, too. Today, I sit on the stoop, the sun seeping its heat into my t-shirt, not drying today but drenching my skin. I feel sadness in my heart over the trials that afflict me and mine, and I gaze upon the clothesline. Wire wrapped in green, stiff plastic. An empty clothesline. Clothespins standing at attention yet they do not protect clothing. There hasn’t been a stitch of clothing gripped in their grasps for years.

Out back of my house, there is a clothesline. It doesn’t hold clothes, but in a golden, summer flash, I realize something about that clothesline. It mirrors life. It mirrors God’s love for us and that He is there even when we think He is not. As a clothespin holds fast to fabric, God holds fast to us, keeping us from falling below. You ever hang up a shirt on a line? Notice how the fabric droops between the two clothespins? That’s our happiness drooping. That’s our pain. That’s our fear that God is not there to help us. But notice how the fabric rises and the clothespins cinch the fabric. They gather the fabric from its drooping and protect it from within their clasps as if to say, I am here. I will not forsake you. I love you.

Out back of my house, there is a clothesline. An ordinary, empty, wire wrapped in green stiff plastic clothesline. Weathered wooden clothespins stand at attention. It is these things, at this time in my life, that filter God through me. If God can be seen in such ordinary things for me, what things can He be seen in for you?

In the beginning, there was an image,
and it was good.

On day one, the image stirred you,
wrestled with your psyche, and evoked
emotions that had lain dormant. You
carried that image, like a baby
pic in a wallet, pulling it out to show
others as you smiled – the proud parent.

On day two, like a journalist, questions
flowed from your mind –
who this image,
what this image,
when this image,
where this image,
how this image,
why this image,
until whole humans formed in your mind,
their eyes vibrant blue or brooding brown,
their limbs movable,
their minds full of angst and yearning,
just the things good stories
are made of.

On day three, you retrieve the image and
see these humans walking about you,
their mouths moving, but nothing being heard
until your anxiety dissipates, then voices,
soft murmuring voices that tickle your ear
tell you that they are ready to be written.

On day four, image taped to side of laptop,
humans crowd around you, voices sing
a dissonant tune like a fork scraping a metal pan,
but you calm yourself, yet again, channel the
anxiety, eradicate the “is the idea good,”
eliminate the editor, and funnel your thoughts
into one question: “What’s the best way to
begin this thing?”

On day five, you stop, the dissonance so loud
you can taste it in your mouth, sour like curdled
milk. Before you, long stretches of nothing lie,
with only the tips of the ending seen just beyond
the horizon. You bang the desk, you stand, you
pace, you hear the footsteps of humans, hear
the voices of humans, and you wonder how you
will travel the width of your middle wasteland
and tell a story that’s worth reading. In the middle
of the night, as snores make their escape, you will
jolt from the bed, race to your laptop, smile because
it’s on and still warm, and you will write the conflict,
the tension that was always inside you, waiting for
its release.

On day six, you can barely catch your
breath as you and the humans you have birthed
take your time heading to the last page. You know,
on the smallest scale imaginable, what it’s like to
create a life – far beyond that of just being a mother
or father, for you have giving life, and you have set the
stage for that life, and now you must lay the life to rest.
Living, breathing, real, they touch you, pleading with
you, asking you, “Can there be a sequel,” but you know
this one is finished. The last period will be the last
period. And when that last period is placed, you sit
back, take a deep breath, shed a tear, and think, “I
think I’ve done them justice.”

On day seven, you rest, fingers sore, carpel tunnel
flaring, mind spent. You’re proud, for you have
taking that one image – the same image you hold
in your hand now – and created a world filled with
lives and scenarios and trials and grief and joy and
wonder and closure. As you close your eyes,
ready for the nap you haven’t allowed yourself to
have since the image burned into your memory,
you sit up with a start: “I need to go back and rework
the beginning. Doesn’t have enough punch.”

And…on the eighth day, the new beginning,
revisions.