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This writing was accepted for publication in the 108 page perfect-bound ISSN# / ISBN# issue/book... “6 Feet Under” Down in the Dirt (v136) (the May 2016 Issue) You can also order this 6"x9" issue as a paperback book:

Order this writing in the book A Stormy Beginning the Down in the Dirt Jan. - June 2016 collection book		get the 318 page Jan. - June 2016 Down in the Dirt issue anthology 6" x 9" ISBN# paperback book:

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Prisoners

Sej Harman

    “If only,” she banged, “if only,” again, again, and again rhythmically pounding her head against the mint green tiles till her scalp was numb and bloody. Physical pain meant nothing to her, a reminder that she was alive, though it would fade away, as always.
    Nessa’s weren’t dramatic, life altering if onlies: If only she’d worn her seatbelt. If only they’d locked the cabinet under the sink before the baby got up. If only he hadn’t been mad at his brother when he’d hollered for help. No, they were little if onlies—the delicate cuts of a chef creating a duck from a summer squash, or the carver shaping a sweating block of ice to release the beauty of swans for a wedding table centerpiece.
    The little if onlies are like that paring knife or that ice chisel in the skilled hands of a great artist, chipping away at some ordinary, less-than-lovely form to create their vision of perfection. But it’s never as simple with the human form. Such if onlies never release an inner beauty that was waiting to be born. No, these whittle away the spirit—slowly killing the soul, sending the signal that what had been visible had not been good enough. Would never be good enough.
    If only you’d keep quiet in class, then you’d get better grades. If only you’d lose a few pounds, then the boys would like you. If only you’d do something with your hair, then you could get a good job. If only you wouldn’t dress like a slut, you could be...
    The din in her head had become unbearable, overriding the pain in her scalp.

    “If ONLY...if ONLY you loved me for ME, for who I was,” she raged, forgetting that no one could hear her outside the hard green cubical of the bathroom. Yeah, who I WAS...,
    So, who am I now? She took inventory of the shell she had meticulously carved over the years to reveal her own inner beauty: thin to the point of illness, long hair in shiny curls, plucked and spackled and abraded—packaged summa cum laude with a Phi Beta Kappa key from the “right” university...
    Deep sobs wracked her body, aching, wanting.
    Yes. And still the lonely inmate in a prison of remembered words.
    The noise in her head returned, louder the harder she pounded her head in insistent rhythm against the cold tiles.

    The police arrived, alerted by a neighbor worried about some odd noise, and found Nessa slumped in the bathroom, her head and the wall bloodied, her wrists and arms bearing old scars. An ambulance was summoned and the EMTs muscled their way into the tiny room. They carefully placed Nessa’s limp body onto the gurney, then wheeled her out to the waiting ambulance. They did not turn on the siren out of respect for the neighbors, though the red flashers were signal enough.
    The officers searched the warren of rooms in the old house but saw no sign of forced entry. In the kitchen at the back of the house, they found an older couple, two more victims of a vicious intruder. They were bound and gagged, exhausted but alive. Their hands and feet had been tied to the ladder-back chairs with electric cords, and they’d been positioned to face each other across the cracked red dinette table. Physically, they appeared to be unharmed, though duct tape covered their mouths below terrified eyes.
    An officer gently pulled the silvery gag from the old lady’s lips, while a second ministered to her husband. Blood gushed from their mouths as the two sputtered and spat, trying to rid themselves of the gore and catch their breaths. Desperate not to vomit at the idea someone had ripped out their tongues, the policemen worked to staunch further bleeding and remove the cord restraints
    The old man was anxious to tell them what had happened, but couldn’t get the words out. The old woman sobbed and gagged, but made no effort to speak. The first officer turned to wipe away the spew she had gotten on his hands and arms, and that’s when he saw it, scrawled in black marker on the discarded duct tape: IF ONLY.

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