Caught

My addiction, my religion. This tiny screen, this pixel-world I can’t stand to be away from. I worship late at night, when everyone else is asleep. Should be asleep. I thought she was asleep.

There wasn’t anger in her voice, just betrayal. How could you. Tired, bleeding. Shock and disappointment.

“I’m sorry,” I said into the dark. Own up. “I did it. I’m sorry.” No response. Darkness. “I’m sorry.”

Sorry now. Wasn’t sorry when I did it.

Staring so long at the online world. Couldn’t break away. Didn’t want to, didn’t think of what would happen when I was found in the incriminating glow of my own secret ritual. Bathed in the light of my drug.

They came and got me when I called with my braces cutting into the inside of my mouth, drove an hour out to camp. Negotiated all afternoon on the phone. Fed me, hugged me, let me stay up late. They’ll bring me to the orthodontist’s tomorrow, then back to Wapanacki, and I’ll sit in the car in heavy silence with the leaded weight of what won’t be said on my lap. Eyes lowered, lips together: maybe I can avoid it all. No conversation. No confrontation. That’s why I sneak around anyway. Always a backup plan. They told me, clearly, standing in the kitchen: no computer. I wouldn’t have one at camp. Just ‘cause my braces exploded doesn’t mean I get internet. And I nodded, thinking, Wait until eleven. They’ll be asleep by then.

But they know me too well, know what I’m gonna do, and then what’s my plan? I fulfilled their expectations. So weary, so hurt. I’m sorry. Not sorry enough. Not sorry enough not to do it.

She came up the stairs, walked to the guest room, walked back. I was standing right in front of her. Offered my nothing-words, my shield, my guilty plea: “I’m sorry.” She ignored me. Didn’t say a thing. Walked back down the stairs.

“Are you going to talk to me now? Or wait for the morning?” I called after her. A challenge, almost. Half-pleading. Don’t leave me with my guilt. Let me hate you, not myself.

Let me pretend I didn’t do what I always did.

She didn’t stop walking, just said, straight-ahead, not looking at me, “I’m tired. I’m going to bed.”

And turned off the lights and closed her bedroom door, leaving me standing at the top of the stairs with my contacts dry in my eyes and my teeth biting deep in my lower lip and my breath coming out in a shaky rattle ‘cause I can’t escape what I’ve done and I’m sorry isn’t enough.

Won’t ever be enough.