Elizabeth Flock - But Inside I'm Screaming

“They’re going to be okay, the ants. We’ve been over this. They like to burrow out. They’ll be okay.”

Isabel looked back down. No ants were crawling out of her manmade holes. She looked back up at her mother.

“You’ve got to let it go. You think this is sad? Wait’ll life kicks you in the rear a few times. No one’s out there drilling holes for all of us, you know. Now, come on inside. Help me sort the Girl Scout cookie orders.”

As she stood up to go, Isabel looked back at her doomed friends. But she swallowed her tears and forged ahead.

As her childhood advanced, Isabel’s empathy for creatures of all shapes and sizes morphed into a sadness that was difficult to shake. Sadness gave way to isolation. Isabel constantly felt as if she were on the outside looking in. As if she wasn’t quite a participant in everyday life, but a sleepwalker. While she maintained the polished front of an oldest, overachieving child, her true personality had yet to emerge, and that only added to the disconnected feeling she wore like a bulky shroud.

As Isabel floated numbly through elementary school, her physical appearance was taking a very definite shape. She began to hear over and over again that she was pretty, and soon, perhaps because she felt so empty, the compliments at least temporarily filled her up. Isabel began to crave the attention that was paid to her looks. No one wanted to hear about her sorrow, no one wanted to see her sad.

She was becoming an expert at reading people. She soon learned that humor got more results than anger or tears, that attention was paid to the attractive, and that people were inherently egotistical. Everybody likes to talk about themselves. So she honed her listening skills. Isabel was learning to survive by playing roles: the curvaceous beauty, the class clown, the intense listener. She was excellent at being whatever someone else wanted her to be.

“Isabel. What can I do for you?”

Isabel cleared her throat.

“Um. Mr. Clulow? Um, I was wondering if I could have another chance.”

The high school drama teacher slightly cocked his head to the side. “Another chance.” It was a statement, not a question.

“Yeah. I mean, yes. I know I froze up there last week. I totally froze. I blew it. I just wasn’t prepared. For improv. But I’m ready now. I can do it. I’ll act out anything you want me to act out. If you’d just give me one more chance.”

Mr. Clulow looked down at the papers on his desk. Then he looked back up at Isabel.

“Why do you want to join the drama club, Isabel? What is it that’s drawing you to drama?”

“Drawing me?”

“Yes. You see, some people feel it’s the perfect way to tap into their creative side. Others find it’s the perfect form of self-expression. I’m just wondering what’s driving you.”

Isabel looked down. Without looking back up she answered.

“I guess it’s that…well, I suppose I just like the idea of being someone else,” she mumbled.

Mr. Clulow raised his eyebrows as if he’d caught her in a trap.

“So you don’t like to be yourself?”

“No!” she said, too loudly. “I mean, I do. What I really mean is that…” She stammered, aware that he was prepared to pick apart her next sentence. “It’s…um…”

“Miss Murphy,” the teacher scolded, “I have a class to teach in five minutes. I suggest you get to the bottom of what it is you would like to say.”

“Please. Just give me another chance to try out. Please?”

He tapped his pencil impatiently and looked out the window.

“Hmm.”

“Please?”

“All right. One more chance. But this is hardly fair. I don’t do this for other students who buckle under pressure. If you get embarrassed in an audition, how on earth will you be able to act on stage in front of hundreds of people? Don’t…answer. It’s a rhetorical question, Miss Murphy. Tomorrow after school meet me in the gym and we will try it one more time.”

“Thank you! Oh, thank you so much, Mr. Clulow,” she said, backing out of his tiny office.

It was eight o’clock on a school night and Isabel’s mother was furious.

“I thought rehearsals were never more than two hours after school.”

“Mom, we’ve got a play coming up and no one knows their lines yet. We had to stay late. Mr. Clulow said—”

“Mr. Clulow said. Mr. Clulow said. That’s all I ever hear—Mr. Clulow said this, Mr. Clulow said that. Well, Mr. Clulow said rehearsals wouldn’t take time away from homework assignments on school nights!”

“I don’t have that much work tonight. I have history and English and that’s it.”

“No math? No science?”

“No. And for English all I have to do is read one chapter and I can do that in fifteen minutes.”

“Your father’s home and he hasn’t seen you in a week. You missed dinner and he’s got a conference call at nine, so I don’t know when you two will have a chance to visit.”

“He’s coming to the play, right? Please tell me he’s not going to miss the play.”

“Of course he’s coming to the play.”

“It’s just…” she trailed off.

“What?”

“Nothing. It’s nothing.”

“What were you going to say? I hate it when you do that.”

“Nothing! Seriously. I forgot what I was going to say. He’s just…like…he’s just never here.”

“Don’t be silly, Isabel,” her mother said sharply. “Your father has to work, you know. He loves you, but his job—”

“I know, I know. His job calls for a lot of travel. I’ve been hearing that since I was born. I get it.”

“But he tries.”

“But he tries,” said Isabel.

“ Fuck! Fuck, fuck, fuck!”

Isabel slowly follows the sounds of the shrieks, unsure whether she wants to find out who or what is behind them.

“Get your hands offa me, you motherfucker!”

Through the front window of the unit, Isabel watches as two aides try to pin down a young, wiry newcomer. Just as they seem to get her under control enough to slip her lanky frame into restraints, she lets out a piercing scream.

“I’m gonna fuckin’ kill you! You hear me? I’m gonna kill you.”

Because she is young-looking and breakably thin, it startles Isabel to hear this come from the girl’s mouth.

The restraints are finally in place. The new girl is sapped of all her angry energy and is sobbing on the ground, her head twisted to the side, her face shiny with sweat.

Isabel looks down the winding driveway and, as the black girl is hauled past by two hospital aides, stares at her only way out.

I’ll walk down the driveway, wait for a truck and step in front of it.

The thought calms Isabel. It soothes her to plan her fatal escape.

First I’ve got to get privileges.

Kristen, the girl Isabel had met the night before, chirps “good morning” and walks past Isabel out the door of the unit. Isabel watches Kristen’s hand shake as she attempts to light her cigarette from a box on the wall that contains what appears to be something resembling a car lighter. Matches and lighters are confiscated on arrival.

The blubbery man she sat next to the day before lumbers past and joins Kristen just outside the door to the unit. Isabel turns her head and hopes her ear can bionically pick up their conversation through the pane of glass. It’s so riddled with greasy fingerprints that Isabel is careful to keep at least one inch of space between herself and the disgusting barrier.

“What’s up with that new girl?” Kristen asks him. “Did you see her yesterday?”

It’s disconcerting for everyone on the unit to see someone in restraints. In the jacket. To hear someone resist. The new girl will provide conversation material for the entire day: Did you hear the new girl this morning? Did you see how long it took the orderlies to get the jacket on her?