the 1 // Taylor Swift

Holly

Walking to and from the bus stop each day is the only bit of peace I have. Each morning before work I let my daydreams take over. What could be, what could have been, if things had been different.

Different neighborhood.

Different job.

Different name.

Any of it, all of it. Something different is the only wish I have. I'd take different food or hair or even a different uniform I have to wear to work each day. Being a hospice aid isn't glamorous, and nice clothes would be a waste. But little ducks covering knock off scrubs is as bad as it gets.

Walking home is a different story. My peace is tainted with the what nexts instead of what ifs. What's going to happen next? Who will yell next? What will I have to overcome next? Will it be the same as yesterday, or worse?

I hold my breath then blow it out slowly to calm my nerves. A person shouldn't feel sick to her stomach before entering her home. It should be a place of rest not a place of worry.

My walk is too brief, already at an end as I open the front door. It's nearly rotted out and needs replacing. A semi-decent kick would knock the thing down. But I don't make enough to deal with any extras, and replacing a front door falls into the extra category when electricity and food are on the line.

"I'm home," I say quietly to my mom who's resting on the couch. I'm surprised she made it out of her room today. Her fatigue has been really bad this week, causing her to spend most of her time in bed.

"Oh baby, I'm so glad. Can you fetch me a glass of water?" Her strained voice tells me everything I need to know.

"Have you had any water today?" I ask as I rush to the kitchen to fill up a water bottle. "I left a full water next to your bed."

"Forgot to grab it when I made my way out here then I was too tired to go back."

"When did you get up?" I hand mom the water and watch as she takes a few sips.

"Right after you left."

"I just got off of a six-hour shift. You've been here all day without food or water?" Shit. I always leave her with something to eat and her water. I guess I need to leave food in more than one place now.

"I'm okay, baby. How was your day?"

"I'll tell you after I grab your food. Hang on." I rush to the kitchen to heat up some soup. Going without eating makes her symptoms worse but honestly getting her to take care of herself is like wrangling a toddler. Impossible.

After carrying the soup to Mom and helping her sit up, I take the seat next to her.

"How was your day?" I ask her the same question every day.

"Quiet. Slept a lot. Didn't really have the energy to watch anything."

The same answer every day. I glance to the coffee table and notice the remote isn't there. It's across the room on top of the T.V. Dad must have left it there yesterday before he took off on his long haul. I shake my head and bite back the irritation. He's no help. He makes things worse.

I'm glad he'll be out of town for a few weeks.

"I'm going to take a shower, but I'll leave the remote next to you. Now that you've got some food in you, you might have more energy."

"Sure, baby. Thank you. I don't know what I'd do without you."

I give Mom a tight smile because I know exactly what she'd do without me. Die.

After my shower I feel better, always do. Washing away the feelings as well as the dirt is my ritual. I have to live in the now when I'm at work or at home, anywhere but by myself. Otherwise I think I'd go crazy. I'm trapped, and I know it. Taking care of a mother who can't care for herself. Living with a father who does absolutely nothing for his family. Even his paycheck goes to his own whims, not to pay the bills. That's my job.

I grab Mom's empty bowl and wash it out. Once I've fixed my own dinner, I join her in the living room. The T.V. is now on, as predicted, with a sappy movie playing already.

"How can you watch these?" I shake my head at the sub-par acting and ridiculous plot.

"It makes me smile, baby. Love is the best medicine." Mom watches the show with a wistful grin, lost in the fantasy of true love.

Her love life brought her here, to this run down house and saggy couch where she spends her days napping and existing, not living. With a sad sigh, I realize I'm only a step up from where she is. I may not nap all day, or at any time, but I'm not doing much more than existing. Waiting for the next mountain to climb. Anticipating the struggle. Never finding the place of rest or happiness.

I can't sit here anymore and wallow. My mental health is fragile enough as it is. I leave my mom to watch and finish up the dishes. I spend a half hour or so picking up, dusting and wiping down counters. The house is clean enough for tonight, so I don't bother with any more chores. I call to my mom from the kitchen.

"Mom, can I get you anything?"

"Another blanket?"

"Of course." After tucking her in with an extra blanket and checking the thermostat to make sure it isn't set too low, I sit back down near her and watch more of the movie.

"Nothing to do tonight?" Mom asks.

"No. I already picked up around here. There's not much more to do."

"You need more friends. You should be out having a good time."

I shrug. There's a reason I don't have more friends. The friends I had all moved away. The people I work with are all on death's door. My mom is my best friend and she's laid up most days. This is my life.

"Ever hear from that little friend of yours from years ago? Butch's boy? Cute little kid."

My entire body tenses as she asks. I don't like thinking about him.

"Jackson, Mama." I remind her of his name uselessly.

"I can picture him. You two were always off running around. You'd come home covered in mud. Every darn day. I washed your knees more times than I can count."

"I remember."

And I did. All too well. Not his face or his voice, both sure to have changed beyond recognition since those days, but the feeling of freedom I had with him. Of running endlessly. As if there were no limits to what we could do.

A glance around my run-down house tells me I found more limits than I know what to do with in my adult life. I'm pretty sure the neighbor is a drug dealer. Daddy is gone more than not, but I prefer it that way even with the threat of our circumstances and the weight of responsibility I carry.

Jackson was my escape when I was little, but the memories I have of him now only offer a bitter reminder that I have no freedom. No joy.

"Well, he was a little sweetheart. Wish he'd come around once in a while. Poor Butch, never seeing his boy." Mom pauses in thought for a second. "Can you bring me that old shoe box on my closet shelf?"

I stand abruptly, glad for the task and not able to take talk of Jackson anymore. "Sure, Momma. Then I've got some things to do in the kitchen."

Quickly locating the flimsy box, I hand it to mom and scoot into the kitchen. All of the sudden I'm in the mood for pie or cake or ice cream. But all we have is Oreos.

They'll have to do.

"All this talk of Jackson tonight," Mom starts from the living room, "I remembered I had something to get to Butch. Mind running it by the shop after work?" Mom calls from the couch as I munch anxiously on Oreos.

A tattoo shop is the last place I want to go after work, but Mom can't get whatever it is there on her own, so I agree.

"What is it?" I ask as I walk back into the living room.

"Oh, some old pictures he'd asked about. He stopped by this morning once Daddy was out of town to see if I still had them."

"That was unexpected."

Mom shrugs. "Must have got to missing Jackson."

"What does he have to do with-" I cut off my own question when the answer occurs to me. My hands start to shake. All this time? She's had pictures of Jackson as a kid all this time and never said anything to me?

I glance down to see a stack of pictures in her lap, her hands holding another set. I watch as she drops one from her hands onto the stack in her lap. I pull in a shaky breath. Staring back at me is a little boy who still takes up space in my mind whether I want him to or not. Dark brown hair flops into his eyes as he squints at the camera, a huge toothless grin on his face. He's wearing cutoffs, the real deal. I'm sure he had holes in his jeans and his mama chopped off the legs to make him the shorts rather than throw them away. His bare arm is wrapped around my shoulder, while his bare chest and stomach are covered, absolutely covered, in mud. My blonde braids trail down my arms, dotted with dirt and more mud. And as Mom remembered, my knees are coated as heavily as Jackson's torso. But I'm smiling. I look happy. A feeling that's no longer familiar.

I hesitate before reaching down to grab the picture, pulling it closer, memorizing every detail. For what purpose? To add to my melancholy? To remind me the joy I felt as a child is long gone along with the boy who put the smile on my face?

Futility, that's what this is. Strolling down memory lane is a recipe for emotional torture. I can't do that to myself. I have enough torment to handle as it is.

"I'll get an envelope. Just put whatever you want me to take to Butch inside and I'll make sure to leave it for him at the shop."

"Sounds good. Thanks, baby girl."

"Always, Mama."

The sooner I let go of the memories, the better. My life has no room for wistful fantasies. Harsh reality is my truth so I might as well live in it.

The night ends soon enough. Mom back in her room, tucked under and sound asleep. I normally spend time reading, escaping my day to day into a story equally as unrealistic as the movie mom had us watching. But not tonight. Tonight my heart is too fragile to handle thoughts of what could be. I've been reminded all too clearly of what is. It's not my dream come true and it never will be.

When I think of the daydreams I've allowed myself to get caught up in, of a sweet and gentle boy who comes to rescue me from a bland existence, I want to cry. Years I've been letting my mind wander to a moment that will never happen. Of seeing those kind eyes again, that warm smile. Of feeling his arm around my shoulder silently telling me he's got me. He won't let me go. Patting a ball of mud into my hands, saying ice cream makes everyone smile, then pretending to take a huge bite.

Jackson was my sanity, my calm in the bitter storm. He was like sunlight after the darkest night. I could always count on him to make me feel better, safer. My home was filled with tension. My father yelled. My mother cried. I ran and hid away with Jackson. He'd wipe my tears and plan a party. Sometimes another kid or two from the club would join us. We'd run off for hours and no one seemed to care, or to worry because Jackson was with me. Even though we weren't older than five or six. I can't image not having my eyes on my child for that long, but that's how it was with the motorcycle club family we were part of. Everyone's kids ran off while the parents did whatever club 'business' they had. Usually it was drinking beer and tuning up their bikes, their old ladies bringing them cold refills when demanded and gossiping about each other in the meantime.

My father was friends with Butch, Jackson's father. My mother eventually became too sick to spend much time outside, but Jackson's mother was there taking care of both men.

The day she left with Jackson is one I won't soon forget. Butch came knocking on our door, looking for him. I hadn't seen him all day, which was out of the ordinary for us. My dad had just left on a long haul and my mom hadn't been able to get out of bed for a day or two. Butch just sat on our couch and wept. I sat next to him, crying too. Not knowing exactly what happened, or what I could do to help, but feeling his pain and knowing my life had changed forever that day.

I never saw him again. Never heard a word either. Butch stopped asking after a few weeks, growing quieter than usual. He'd been a happy guy, smiling and helpful, wanting to tell a joke or cheer someone on. He changed after they left. It took years for his smile to return. Even longer for the jokes to come back. He stopped caring for himself, stopped trying much to socialize other than with the club members.

I understand him. I am him. I've done the same thing.

I wonder what happened to break up their family. And I wonder if Butch ever found out.

I wonder if I'll ever know.

And that's the hardest part.

Aw Holly!! Love it. It took a minute for this one to flow. I got to a part with her mom that felt like the "end" of the chapter and went to check the word count thinking I must be at 2500...1300 instead. Ugh! But it was a happy accident because that's when the whole picture thing came up and I love it!

The next one is also from Holly's POV at first, but will switch to Jackson in the middle!!!

Holly had wistful daydreams growing up that the boy who left her behind had been "the one" Taylor Swift folklore/evermore era is very Holly so we'll hear several from her. I've also added some indie musicians to her playlist (Wallows, Clairo and The Regrettes) and the feel is absolutely Holly to a T!

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Need to read more in this universe? I've got you covered 😉