the turquoise robe

The hot water dripped off my hair, my back, my arms and legs and joined together at the bottom of the bathtub before swirling down the drain. I stood there, clutching the sides of my body to retain the warmth of these drops as I turned off the shower. The heat rose in steamy clouds around me. Even in the brief few seconds after the stream dissipated, I felt a chill. It was interesting how quick that came, despite my apartment being a cozy 72 degrees. It was as if even the inside of my house knew it was winter outside.

I quickly reached around the shower curtain for my fuzzy beige towel, without opening it for fear it would let out what was left of the steam. I squeezed the residual water dripping from my hair and wrapped it around my head. I then peeked my arm around the curtain quickly again to grab my favorite turquoise, terry bathrobe.

My Mom gave me this robe nearly a decade ago, and although it was getting threadbare in a few spots, it still was hanging on. It also reminded me of her – she had passed several years ago. Every time I put on the robe, memories started to flood back – happy memories – which I welcomed over the tough ones that came in the end.

I sighed. Well, I couldn’t spend the whole night in the bathtub. I had to get out at sometime despite wanting the steam to envelop and twist around me indefinitely. I opened the curtain, stepped over the ledge of the tub and looked in the mirror by the sink. It was all clouded up, and I wiped it with the sleeve of my robe so I could see better.

A hot shower always lifted my spirits, making me feel more relaxed and calm, despite the world seemingly wanting to fall apart outside my apartment’s four walls. And the mirror showed the effects of that – the big circles under my eyes, the puffiness was still there. I hadn’t slept that well in the last few weeks.

That’s the life of a news reporter, the life you signed up for, I reminded myself. If there was breaking news, I had to be on scene no matter the time of day or night. It was exhausting, and at times exhilarating. The adrenaline rush I’d got from it is what often propelled me forward, keeping me going.

But things felt different this time. The tired feeling was laced with something else, something more existential. It was a dread that seeped in at the corners, threatening to rip and tear through my own feelings of security and safety. I rubbed my temples with my hands, feeling another headache coming on again despite my longer than normal hot shower.

Mostly, although I did worry about my own safety at times, I was most concerned with that of the people protesting, the people observing, the people being taken. Some nights I awoke from nightmares thinking about it. I had to get my mind off it somehow.

I glanced at the white porcelain edge of my sink and noticed I left my ruby red lipstick there. Without giving it a second thought, I grabbed the lipstick, flipped off the cap, and leaned into the mirror. I tried to make the perfect pout, as I carefully glided the stick across the outline of my lips and then went back to fill in the spots I missed. I backed away from the mirror and smacked my lips, admiring the red perfection I saw on them.

There was something about red lipstick that made me feel stronger, in control and well, pretty. I needed all the control I could get in these chaotic times. Some days I felt like the bottom was going to give out, break free, and take me with it.

I stood there for a few seconds more, relishing in the satisfaction of this small improvement in my appearance. The silence in my apartment was welcoming – all I could hear was the clock ticking in my bedroom, right outside the bathroom door.

I turned to walk into the bedroom to get dressed, and the shrillest scream, deafening enough to break glass, ruptured my calm. My hands went to my ears instinctively, my brow furrowed and I shook my head. What was that? A smoke alarm? Yet it wasn’t consistent.

The sound came again in waves, piercing through my heart, jolting it into action. My eyes wide, I realized that it wasn't a smoke alarm but a series of whistles. I knew that sound too. I’d heard it many times over in the last few weeks. My brain just didn’t want to internalize it as it meant the worst possible events could be happening.

And this time they must be happening right outside my apartment, on my street, in my neighborhood.

I rushed into my bedroom, and pushed the drapes across the window aside and glanced down to the street level. There was a crowd of observers. I was right. That was where the sound was coming from.

And then I saw the agents in all their gear, with their guns. One was yelling into the crowd, telling them to back away. But they didn’t. The scene then erupted in a cloud of smoke – pepper spray – and I couldn’t see a thing.

I turned away from the window. I had to get down there now but I looked at my turquoise bathrobe in dismay, thinking I wasn’t dressed. I couldn’t go down there like this! But there wasn’t time. The turquoise robe would have to do, and maybe there was more authenticity to it anyhow. It would be a first, that was for sure.

At least I remembered the lipstick, I thought, almost laughing. I would look so silly, and my producer probably would give me hell, but somehow in that moment I didn’t care. The news mattered more. Humanity mattered more along with capturing the events as they happened than what I looked like.

I saw my matching slippers by my bedside, and I slipped into them. I grabbed the video camera in the corner of the room, and my water bottle in case I needed it due to the pepper spray. I was doing my own live shots these days without a cameraman given the intensity of the frequency of the breaking news events. There just wasn’t time to plan it any other way.

I stumbled down the stairs, and out into the street, into the plume of acrid, burning smoke. My eyes started to water as I fluttered my eyelids rapidly, trying to prevent blurred vision. The agents now had yellow tape up, trying to prevent the crowd that formed from going further.

I pushed through to the front of the crowd at the outer edge, my body shivering, my hair still weight, the pepper spray engulfing my eyes, threatening to singe them shut. I rushed to set up the camera the best I could – I could almost do it in my sleep these days for as often as I was out here – but never right in front of my apartment.

But my eyes had reached a breaking point, and I grabbed my water bottle and squeezed it over them, trying to flush them out. Wow, I am sure I looked like a mess. I used the sleeve of my terry bathrobe to wipe my face dry but I accidentally brushed my lips, leaving a huge red streak across my sleeve. There was nothing I could do about it now.

Just as I was about to flick on the camera, I heard the loud baritone of a man behind me. It was one of the agents I saw as I turned around.

“What are you doing?” He asked. “Get that thing back.”

Furious, I yelled, “Hey, I’m the press. I have the right to be here. I pulled out my press badge from the pocket of my video camera bag and flashed it at him.

But things happened so fast.

Stunned, it took me a few minutes to realize what happened. My hand immediately went to my lips. I pulled it away and looked at my palm.

It was covered in dark, red blood.

My blood.