No. Never. Never in a thousand sunsets. That is a last resort. “I’d rather die,” I say to the walls. They don’t respond, instead offering a blank stare as empty as my soul.
The water shuts off and the girl’s song ceases as more sounds awaken beyond the bedroom door. Creaking floorboards and padding footsteps. I pull my covers up to my neck, wrap them around my shoulders, and burrow down, kicking the top sheet to the foot of the bed. I didn’t get nearly enough sleep and my body moans in protest for it. But I couldn’t sleep now if I tried.
“Thank you, Anxiety.”
My anxiety responds in amped fashion. Typical.
Ignoring the sandpaper grate of my nerves, I take an inventory of the small space I occupy. Occupy because I am just here. Existing until I’m gone and the next person rolls in. None of this is mine. Not the lamp with its gray base and off-white shade. Nor the desk that was clearly salvaged from a yard sale. The plastic cups filled with pens and pencils at the desk’s upper-right-hand corner stir a longing inside. I shut it down and move on.
A vase of fake white flowers mocks me. They laugh at my reality while resting in their artificial existence. What is this, a funeral?
Maybe. Not yet, but soon enough. Probably.
P. L. Travers said it best—“Once we have accepted the story, we cannot escape the story’s fate.”
I’ve accepted my story and my fate. Now it’s a matter of time before the two collide. To think I never believed in fate. Ha. Guess some things do change after all.
My gaze lingers on the flowers too long, then shifts back to the first item that caught my eye—an item I promptly avoided but can no longer ignore.
The journal, leather-bound with a ribbon tie, taunts me. The images of seaweed and seashells impressed into its cover bring back days long past. I rise, keeping the comforter around my shoulders like a cape. My fingers graze the lines and edges of the leather. The images are immersed in life, but blank pages wait within. Pages I refuse to fill. Leather cover or paper, it doesn’t matter. They can pretend this place is a haven all they want. But I know the truth.
And the truth is nothing is safe. No matter how many words I write, they can never understand. Pouring one’s soul into ink and paper does nothing aside from bleed you dry until there’s nothing left to give.
The smell of something foodish attacks my senses as I begin unpacking my suitcase. I open the dresser drawers and lay my scant wardrobe within. A couple pairs of jeans. A handful of solid tees. An unopened package of below-ankle socks. One hoodie. A week’s worth of underwear. I place my toiletries, a brush and comb, and makeup in the top drawer. A powder compact, mascara, clear lip gloss. I don’t know why I bothered to pack these. Who needs makeup when no one else is looking?
At the bottom of my suitcase rests a single piece of jewelry. A pearl bracelet. A gift. A curse. I take it out and toss it in a drawer. I never want to see it again.
The food smell grows stronger, though I can’t quite pinpoint the source. The scent is faded, dull, indistinct. I cross the room to bolt the door and find it has no lock. I look around. No closet either? Guess I’ll be dressing under the covers. So much for the show of privacy. Fake, fakety, fake.
As I reach into a drawer for my favorite pair of distressed jeans and a white ruched tee, the alarm clock blares. My muscles tighten. Six in the morning. Great. Whoever set the thing wants me on a schedule. A routine. Better get this over with.
I toss the clothes on the bed and move to shut off the alarm but can’t find the right button in the shadows. Panic starts to rise as the alarm ent, ent, ennnts.
Stop. Be quiet. Shut up. My fingers fumble and shake. I switch on the lamp opposite the bed, but it’s too late.
The sound becomes a siren. A siren racing closer, ready to swallow me whole.
It batters me before I can fend off the blow. My body reacts outside all reason. Outside the logic that says this is an alarm clock. Just an alarm clock. Chill out already.
This is not just an alarm clock.
This is death’s anthem. An anthem that all too often calls when I’m around.
I tear the cord from the wall. Collapse to the floor. Hug my knees to my chest. Oh my word, would you breathe already? Pathetic. Can’t even handle an alarm, how do you expect to handle the real world?
This is the real world. Stop living in a fantasy.
Trigger. Trigger. Bang. Bang.
“Get over it. Just get over it! Why can’t you get over it?”
The bulleted voice hits its mark. Straight through my chest, lodging deep down where the light can’t see.
Slowly, the spiral dies. Time passes. I stare at the dead clock. I know I should get up. Get up, my mind says. But my legs won’t move. They tingle. And twitch. The restlessness inside my unmoving muscles brings with it exhaustion and an awareness of isolation. Defeat. I’m not here anymore. Not at all.
When the fog beyond the curtained window burns off, the unwelcome sunshine says time has passed well into the late morning. I finally find the will to move. Pain and ice bite my soles where I stand, gnawing at my arches like tiny shards of glass. I curl and wiggle my toes, willing the sleep to leave my body as circulation returns.
Once feeling finds my feet, I cross to the dresser again. Razor pain shoots through me. My stubbed toe throbs. My cry echoes around the tiny square of space.
“You okay?” a voice asks.
I whip my head toward the door to find a girl several years younger than I am standing in its frame. She has one of those faces. The kind that makes you feel like you’ve met this person but can’t figure out where.
Her expression relays genuine concern.
I don’t trust her one teensy bit.
She’s twelve? Thirteen, maybe? Wearing a pair of black leggings and a long-sleeved tunic sweatshirt. Her hair, the color of changing maple leaves, is swept into two messy buns that look like teddy bear ears. She’s disgustingly adorable and so not what I need right now.
She is my torturous reminder.
A reminder who is carrying a plate of food.
I sit on the bed and examine my aching toe.
“First day’s the hardest.” The girl shuffles toward me, sets the plate on the desk. “I’m on day ten.” My wide eyes must give away my uncertainty because she adds, “I don’t mind it here so far.” Her shoulders sink.
I ignore my own sinking feeling. The one that tells me she’s not being entirely honest. Instead, I glance sideways at the half tuna salad sandwich, apple, bag of Fritos, and can of lemonade. “I’m not hungry.”
She reaches over and squeezes my hand as if we’re old friends.
I flinch at the uninvited touch. “Don’t.”
She steps back, lifts her palms in surrender. “Sorry.” She sighs. “Sometimes I forget—” She shakes her head. “I’m supposed to ask before I touch.” Her arms cross over her flat chest. “Rules and consent and stuff. Anyway, you don’t talk much, do you?”
“I talk.” I scowl at my toe, which is now turning two shades darker than the surrounding skin. Nice. “Maybe I don’t want to talk to you.” Ouch. Harsh. Whatever. It’s not as if she and I could ever have a relationship outside of this place. It wouldn’t last. And more than likely, one of us will commit suicide eventually. Statistics don’t lie. “You can go now.”