Part I

I move through the empty house on autopilot. I’ve realized it’s useless to try to control my body and my thoughts; it’s less painful to let myself be numb, and just surrender to whatever higher power it is that keeps me from falling apart completely. I stand in the dark kitchen for a few moments not knowing, or even wondering why, before turning and walking out.

I stare at myself in the bathroom mirror. For a moment, I don’t recognize the person staring back at me. I have bangs now, I still haven’t gotten used to them. My eyes are rimmed slightly with red, and it looks like tears are about to start trailing down my face at any minute. I haven’t been crying, and I don’t even feel like crying now. I stand like a statue, locked in with the girl in the mirror. I look like a painting by some troubled artist who’s trying to find salvation or acceptance or something to justify his existence, but all he finds is the distant stare of someone who can’t even save herself. I look like a black and white photograph. I look like an imposter. I brush my teeth and then pull my hair back. Sometimes that’s all I can do.

Rufus Wainwright sings inside the speakers on my bedroom floor. The CD player is set so quiet, you don’t always notice his melancholy voice. I forgot to turn it off earlier. I walk through the house and turn all the lights off. In my bedroom I turn off the light, unplug the digital clock and close the drapes. I climb into bed and borough beneath the comforter, letting Rufus’s raw emotion lull me to sleep.



I don’t know how long I slept. I woke up once and dazedly looked around the darkness. Then I pulled the covers closer and put my head back down on the pillow. Some time later I hear a soft, male voice next to me. “Hey, hey,” He says gently, perched on the edge of my bed, “how are you doing?”

"Lovely."

“Jeez, you left the window open. I know it’s summer, but you know how cold it can get at night.” I climb out of bed and pull a hoodie over my head. He’s in jeans and a beater, so it must be warm out, but I feel cold, and no matter what I do, I can’t seem to make that go away. I guess I’m lucky it’s summer, I don’t have to face anyone at school. No one really comes to the house anymore but him. Annabelle has come over a few times trying to get me out of bed, and so has Kaylie, but I don’t think they know what to do with me.

He comes a lot, every other day at least, even though he shouldn’t. “They’re really worried about you, we all are.”

"Don’t worry about me, I’m fine." I add, "I can get though this on my own," at his doubtful look. “Yeah but you shouldn’t have to. Look, I’m sorry your dad refuses to be here for you right now, but I’m not going to abandon you.”

Thank you, I think but don't say. "So why don't you take a shower, get cleaned up and we'll go out. You look like a disaster zone." He tries at humor, but it doesn't touch me. A beautiful disaster, that's what mom used to call me when I was little and my face was contorted and tear-streaked, or I was sweaty or dirty. Piper picked it up from her, and called me that as I got older. But it doesn't matter now, it doesn't matter what they used to call me, or that they ever called me anything at all.

"I don't feel up to going out right now, maybe some other time." He looks disappointed, "Ok well, if you change your mind..."

"I know where you live," I continue for him. "I'll see you later." He sighs and goes to leave my bedroom. Almost as an afterthought he turns back to me, and reaches out and touches my shoulder. The gesture is so brief I'm not sure it ever actually happened, and the unreadable look on his face doesn't say if he accomplished what he'd wanted, or if he even knew what he wanted to accomplish in the first place. And then he's gone.



For the first time in weeks I pull out my sketchpad and a pen. My hand trembles as I start to draw. I sketch a view of a moonlit hillside, with a tree, close enough that not all of it is visible. The branches reach up and the leaves mingle with the stars. I shade everything to look like night, including the animals playing on the hill. Even the moon is shaded, and if you squint, you can almost make out a face in it, looking out, watching over the ones who needed it most. But just as soon as you think you’ve seen it, the face has returned to shadows and you’re not sure if it was ever really there to begin with. I sketch a window frame, and a ledge around the picture, and at the bottom I write, without even thinking about it, "the imaginary view from a hospital room."

I shove the sketchbook beneath my bed and bury my face in my pillow, so the stuffed animals I thought I grew out of don’t see me cry.



The light has burned out in my bedroom. I haven't tried to turn it on for days, but I can feel that it's burned out. The lava lamp bathes the room in a blue glow that doesn't stop me from tripping over piles of books and clothes on the floor when I try to go to the bathroom. "Sad Song" by Oasis is playing quietly on repeat. I'm not sure how it got like that, I don't remember taking out the Rufus Wainwright CD. I don't remember much lately. I'm losing chunks of time, days maybe. It seems like time and place and everything tangible don't exist anymore, at least not when I'm alone.

Underneath the hum of the heater, I hear a faint chiming. It sounds almost like a music box, but it's so faint I might be imagining it. I search for a tune, but I can only hear tinkling. It's not coming from anywhere in my bedroom. It sounds like a memory. Suddenly I realize it's the wind chime, outside on the front porch.

"Hey." He greets me, a little while later. I watch him fruitlessly flick the light switch.

"It's burned out."

"Hmm, I can fix that. Do you have any light bulbs?"

"I think in the pantry."

"Ok." He disappears, and then reappears a few moments later.

"I drew last night, or the night before last, I can't really remember." I say suddenly, as he messes with the light.

"Awesome! As long as you have your art, you have your sanity." He is screwing the bulb in now. It's high enough that when I do it, I have to stand on my tiptoes and reach all the way up. He does it with ease.

"I don't think that makes any sense. Most famous artists were crazy."

"Good point. Oh well, it sounded worldly anyway." I feel a trace of a smile, but can't hold it in place for long enough for it to make a difference. I don't show my drawings to many people, only those I'm really close to. Which of course isn't many people. I'm not that good at opening up, or trusting, you know. It's just difficult for me.

"So you're going to venture out of your house today, right?" He asks once he'd replaced the light bulb. His face is a puppy's, except puppies don't have that doubtful, worried flicker. "You said once you started drawing again, you'd be ready to leave the house. We're going to the movies." I don't remember saying that, but I believe him.

"Yeah, but I need to shower first. You can go ahead, I'll meet you at the theater in a little bit.'

"Do you want me to make you something to eat?" I don't remember the last time I ate, but the thought of food makes me feel nauseous. "I'm fine, go to the movies, I'll meet you there."

"Are you sure you're going to get out of bed?" As a sign of good faith I get out now, "See?" I ask. I see concern flood his face, as he looks at me closely for the first time in awhile. I'm too thin, I'm not sure when it happened, but my clothes hang off me. My eyes are rimmed with red, and I have a bruise on my arm from a fall I don't remember. I look like a disaster. A beautiful disaster...no, just a disaster.

"I'll meet you there." I repeat, I still don't know if he's convinced. "You know, you're going to be okay." He looks at me with emotion; with a yearning, cryptic, hopeful look so raw I have to break the connection. "You have been through so much, but you manage to overcome it, and keep living. 'This too shall pass.'" I follow him to the doorway and look out into the hall. My house is too bright, too open and airy. It scares me. "Could you take down the wind chime on your way out?"

"Yeah, sure. No problem. I'll just set it on the swing?" I nod and watch him go. Once I hear the front door close, I turn the light back off, unscrew the bulb even though it burns my fingers, and climb back into bed.

You're going to be okay. His voice rings in my ears. I wish he was right, but I know he's not. I recall everything psychiatrists and therapists and teachers and classmates have called me since my mom's death, 'damaged,' 'troubled,' 'screwed up,' 'distant.' I'm still haunted by memories that never loosen their hold, and covered in tragedy's messy fingerprints. And I am damaged; I am screwed up.

'This too shall pass.' He's wrong there, also. It never passes. It never ends.

Want to comment on this Short Stories? Sign up to Edit Red and you will be able to comment on Short Stories and get access to: Upload your own stories and poems, get readers and their feedback, promote your work...