Stranger

Grey light filters through the thick dreary curtains, heralding another nauseating journey into consciousness. Sigh. I peel myself out of my many blankets and rise laboriously to my unsteady feet. 4:45 PM flashes red on the digital clock perched atop the nightstand. I slept the day away... Small mercies. I don’t bother changing out of holey tights and an old tee shirt- No reason to, really. It’s only day two, and there’s nobody around to impress. The soft padding of my bare feet echoes gently, and I make my way down the short hall toward the only small joy still afforded to me: Coffee.

The machine springs to life, hissing and groaning. I can relate. I gain a little gratification from plunging the handle down, and hearing the pop as the needle pierces the coffee pod. The silky, dark aroma rises and I close my eyes to luxuriate in one of the few pleasures I still find in life. Hmm...

Gratitude

Noun

The quality of being thankful; readiness to show appreciation for and to return kindness

I ponder the word as I watch the thin stream of dark liquid plunge into my mug. How many hours, days, months, years had I spent consciously trying to be grateful? Grateful for a home, which I no longer have. Grateful for a family, who abandoned me with ease- I’m still reeling from that one. Grateful for a job that dismantled my self esteem, which I finally left. Grateful for a boyfriend to love, who returned that love with infidelity. Grateful for small things, that helped me to smile as I tried to slow my descent into whatever this is. Curious, that in all that time, I forgot ‘gratitude’ isn’t a verb... I jump as the machine issues one final hiss. I lift the mug to my lips, let the steam kiss my skin, and decide to be grateful just once more. I don’t feel anything. The coffee tastes as bitter as my thoughts.

I traverse the open space to the living room, to settle into the corner of a dark sectional sofa that isn’t mine. The apartment came furnished- I didn’t need the added stress at the time. My anemic bank account also said “no” to purchasing any new furniture. My eyes drift around the still, dark room. A small amount of blue evening light peeks through the tiny gaps in the vertical blinds, and the red eye of the rarely-used television appraises me from across the room. I hear the quiet hum of the fridge, and ponder what I’ll do with the rest of my night. I want to sleep to avoid thinking, but I know I won’t. These days, the relieving embrace of slumber only comes when my body finally gives up on me. Lately that seems more frequent than usual. A hint, perhaps, that I am near the finish line.... Hope springs eternal. I take another sip.

I’ve been still too long, and there’s a gentle scratching on my subconscious. Something squeezes my heart, pulling me down, and my fingers ache. Time to build a wall. Abruptly, I decide to clean out the fridge. It opens with a crackle, and the cool air washes over me. The mostly empty interior is spotless, and smells faintly of ammonia. I guess I need to restock. A girl can’t exist on two yogurts and some questionable baby carrots alone. The heavy door snaps shut, plunging the kitchen back into near-darkness. My eyes adjust, and I’m looking at the sink, piled with dishes I keep telling myself I need to soak. Why is the fridge so clean? Nothing else is.

I decide I’ll make a run to the store. Not because I care that my fridge is empty, but because it is better than waiting for unwanted memories to seep into conscious thought. The silence at the apartment seems to invite that. I dig for a sports bra in a pile of clothes next to the bedroom door. Wouldn’t want to scare the general public... I grab my small bag, a hoodie, and head to the bathroom to make myself minimally presentable. The light sputters a few times and kicks on, emitting a mildly irritating buzz. I take a big swig of mouthwash. I stare at my small, pale face. My large grey-blue eyes are sunken. I can’t remember if I have always looked like this. I don’t see myself often these days, in sharp contrast to the hours I’d spend primping in front of a mirror before. It feels like I’m remembering watching someone else. I poke at my dark circles. Baptizing my head in a cloud of dry shampoo, I try to tame my crappy D.I.Y pixie cut. No dice, my cowlicks are rebellious. I spit.

Tugging on a ball cap and slipping on my shoes, I make my way outside. My breath precedes me in a thick plume, and the sky is crystal clear. The moon lights the way, and I muse that the cold seems to numb more than my fingertips. I’m always cold, it just doesn’t bother me anymore. A lot of things don’t bother me anymore. I walk several blocks to a small market attached to a gas station. The automatic doors open and I am enveloped in too-warm air that smells faintly of tobacco and Wonderbread. The kid behind the counter says ‘hey’ and blinks at me with blazing red eyes. Returning the placid greeting, I grab a plastic basket and make my way to the back where the freezers are. I have not come with a plan, so I grab some random food, and notice a standing display of wine they’re clearly trying to unload. One of the labels catches my eye- A grey field of swaying grass with a single black tree in the middle, and a cloaked figure. It’s staring at me, and it’s unsettling. I’m intrigued. ′Stranger’ is scrawled in a spidery, sensual font across the top. Cabernet, apparently, which means nothing to me. I know so little about wine. I grab a bottle anyway.

Time to pay- I approach the counter and flash my sunniest smile. We chat, but I have no idea what about. The kid laughs, smiles sluggishly back, and bids me a wonderful evening. I’d settle for OK at this point, but I don’t tell him that. Stepping over the threshold, I leave the warm, saturated colors of the haphazard store, and the now-frigid night swallows me. Exhaustion sweeps over me, settling heavy on my shoulders like a great vulture, the weight returning me to my usual posture. My feet carry me reluctantly toward the apartment. You’re so good at pretending- Nobody’s ever going to know what’s trapped in here.

I toss the whole bag of groceries into the fridge, deciding I don’t have the energy to properly put it all away. I sit the bottle of wine on the small island, since I’m pretty sure it isn’t meant to be chilled. I down what’s left of the now-cold coffee and sit hard in my spot on the sofa. What to do... I switch my phone on, which I’ve taken to turning off most of the time. I can’t handle the notifications. I don’t want to see the messages. I have several texts: 3 from my best friend, and 6 from my mom. Nothing from Chris, not that it matters to me. Liar. I read, but do not answer the 3 from Sarah. She sends me texts about her day, and knows I’ll answer when I can. She mostly understands the silences, and I love her dearly for that. I answer the texts from mom, who I wish would stop texting me inane things like “hi” and “how are you?” It’s only out of guilt, and that makes it worse. I say I’m fine, that I’m busy. It’s like applying pressure to a bleeding wound. Scratch, scratch, scratch on the walls again. I toss the wretched phone away, and take my mug to the kitchen. I lean back on the counter, eyeing the Stranger sitting on the island. I dig for a corkscrew. It’s a crappy one my mother gave to Chris and I when we moved in together. There is a storm building, swirling despair and bitterness, resentment and frustration. Pop- I pour the dark liquid into my used coffee mug, not really minding the coffee residue. The wine smells good. The storm continues to build.

Back on the sofa, I sit and try not to think. The silence is roaring in my ears, and every cell in my being aches. All I want is relief, but I’m denied even that mercy. I have often thought about ways to make my escape - Pills, maybe. Gentle sleep without waking sounds divine... Well, it would if I could choose what I’d dream about, and if I could be sure I wouldn’t wake up before the slumber became permanent. I touch my tongue to the wine. It’s sharp and smooth all at once. Spicy and refreshing, with an earthy bitterness. A much bigger sip follows, and the warmth begins to build. I’ve also thought about wandering out into the cold. I’d take some Nyquil, fall asleep, and never again suffer the injustice of waking. I could never do it, of course. My hands have always been tied. I couldn’t do that to Sarah, or, in truth, my family. Even though I’m convinced they do not really love me, they think they do. It’s a shame that something doesn’t just happen to me- At least it wouldn’t be my fault. Another sip. I wonder if the Stranger will chase away the sadness...

My guard is down, peeled away slowly by the warmth of the disarming Cabernet, and I begin to reflect and analyze. Click, click, click- Slides documenting my life flash across my vision, one after another. I’m studying them, picking them apart, absentmindedly sipping between the whats, whys, and hows. I am mourning the loss of who I was. I miss the smell of oil paints and getting lost in some new world I’m scratching out on canvas. I miss poetry. I miss the girl who spent endless hours reading and dreaming of possible tomorrows. The storm clouds burst, and I collapse under the weight of the rain. My heart is crushed, my chest is filled with a horrible, sucking agony. My limbs are lead. Every joint aches, and every fiber of my being sings with electrified anguish. Tears flow freely down my face, and I am doubled over, hugging myself, begging into the void. Please, someone, save me. Minutes, or hours, go by and the storm fades into a steady rain. I slip into blissful nothingness. The fridge hums.