Her head is pounding again. It's always pounding.
She walks to the couch and collapses into the plush blue cushions, sinking deep into their embrace. Her attempt at keeping her head upright fails miserably, but her hands manage to catch it as it falls. She pinches the bridge of her nose as hard as she can so that the sharp sensation contrasts the dull booming in the back of her head, distracting her from its rhythmic insistence. She considers taking some ibuprophen to dull the aching, but remembers that she finished her last bottle of the small pink pills days before.
Her breathing quickens and she begins to feel smothered. Her baggy clothing hangs off her fragile frame, soaking her in cotton and denim. She sheds her sweater, anxious to remove one layer of suffocation. It's a superficial layer and she knows it will do little to solve her problem, but she sheds it anyway.
The moment she is rid of the sweater she is hit by a wall of cold. The chill shoots up her spine and flows outward, stopping only once it has reached her toes and fingertips. She shivers.
With all the strength she can muster, she pries herself from the couch and covers the short distance that separates the living room from the kitchen. She pulls a mug out of the cupboard and turns it over in her hands. She contemplates the kettle for a moment before filling the mug with tap water and placing it in the microwave. Pressing her finger against the smooth black buttons, she sets the time and waits. She leans patiently against the counter and listens to the whir of the machine as it warms the water that will soon warm her. The microwave bleats three times in succession, remarkably out of sync with the pounding in her head. She removes the mug cautiously and cradles it in her hands. She briefly considers a teabag, but knows that her stomach would not be able to handle it. Instead, she sips slowly on the lukewarm mug of water, hoping to douse the chill that burns inside her.
She bends to open a drawer and relieves it of a freshly cleaned towel. It's her favorite Christmas towel. The red one with little white snowflakes that she only uses in the month of December. Sometimes she uses it in January too, but only if it snows. Though it is only November, she makes an exception. Again, she wishes she had pills as she grabs the knife from the wooden block and slowly makes her way back to the couch.
She glances at the clock and her heart quickens slightly. There isn't much time, she reminds herself. Placing the knife on the pillow beside her, she unfolds the towel and spreads it across her lap. She carefully smoothes out the wrinkles, stopping only momentarily to finger the raised snowflakes, smiling at the sensation that they leave on her fingertips. She lays her left hand on top of the towel and turns her palm so that it faces the ceiling. The veins in her forearm throb, the purple almost black against the stark white of her skin. Her fingers wrap around the soft wooden handle of the knife and she lifts it off the couch.
She's never been one to believe in God. Never thought much about a higher being one way or the other. She asks for forgiveness, nevertheless. Perhaps there is no God, but she is certain that there spirits and souls from whom she wishes absolution.
The tip of the knife presses against her skin and the chill returns deep within her. She increases the pressure only slightly before removing the blade abruptly.
"Leave," she says with cold, hard finality.
"Sydney, don't do this."
She remains silent. Her eyes fall upon one of the snowflakes and she keeps them there, refusing to meet his piercing gaze.
"Sydney," he repeats, "don't do this to us."
"Leave."
"I'm not going to leave you."
She scoffs.
"Not like this," he amends.
She looks down at her wrist and sees a trail from the single drop of blood she has shed. The pinprick hole mocks her in its ineffectiveness as it rolls off her arm and soaks into the red towel below.
"Leave," she says again.
"You can't do this."
"That's the point. I can't do this. I can't do this on my own."
"I never meant to…"
"I know," she interrupts softly. "I know."
"Then why…"
A shrill cry cuts him off. The sound is both piercing and insistent. He looks at her pleadingly.
"Please, Sydney."
"I can't."
"Then who will?"
"Someone better than me."
"There is no one. It's your responsibility."
"No!" she yells, unbridled, "No! It's yours as much as mine! Your responsibility! Yours!" She shakes violently as she screams.
"I didn't mean to."
"But you did," she says evenly.
"You can't blame me."
"I don't," she admits after a moment. "And you can't blame me."
She wishes she could cry, but cannot find the tears. Perhaps she has no more.
"You're stronger than this," he insists.
"I used to be."
"You have to be."
"I don't know if I can."
She barely hears herself over the intense screams that echo throughout the house. She wonders if he heard her. No matter. Picking up the knife again, she presses it to the vein.
"Stop!" he yells, but his voice just bleeds into the surrounding shrieks and never reaches her ears.
He desperately wishes he could touch her.
As she digs the blade into her skin, she feels a hand on her shoulder. It is warm and strong and insistent.
"Oh my God, Sydney!" a new voice yells. "What are you doing? Stop that!"
The hand leaves her shoulder and finds the handle, ripping it from her grasp and throwing it across the room. It hits the wall noiselessly, or if it did make a noise, no one could distinguish it.
The hand becomes a body and wraps itself around her, finally filling her with the warmth she had desired. Soothing sounds emerge from his lips, though they do nothing to stop the screaming. They can do nothing to stop it.
Silently, she stands and walks through the house, the cries becoming louder and almost deafening. As she nears the crib, the small child quiets, and the only noise that remains is the pounding in her head. It's always pounding.
She clutches the baby and returns to the living room, once again submerging herself in the overstuffed cushions. The towel is gone. The knife is gone. The apparition is gone.
"Sydney," Eric begins slowly as he joins her on the couch, "are you okay?"
As she rocks the now slumbering infant in her arms she ponders how to answer. She's not okay, she knows that. But Vaughn was right. She has to be.