"So...this...goes...right here...This is your rock?"
Lie. Feign confusion. "That's weird."
Lie. Make up a story. "The burglar was furthermore offended..."
"None of this makes sense."
Lie. Try again.
No. He's leaving. Say how you feel. Don't say how you feel! "I...love that you came to my rescue tonight...thank you."
Alone. Empty. Then a knock on the door! Josh!
Not Josh. Fondue. Right, I did order that. "...romance..."
"It's all ruined. Moments ago he held me in his arms...and then just now he could barely look me in the eye. All of my dreams may have just been shattered."
She walks to the patio door, the glass shattered across the floor. She stares. She sits. Her thoughts race. And then they coalesce.
"Thank you! It's so wonderful to be back here, even though I'm here, singing this song, a lot."
Her imaginary self sings out her story. Lost. Alone. The audience sings louder, but it's not enough. She needs the sound to hammer in her ears, to reverberate in her chest with the pain she deserves and which expresses her emotional pain. She looks again at the huge shard of glass in her hand. So close to paradise...and now her soul's in shards. Poetic justice (or something) dictates that her shattered soul should be written on her skin. Visible for all to see. Her stupidity should leave its mark in a way that people would understand. And yet it's not for anyone else. Like an imaginary chandelier, made of the shards. If the music flowed like blood from a wound? She feels frozen. But like she needs to yell and scream and jump and metaphorically pound her head against a wall. The nameless faceless crowd isn't loud enough to satisfy her need. What had she done? What was left? Where could she go from here? Did anything still matter?
She hears a voice. It's...Greg? Could he save her from drowning? Distract from the thoughts that she didn't want to follow? Hold tighter onto him...maybe it will help. Stare in his eyes. Is he here, real? Will he stay? How to make him comfortable, so he'll stay? Offer couch, TV...he wants to clean...offer food? He jokes about coagulating cheese, and a laugh snort happens, startling her, though it doesn't show. Maybe this was the upturn of the evening? Gratefulness and fondness well up from deep within. His embrace is warm and comforting...maybe...wait. Okay, he's seeing Josh stuff. He thinks it was a Josh/Rebecca date. But it wasn't. She was just trying to prevent the world from falling apart, and she had to follow through the lies to try to escape. It hadn't worked...but Greg would never understand, would he? It wasn't a date! He's mad about the cleaning. Why? What had she done? Now he's talking and it sounds like white noise rising in her ears. What is he saying? Why is he angry? His disappointed face is torturous. Desperate, she explains she needs someone with her. He doesn't care. And he's gone.
Alone. The floor rises up to meet her and she rests her head on her knees as she clasps her arms around them. The song rises up again, twice as loud as before. You ruined everything...so stupid...so stupid. Look to the right as you rotate to lie down on your left shoulder, keeping the same curled position. Light flashes on a piece of glass that flew farther than the rest. Maybe the shard was kicked by someone entering through the broken door. Vaguely dizzy, a hand reaches out to poke the shard so that it spins gently. But such things have never been necessary, although the visual is appropriate. Emotion of this intensity demanded a sacrifice before it would ever recede. Fingernails meet forearm. A lot can be done that won't leave a mark. In this kind of climate long sleeves wouldn't work, and anyways that would be sloppy. This process had never failed, in terms of escaping notice. Nobody suspects scrapes or scratches. Was it as effective as what others did with a blade? Hard to say...and maybe that would be more effective? But tried and adequate has benefits over untried with possibility of improvement.
The relief others described never seemed to come, but at least it was something. Was it about control? Or expression? Coupled with the song, repeating again and again, the pain made the ocean of emotions a little calmer. Sleep came eventually, on the sofa. Not good sleep, but it brought the morning sooner. Come said morning, the forearm looks just fine. The tenderness that's palpable when pressure is applied gives no visible sign. What had been raw and red last night now looks...just fine. The masks can go back on. Walls up. Dragging...maybe some coffee. Outfit, makeup...nobody needs to know. No grocery store scenes. Find coffee.
Then Paula arrives. Hazy, she does a double take. How can this woman be so peppy? Can't she see that everything is ruined? Oh. Apparently the face says it all. Concern now emanates towards her like heat from a fire. It would be so welcome if the haze didn't dull everything. She tries to explain, but the sea rises within her and threatens to pull her under. "I don't want to talk about it. That's how bad it is."
"I ruined everything. Because that's what I do." Open your eyes wide. Say it loudly. It's important that Paula understand...that someone understand. "I ruin things."
Paula's talking peppy still. What is she saying? Deets? Was she not listening? Why is she talking peppy, saying happy things? She and her husband? The fog parts a bit, with the shock of the peppiness. Take a deep breath. Rebecca tries, and it doesn't really work. Paula promises that everything will be okay. Maybe she can believe her? Rebecca burrows into the hug, hoping it might last forever. Hoping somewhere was safe, and that maybe it was here, with Paula, the mother figure she'd never had but had always needed.