Everything Here Dies Alone
- hapsby
Pearl Hohenberger wants to die. She locks herself up in her greenhouse, like Rapunzel in her tower, all safe and alone in the slick heat of plants and the soothing buzzing of insects. Her mouth is always dry, cotton-thick; a side effect of the antidepressants Leonard prescribed in the hopes of curing her.
Pearl is a woman of science. She knows how much is too much, but hour after hour, she swallows another pill, and then two more, and then two more. She vomits sometimes, and pretends the bitter stomach acid is the blood poor beautiful Joseph retched with his dying breath.
The bed that darling Joseph was conceived in once carried the intermingling scents of clean sweat and sex and chemicals; all delightful, delicate fragrances that made Pearl and Leonard who they were and what their love and life meant to the both of them. Now, the bed is unmade because Leonard isn't energetic enough to make it and Pearl never touches it. The thought of sex with a murderer turns her stomach, so she swallows another handful of pills when Leonard comes home. She is fully aware that her plastic smile doesn't reach her bloodshot eyes. She isn't sure how much longer she will try to please the man she hates - loves - hates the most.
On their wedding day, Pearl smelled soft and feminine, like flowers and springtime and love. The slender curves of her body melted under Leonard, later, when he took her to bed. If Pearl can remember that she once loved Leonard, then maybe she can again. But when their mouths meet, awkward and apathetic, all she tastes is the blood of her son and the lips of the man who smilingly sent him to die.