Exhaust
I never thought life would be this way. I knew heartbreak would come—but in the end the heart heals. Happily Ever After is the saying. I expected to cry after falling off my bicycle, or when a boyfriend said goodbye, but never this.
The grass is tickling my legs as I sit by the highway. It's 28 degrees outside—I have no coat. The lighter fluid sloshes inside the small blue container as I try to light my cigarette. As I inhale the delicious nicotine, my eyes are hidden behind swollen lids. My fingers are stiff as I rake them through my hair. What a photo opportunity.
I hear cars of high society fly by, while their passengers take the seconds to glare at me. "Poor girl," are the thoughts of the mothers of my former classmates. I glance down at my appearance, simple. Disgusting. Dark skinny jeans that are tattered on the bottom met with converse that have been washed in mud off set by a blue jacket and wife beater that looks like an ax murder was reliving his days of grandeur. The real attraction was my face. Brown waves hinted by burnt gold flowed down my back, as my ocean eyes were contrasted with crimson veins, and my complexion—transparent. I was never tan, even to the point where I was named 'Casper,' but I looked healthy, then. Happy. A princess living in her fairy tale.
For sixteen years of my life, I was the child that everyone would love to claim. Studious, confident, charismatic, athletic, and humble were all adjectives to describe my charm. Despite the 'Crate & Barrel' personality, friends were hard to come by. Except for one—the one that was mine, and only mine.
Her house was different from mine. The lobby was peaceful, the tan carpet felt soft under my small feet. I was four, when I first came to visit her. My mother swollen with child, held my hand as we climbed into the elevator. I got to press the button to her floor—floor four. God, I was so innocent and naïve. As the metal doors slid open, the atmosphere shot shivers down my spine. The corridor was long and splashed with the taste of ripened cherries.
My cigarette is almost gone. I love the smell it leaves in my hair. I look up and meet the gaze of one driver. It scares me. She slows as she stares me down. O God, she recognizes me. Who is she? Why do I matter? O, right—I'm her child. She called early this morning asking me to run errands and what I intended on doing today. My response was the usual silence to every command and question, but the question that always leads me to hang up is "Are you okay?" Sigh. I look away, pretending that she had no furrowed brow.
She had left a note on my Macbook this morning. It said: "Je manque toujours de temps." My time is always fleeting. She wants me to give in to this thespian act of happiness she has created. My mother knew that was my favorite saying in French—the reminder to embrace myself. I think she saw. She saw my lip—the bottom one to be exact. There are puncture wounds filled with dried blood lining my full rose-colored lip. I've always been one to bit it when I was nervous, but now I let my teeth meet. I didn't ever believe in self-inflicting pain, but the adrenaline is too much as the blood leaves the taste of metal on my tongue. I can barely put my cigarette in my mouth to pull the last drag out because my lip is so tender and swollen. The throbbing in my mouth has become like breathing to me—an everyday occurrence. She doesn't stop. She can't relate to me and she knows it. We both crave each other's company, but she turns her back on me, because I've fucked up her 'picket fence' life. I bet she wishes she never put us together—my friend and I. My mother was just trying to help—to help me be more social. I want to tell her to stop blaming herself.
Never to ask obvious questions, I became curious why my friend never grew. My mother explained that God made her just the way she was and that I was to love her unconditionally—which I did. She was my macaroni to my cheese, my peanut butter to my jelly, and my confidant.
As we grew older, the grown-ups around us became cautious and always had the same red-rimmed eyes—little did they know that Halloween was over-rated, no need for scary make-up. My friend got three early Christmas presents one year; she sent all them back. My mother said they weren't special enough for her. My smile grew quickly as I thought ingeniously that she would never reject my Christmas gift. The ladies that lived in her building pulled blood from me in clear tubes as they kept repeating that, "My friend was lucky to have me." Shaking my head, I corrected them with I was the lucky one to have her. As my cream skin turn black and blue from where the needles pulled my blood from, my friend had to shave her chocolate hair off—I think it was a dare. One grown-up that always wore a white coat told me that my friend would be very happy if I cut my hair too—so I did.
Forty-six hours 'til Christmas morning, the white-coat man asked me into his office. Curling up in his mahogany chair, he knelt beside me. I gazed into his piercing green eyes as they searched in my eyes of blue. No words were said as the tears flowed freely down my face. This man I barely knew held my hand as I broke down for the first time—the first time to realize my attempt to save her was not enough; I wasn't the perfect match to her I thought I was. My tears were never shown in front of anyone ever, especially to my friend. Weakness could not be seen behind my façade of strength.
Today is December 23rd—the anticipation for Christmas has drowned the city as I recollect the shattering of my heroic act. Tears sting my eyes as I reach into my red and white purse splotched with mud and wine stains and pull out the box that holds my relief. In two hours, I've smoked three of these lethal sticks. I don't feel even the smallest tingling of guilt. I need to do what I came here for. My purpose was not to exchange gazes with travelers or smoke my lungs out. No, it was to see—to see her room.
Her room was special. She didn't have to share it with anyone, such a privilege in her building. Three out of four walls were the color of grapefruit. Small bags of water, and little computers hung behind her bed. I would watch those computers as she slept—they showed lines of green that looked like mountains. Some of those mountains were close together like the ones outside of the window in Breckenridge, and the others were lonely to only be followed with flat lines. I learned quickly, the flat lines brought the ladies dressed in pajamas. Those ladies needed to learn that pajamas are for sleeping in, not to go about life in. Little did I know, this would be the place where my childhood would fleet—not my house two miles away, not the hotel rooms of business trips, not even the private school I was enrolled in. I learned how to read in that room, how to tell a riveting story, how to be patient, how to pray, and how to pull strength out even though you had none to begin with.
Exiting the elevator onto the fourth floor, I take notice of the wall color. It's changed. The relaxing blue washes over me as I attempt to put one foot in front of the other. Turning the corner, I see a coffee-skinned mother fixing a sandwich in the makeshift kitchen as fits of laughter explode from the adjacent door. Submerging myself in reasons why such a place could bring laughter, my feet stop. I look down at my untied shoes. Hell, I'm here. My eyes are squeezed shut as I take two deep breaths in. Slowly, my eyes scan up the doorway in front of me. The door is shut—the sign that the room is not in use. Studying the door, tears form. The staff never took our pictures down. I grab the knob and throw open the door. Please be empty, I beg. I expected to find blank walls with a white bed and the smell of bleach.
Contrary, I find the same grapefruit walls covered in snapshots of our friendship. The bed is made, but in her favorite black and blue sheets with a pillowcase to match. At the foot of the bed, roses lay solemnly. These roses are white, her favorite. This is the bed I bounced on waiting for her return from countless visits to the OR, the same bed that was placed in her mother's house for last stretch, and this is the same fucking bed that I held my feeble friend in as she slipped. Thinking of that fateful day—the day my heart broke, I crawl onto the bed and lay my head down.
This is all too much. The floodgates opened as I felt the hole in my heart pulsate—the same hole that create the midnight screams and streams, the hole of emptiness. I cry, because she can never be my maid of honor or never put her little hands on my pregnant belly. I cry for not honoring her final wish and for not being honest with her in the most crucial moment, which in return made me deny the series of events. I sob for keeping my grief to myself, abusing my body as I go and for the realization no one is promising me with their hold that I can do this. I cry, because this strong charade of three years has exhausted me to no end. It is one thing to see an act so absolute take place, but it is a completely different subject matter when you absorb your surroundings alone. I am waiting alone on this bed today—exhausted and waiting for any absolution that may come with no fear in my mind. Taking a deep breath, I close my eyes to face most vulnerable state. As the tears leave their mark on my face, I pull the pillow closer to my chest trying to hide this gapping hole. It was once written, "Come on over to this bitter place, and I'll wrap my arms around you and you'll know you've been saved." I am here—in this bitter place. Who's going to wrap their arms around me?
"Have no fear in your heart, though you feel you've been broken and lost. There's a world where we will meet up again, there's a place that mends your hurt and takes you in. There are times faced alone, when you find all the holes in yourself. You don't have to walk the night on your own. I will say a prayer with you to lead you on; I will say a prayer for you when you have gone. "
Playlist:
What Sarah Said (Death Cab for Cutie)
Have No Fear (Bird York)
Dreaming With A Broken Heart (John Mayer)
Let Me Sign (Rob Pattinson)
How To Say Goodbye (Paul Tiernan)