Note at the bottom. Welcome back, lovelies.

November

There are three tubes of chapstick in my coat pocket. One is almost empty. The edges are caked with old wax and the plastic scratches my lips when I use it.

It's mint. It tingles. A synthetic substitute.

My arms are sore, but I keep raking. Some leaves are slimy. They stick to my shoes. Goldenrods and auburns with sienna and pumpkin, piled high at my feet. I know these colors.

His autumn eyes.

I crumble a handful to bits. Another. And then another. I've made a mess of myself... again.

I like the crunching sound. It drowns out almost everything else.

I sit right in the stack. I'm fascinated by them. Or distracted. Either is welcome.

How can something so dead be so…beautiful?

Not the first time I've asked that question.

I feel the panic rise and rush inside, leaving my pile of autumn ashes behind.

Charlie snaps at me for tracking them into the house. I frantically brush myself off. Slap hard at my legs, my arms. Specks cling to me. The panic grows. My eyes burn. I was doing better today.

I shower until the water runs cold. It's an icy assault on my tired limbs. My pruned fingertips look like a grandma's. I wonder, briefly, if years have gone by. Since…

I'm no longer just going insane. But, still, I sit on the edge of the tub and watch until my wrinkled skin stretches back into place.

Charlie left a note on my door. He asks me to go for groceries. He wants me out of the house. I want out of my mind.

I only miss the market by one traffic light. An improvement.

An old lady pushes her basket my way in the parking lot. I acknowledge by shifting my gaze from her shoes to her knobby kneecaps.

I hear whispering. But I have the cart with the wonky wheel and squeak. I notice the whispering sometimes, but the staring has stopped.

Drowning out.

I count floor tiles and check expiration dates. It's nearing December.

I put on more chapstick. I bask in the momentary minty memory.

I toss a bottle of cold medicine in my cart. I don't wear a coat. I have a cough. And if nothing else, maybe I'll sleep tonight.

For once.

Charlie wants a turkey. Twenty pounds. I see a display ahead. I don't want to ask for help.

I don't want to ask for help. I don't want to ask for help.

A cart crashes into my wonky wheel. People have already stopped when it processes.

They're staring. I want them to stop staring. The staring stopped. Lips are moving. Eyes shifting. I turn to look at the basket mangled with mine. A woman's hand covers her mouth as she leans to the man next to her. She has long fuchsia fingernails.

It's her cart.

She likes frozen peas.

She's staring and whispering. Whispering to the man. Staring at me.

"…says she's gone off the reservation since that Cullen kid broke her heart."

Cullen.

Cullen.

Swarming pain and pressure pin me down from the inside out. The void returns. This is square one. My colossal collapse. I think of one thing and one thing only before the numbness snaps in place my every point, my northest north and eastest east…

I hate the way she said that name.

And he didn't break my heart. He took it with him.

_

Someone probably called Charlie about my market meltdown. I pretend to sleep when he puts the cold medicine on my dresser and shuts my window.

I reopen it and take a dose of thick syrup at 9:30.

I count flashing dots until 10:28.

Then I sleep.

For once.

_
Something is burning. It's after noon. I don't remember dreaming. Which is alright.

Charlie is in the kitchen. There is flour on the counter. He's painting a turkey. With a paintbrush. And butter. So much butter.

The football game is on in the living room. I sit at the table and chop celery. He wants to make Gran's dressing.

His voice cracks when he says we're having company. Billy. Jacob. Other names. I try to smile. For Charlie. I don't manage it… but I try.

It would be different. She'd put me in a silly dress I'd beg to take off. They'd spend hours cooking for an army, but only for me. It would all be for me. He'd pretend to be embarrassed by his parents' pies, kiss my forehead and tell me it's because they love me. And he loves me. His mouth, that frozen perfection, receiving my thanks in tingly pecks. Humming my lullaby and seeing me off to a full, soundless sleep.

She's not here. They're not here. He's not here.
She's gone. They're gone. He's…

Charlie puts a hand on my shoulder. I can't remember the last time he's come close enough for that to be a possibility. He tells me Happy Thanksgiving.

And then he tells me he loves me.

_
I don't come out of my room when the others arrive. I find leaf dust on my floor so I sweep it. Four times. I count my lemonade caps. Thirty eight. I put on more chapstick. Twice.

Shouts erupt from the living room sporadically.

I unfold and refold all the clothes in my dresser.

I open my window more. I think you can hear everything in fall. The crunching leaves give people away. And if it's this loud to me, it must have been torture for…

Charlie calls me to dinner.

I keep my head down at the table. There is a plate already made for me. The turkey looks funny. Charlie burned it. There is a pile of black skin on the counter. The mashed potatoes are runny. The gravy is chunky. The green beans are greasy.

I watch the bird carcass vanish before my eyes, chunks ripped off and thrown onto plates, gobbled up and repeat. It makes me nauseous.

Bowls empty, everyone talks and laughs and clinks forks to plates at appropriate times.
I still haven't touched my food. I shove it around on my plate to make it look like I've eaten. I haven't said a word. I'm invisible, and I prefer it. Drown out.

A foot jabs my shin from across the table. I jerk away. A few glance in my direction, but focus quickly back on their meals. They don't stare.

I feel a light kick again and adjust my glance from empty plate to chest.

Another kick. Chest to neck.

A tap on my foot. Neck to eyes. Eyes... it's Jake.

It's Jake and he's staring, but not staring like the others. He's… looking. With intent.

Jake's looking and I'm looking and can't stop. Eyes. An improvement.

The others are talking and he's still looking and I feel the panic bubbling.

I see it in his eyes. He's got this look. He's searching for something. And he's doing it with… pity.

And for the first time since… I feel pitiful.

-

This is for Melissa228 and my cling for her.

Thanks to annanabanana and ilsuocantante for the word surgery. And miztrezboo for constantly singing me Lykke.

You know what's awesome about this fandom? We're in it for fun. This was fun. It took a while, but some sort of motivation found me and I'm all in. I love your kind words and messages more than you know. I'll never be an everyday or even every week updater. I'm thankful you guys know that, and read my silliness regardless.

Up next for me? Hand in Glove (gasp, it's happening). And then December. I adore you all, and hope to hear from you soon.

Xo.