XXX
Summer
She can feel time elapse before her, like those scenes from movies, where a plant sprouts, blooms, and then dies, all in less than a minute. She's on day number 238, she knows because she has counted every single one of them. Somehow, she has been on auto pilot, living off routine: wake up, go to work, come home. Repeat. She tries not to put too much thought into anything anymore.
Her hairbrush is purple and sits on her dresser in front of her. It's squared, with a long handle, and has really soft bristles. She likes to run her hand over them, they prickle her skin and she pushes her hand down, enjoying the pressure from it. She feels numb as she remembers how Vega would sometimes use it when he thought she wasn't looking.
She picks it up and measures the weight of it in her hand. It's not really heavy, but it's enough to make her feel like she's holding on to something. She begins to brush her hair in long even strokes. She starts at her roots and moves down through her hair. She's very gentle at first, careful.
Sometimes, Vega would watch her do this. His eyes would be dark and sparkle with hints of amber. He would just sit there and watch as though her brushing her hair was the most fascinating thing he had ever seen.
She recalls the color of his eyes; he had the brownest eyes she'd ever seen. They were this deep, rich hue, like little chocolate chips. She felt when he looked at her, he was seeing through her. Right down to her core, she always felt bare in front of him. They always made him seem mysterious and she would often imagine all the secrets that they held. She thought one day she would be able to discover them all. But that felt like a lifetime ago now.
She changes her thoughts, and remembers how as a child, she took an art class, where she learned all the colors that could make brown. She tries to recall them all. Red and green make brown. Orange and blue make brown. Purple and yellow make brown. She repeats it over and over in her head, repeats it so much that she is actually saying the words out loud.
She continues to brush her hair, but this time her strokes are hard and fast and she winces from the pain, but doesn't stop. Red and green make brown. Orange and blue make brown. Purple and yellow make brown.
She says it over and over; the words slip off her tongue in quick succession; until finally it makes just one long sentence: Redandgreenmakebrownorangeandbluemakebrownpurpleandyellowmakebrown.
She says it again and again, amused at how it sounds each time she does. She starts to laugh and it's one of those hysterical kinds of laughter; the kind that makes a person appear crazy, but she doesn't stop. Her shoulders shake—her head twists back, and then she realizes she isn't laughing anymore. She's sobbing uncontrollably.
She drops her brush, and tries to ignore the glops of blonde hair in it.
XXX
She lounges across her bed, and struggles to get comfortable on the mattress. It feels lumpy and stiff for some reason. She wonders what day of the week it is. Somehow she's managed to lose track. She has been thinking a lot about him, more than normal.
Her house is empty, but she still locks herself in her room, she feels more at peace that way; like no one can get in, she can be alone with her thoughts. Lately, she has been remembering random moments.
Like how on one summer night she convinced Vega to go for a ride. They had been working late and as they walked to the parking lot, there was something about that night, the warm air, the light breeze. All she knew was that she wasn't ready for it to end. She talked him into taking her car, and into driving. It was out of character for her, but it felt like it had to be this way. She rolled down all the windows, so the air came through from all directions. They had no real destination; most places were closed now anyway. So they just drove around town. She laid her head out the window and stared at streetlights. They blurred by in little shots of gray and she closed her eyes. Neither of them said a word; both always comfortable being silent together. He was the only person that she could do that with. Just be completely still.
That is what she misses most about him. That she could just be herself. That the world could turn upside down, around and around, and in his presence, everything would be still, at peace. Sometimes she imagines she's died with him; sometimes she longs for It. Sometimes she thinks it would have been easier that way.
XXX
Today, she is sitting on a park bench; the breeze is light around her. It's a really beautiful day; the sky is clear, the sun is out. And she's glad she was able to convince herself to get out of bed. Summer always had been her favorite season.
There are trees on both sides of her, tall long branches that reach heaven bound. Their limbs are full of rich greens and yellows; the announcement of rebirth, of new season, and this makes her slightly sad, for she no longer believes anything exists after death.
Or not in her case—not on earth at least. She read a book on grief, on each of the mourning stages; she thinks she is permanently stuck on anger. How could she not be?—How dare him to just leave her behind. How dare him not to open his eyes as she screamed over him from the hospital bed, gripping his hand so tightly, that she prayed her own life would fold into his retreating one.
These things weren't supposed to happen to her—to them. Whatever it is that is happening to her, she knew it is of her own fault—some punishment from the universe, she must have done something wrong, something so terribly wrong, that even she doesn't know what it is—but it is drowning her, making her feel inadequate and wrong, without worth—and without worth or purpose, she might as well be dead, with him.
And she just wants everything to go back to how it was, to how it was before all of this, but there's no point in it—in wanting.
A soft sound of a child's laughter catches her attention and she looks in the direction of where a sandbox is tucked beneath a cove of trees. Two children are playing; a boy and a girl. The boy looks around the age of seven, and he's protective, and yet, teasing at the same time, over the little girl. Who appears to be a little younger, blonde hair in pig-tails and hands on hips, and for the first time, in a long time, she finds herself smiling.
A real smile, one felt from inside your soul, not like the fake ones that she has been sporting since his death. This one is very much real. There's an element about their relationship that borders on brother and sister, and something perhaps more intimate, that makes you wonder about childhood love.
She remembers the first time Vega asked her out on a date. Not the quick lunches they were used to grabbing together while working on cases, but an actual dress-up date. How his hands were digging into his pockets as he stood in front of her, sheepishly, and how she smiled at him, and teased him the whole time, till he finally just spit the question out. It had been a long time coming, both already sort of feeling it out, but neither making the first move. Oh Oscar. Vega…
The realization once more slams against her like a tidal wave; he is gone. And there was nothing she could do about it. She grabs her purse from the bench and runs from the park, runs pass the laughing children in the sandbox, runs until she is out of breath and there isn't anywhere left for her to go.
She digs into her purse, feeling the glossy print, and pulls it out. It's a picture of her and Vega, smiling brightly at the camera, on their date at his father's wedding reception—and the guilt hits her. He would never again be on this earth—and here she was moments ago, smiling—and how completely and utterly wrong it was—for her to smile.
XXX
