Rising
Tides
Empty, empty, empty.
The word rolled around the
room and echoed in her mind. It slid along her skin until it rested
on her stomach. Empty, empty, empty. And she couldn't stop it from
beating its chorus, couldn't stop its refrain from repeating.
The
television's shadows flickered on the walls, highlighting her
furniture in shades of blue. The volume was turned up, a little
louder to fight the silence, and the words eased past her. They
circled the room, settling in the corners where they remained
unheard. The room was gathering words quickly and they were stacking
up on top of each other, waiting for her to notice them.
She
curled her fingers around her afghan, threading them through the
holes, and looping the fringes around them, over and under until her
fingers were knitted in the fabric. She studied her hands and
tried not to think about everything that had slipped between them.
How the days and people had flowed through them like water and she
never held on to them.
She didn't actually believe that
she was cursed. She knew, rationally, that she wasn't. That she
couldn't be held responsible for everything that had happened and
everyone that had gone. But the same nasty voice that reminded her of
all that she would never have made her wonder if she didn't deserve
it.
It occurred to her in one of those moments, half-fuzzy
and half-clear, when she realized all she could have done
differently, if only she had known the consequences. Scenes piled on
top of each other. Moment after moment where she could have said
something else or waited a minute longer. She listed each apology
that she could make, took back all of her no's, and stopped herself
before she retreated.
But it was all in her imagination and
it changed nothing. She was still sitting on her couch, still
listening to the television too loudly, while people walked by her
building and cars drove around the block. She sighed and leaned back
against her couch, letting the talk show banter ebb and flow around
her. Her eyelids slid shut slowly and drifted open again, blinking
against the glare of the television screen.
This wasn't
what she wanted. It wasn't what she had wished for as a child.
She knew that some people were happy living alone. That being
successful and surrounded by friends was enough. But she wasn't one
of them. She wanted to hear someone in the kitchen. Her ears strained
for the sound of the refrigerator opening and closing again. For the
sounds of feet in the hallway, or soft voices in other rooms.
She knew, now, that she would never be happy alone. She knew
that she had settled in her choices. And she knew, now, that it
didn't matter. The places that she had wanted filled were still
empty. It was hard to admit, harder to accept as true. Empty, empty,
empty, the word hissed again.
She traced the colors in the
afghan, running her fingers over them from edge to edge. She braced
herself against the onslaught of voices. The mean whispers that told
her she would never be enough, would never have what she wanted most.
After so many years of shouting at them only to have them resurface,
she wasn't sure she had the strength to fight them this time around.
Clay was gone, her children would never come, and Harm was better off
without her. The self-pity was a wave that she couldn't stop and it
annoyed her to hear the words whisper out. Empty, empty, empty.
A police car drove past her apartment. Its siren pulsed
against the closed windows and seeped between the cracks in the
sills. Someone shrieked and a half-laugh followed. Voices
shouted to each other. She sighed again and shook her head, trying to
clear it. She should probably just go to bed. Close her door against
the sounds and hope for something better tomorrow.
Her hand
reached for the remote and someone knocked on her door.
