Breath escaping, no not escaping, positively fleeing. Rushing from lungs with such force, so fast that it hurts, so hard in fact that she gags. Not the gentle rising in her throat, I think I may have just thrown up a little in my mouth kind of gag. More like her stomach lining is trying to escape, clawing its way up her esophagus dragging her lungs kicking and screaming along with it. Retching… It didn't used to be like this. They're getting worse.
Retch- She thought about the word for a moment. Funny word, saying it, the way the air gathers in your lungs. It almost starts low in your throat as if it were a whisper. Moving through your shoulders and spreading out across the back of your tongue which then spreads out and thickens. Tongue filling the bottom of your mouth, rushing forward, spilling up against the back of your teeth. Even the word is cathartic.
Sticking, the sheets, everywhere they touch bare skin. The sweat standing up in cold beads, how did she get so fucking wet? Christ, you could drown a small child in this bed. Her breath was starting to slow, gradually the heaving of her chest was subsiding. Raw heat from the fear drifting away, leaving behind an empty cold wet nothingness.
What time was it? Not yet daylight so it must be early or incredibly fucking late. Was it always this quiet in the still parts of the night? Nothing but wind, pushing, blowing at the house like a wolf, the smell of pork lingering in its hazy memories. It's funny, she thought, not quite sure what really was and definitely not feeling a bit like laughing. The dreams were always there now. They were taking over in a corner of her mind where she had no control. During the daylight when she was aware of herself she could keep the thoughts, manage them. She did not know which was worse anymore, the dreams, or the reality which was becoming more and more dishonest, more and more a fantasy in and of itself.
There would be no going back to sleep. No drifting back into a restful place. There are no sheep to count, they stopped being useful the day he left, at least it seemed like they were useful before then. Did the sheep leave with him, replaced by the dreams? Or maybe the dreams had fed upon the sheep and now with them gone they needed other things to satisfy their appetites. Either way, peaceful rest seemed a lifetime away.
She slid lightly to the floor and hurried to drain her bladder. The images of her sleep fading as the urine passed and splattered from her into the still water of the toilet. Had he said he would return? She remembered that he had but at this point she didn't trust her own memories. They had blurred with the conversations she imagined, the ones she had a million times since he had gone. The ones in which she apologized. The ones where he forgave her, the ones where he said he loved her. Even the ones where she believed him. Believing him, she thought, those were definitely in her imagination. She had never believed him. Not when it came to the truth.
She grabbed a Diet Coke from the ice box and walked out onto the front porch. Wind still blowing though not like earlier, now it was more like a breeze. Just enough to push the hair across her face and piss her off. There it was, the first part of the day. Just starting to come up behind the trees, the sky lighter by degrees with each passing moment. She tried again to think of an excuse. Shit, she would even have to dance, smile, play nice. They would all be watching her to see. Every one of them prying and looking for just a hint and then they would pounce, fucking assholes.
Back to the ice box for eggs and bacon. Somehow the smell and sizzle of bacon in a heavy pan had always made things better. She didn't remember where that came from but it was definitely true. That one was there before him. That one came from being little, from having small fears and inconsequential worries, the kind that bacon was strong enough to overpower. Not like now. But just for a moment the bacon brings a smile, until she remembers... Memories, she thought, the dead must throw them at you relentlessly. You would think with all of eternity on their hands they could find something more interesting to do than torment the ones still here.
The faucet squeaks like the raspy voice of an old woman with spent thoughts, decrepit bones. The water flows with hesitation, sputtering and spitting from the pipes which carry it through the walls and from who knows where. She wonders at how she takes the things like this for granted. The water just comes. The maze of pipes and paths go unseen yet they are everywhere. Every house, every home, every shop and restaurant, garden and lawn, the completeness of it was actually scary. The idea that there was even enough water in the city to fill all the pipes was absurd. The water towers always seemed big but now that the idea of those pipes is in her mind they seem completely inadequate. The water was always there on demand, to wash away the dirt and the fatigue. It runs over her bare shoulders turning the supple skin red and angry. The shower is a distraction. She runs slick fingertips over the curves and contours of her lower back and hips. The steam entering her lungs, warming the air around her, he had always liked that part. The air thick and warm with steam, the water almost too hot to stand splashing over them both but the tile still ice cold. The contrast of the hot skin being pressed against the cold, cold tile was so intense in her memories. He had always liked intense, always been so damn intense. Shit, at least, it had started as a distraction, they said it would get easier, what the fuck do they know anyway? The tears slip silently down the drain with the soap and water. Running and sliding down the pipes carrying her fear and hurt far away into the maze where they mingle with the tears of strangers with memories of their own. At least they won't be lonely.
Cold bottle against her warm fingers, the freezer spilling frozen air over her wet naked body. Maybe some laundry, a clean towel would make sense, but there is something about standing naked in the kitchen, pouring vodka from a frozen bottle, while dripping dry into puddles at nine-thirty in the morning, that conveys a disdain for reality which few things match. The black one she thought. It seemed appropriate given her mood and they would think it was too short, good. Maybe if they were looking at her legs they wouldn't notice it written on her face…
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