Blinking Into Uncertainty

“Fuck, kid.”
It feels like no one can hear me.
Feels like no one can hear me drop to my knees.
Feels like no one can hear my heart shatter.
If no one hears, no one cares.
If no one cares, no one hears.
But I can hear everything too loudly.
I can hear the little shards of my heart beating apart.
I can hear the crickets chirping outside the window.
And I can hear myself searching for air to breathe as I gather the girl into my arms.
She’s too pale, too small, too quiet.
The light beats down, cold and clinical, cruel and criticizing but completely indifferent.
I drag her limp arms into the bathtub and do the same with her legs. With quick, jerky gestures I turn on the shower, keeping it cold.
And then I sit rigidly down on the cold toilet seat and I watch her face and I try to keep my mind sharp and cool, lucid. I mustn’t relax. I can’t.
So I sit and stare as the shower sprays freezing cold water across the floor and soaks into my socks.
Nothing happens though.
Abby doesn’t wake up.
I let out a soft breath and stop the water.
I crawl into the tub beside her. It’s big enough for both of us. We’ve always been small.
And so I lie down in the bathtub next to Abby and I stare at the ceiling, speckled with mold and I feel the slowly forming puddles of cold water etch into my clothes.
I feel around for her hand and I find it cold and stiff. I pry her hand open with both of mine and I clutch tight to her ringed fingers.
My hand pulses.
It’s unfair.
Why.
I let my head fall back on the wall and I squeeze my eyes shut till it hurts and I lift my head up and slam it back again and again.
Don’t do it, Abby.
Don’t.
Don’t.
Don’t.
You can’t.
You can’t leave me.
I’ll be alone.
You can’t go.
In a daze I stop and open my eyes and I stare down at Abby’s purple eyelids. I push the slick wet hair out of her face and say in my softest voice, “Wake up.”
But she won’t listen to me.
She can’t hear, she doesn’t care.
I tentatively touch the side of her face. “Please wake up.”
I notice a few teardrops trail down her stony face. My lip quivers. “Don’t cry, Abby. It’ll be okay. You just have to wake up.”
I hold her face so it’s in front of mine. “Open your eyes, Abby.”
They remain closed and I slide my hand out from under her and her head lolls back and her forehead hits the wall with a morbid thump.
“Abby…” I whisper. “Wake up…” I lick my dry lips and watch more tears fall on her cheeks.
Abby, how can you cry and not wake up?
I rub my arm across my nose and gather her into my lap. “Wake up, wake up, wake up…” I chant over and over. And so softly I can’t even be sure I’m saying a thing. Is it Abby telling me to wake up?
And then it all stops.
The soft voice that melts together the small hopeful words and the cruel, blind lights.
Gone.
“Wake up, Abby! God damn it! Don’t you leave me! Wake up!”
The water runs down.
It runs down.
It runs down.
And it won’t stop.
Why won’t it stop?
Where is it coming from?
The lights are back.
They’re too bright.
Too bright.
And I don’t even know where I am anymore.
I can feel something cold against my hands.
Cold and soft.
Soft and cold.
Again and again.
…
I stumble out of the bathtub and collapse in the space between the toilet and the tub.
I pull my phone out of my pocket and stare evenly at the girl before I dial the number.
…Wake up, wake up…
…Don’t leave me…
…Open-
“-911, what’s your emergency?”