Woebegone
Eight
There was no doubt that morning when I woke, that death had taken a large bite from my heart. It was viciously taunting me, throwing callous and weary words as thick as the earth at my ears. I even ate death for breakfast that morning, secretly dumped into my milk. That’s why I had to run to the bathroom to vomit. Unfortunately death did not make its way up, just the contents of my stomach. I cry a little again, hoping that death will crawl from my eyes with the tears. But it doesn't. It’s very desperately and forcefully gripping onto my heart. I can’t get rid of the death, I've always known that.
Later when he finally returns I beg for his arms, maybe he can take some of the death. But he doesn't wrap me in his body. How can he take the death anyway when he’s full of as much of it as myself? He brings with him pizza and we eat and watch nothing on TV. He says my name but at first I think it’s just the wind, laughing at me. He says it again and so I turn my head. It looks like the words are in his mouth but does not speak them.
“What?” I ask.
He shakes his head, “nothing” and retreats to the bathroom.
Later when he finally returns I beg for his arms, maybe he can take some of the death. But he doesn't wrap me in his body. How can he take the death anyway when he’s full of as much of it as myself? He brings with him pizza and we eat and watch nothing on TV. He says my name but at first I think it’s just the wind, laughing at me. He says it again and so I turn my head. It looks like the words are in his mouth but does not speak them.
“What?” I ask.
He shakes his head, “nothing” and retreats to the bathroom.
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Thanks to everyone who reads this story and especially those who have commented.