Beautiful

It was happening again. Clarisse was in her quiet, hollow room creating foggy sobs. This was nightly now, for Clarisse and Mildred. Both would return home from long days, acting normal and civil, until Clarisse retired for the night. Then, the real hurt began.

Mildred would listen silently every night, like a catholic school girl stuck on a priest. It pained her, for some odd reason. The noise alone – knowing Clarisse felt alone on an island of deep sadness – created emptiness about Mildred. Her eyes weren’t electric anymore; they buried themselves deep within her sockets and remained milky.

Tonight, Mildred was going to stop the dull sobbing.

“Clar, can you let me in?” Mildred asked after lightly tapping against her oak door. They shared a flat, but Clarisse had insisted upon separate bedrooms.

A deep breath sucked from exhausted lungs. “It’s unlocked.” Her voice – Mildred noted – hung in the air like stale laundry.

Mildred opened the door, gingerly stepping over the threshold into the battle-worn room. Instantly, she felt the dull pain in her chest cavity spread. It had become hot now, burning her veins. Clarisse was crumpled into a small ball on her unkempt bed, the shell of a girl.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, her pale eyes roaming her broken frame.

Clarisse didn’t respond. Her body was too exhausted from intense crying fits that created earthquakes. This is the damage he had left.

Clarisse heaved, her body once again going through the nightly ritual. After the earthquake came the flood. From her throat erupted a diluted stream of foul water into a trash can placed neatly beside her bed. Mildred knew this. She was always prone to vomiting after becoming upset.

“It’s okay,” Mildred said, floating to Clarisse. She wanted to rub the small of her back and bundle her up in a galaxy of love and blankets. To cast Clarisse into her embrace. Instead, she gently sat down beside the spherical Mildred. Up close now, Mildred noticed the havoc the tears had wreaked. Placid cheeks were now stained with lines that looked like little stairs.

“No,” Clarisse whimpered, her voice faint in the mattress. “I am nothing without him, Mildred.”

“Look at me,” Mildred said, her hands now at the small of Clarisse’s back. “I – fuck – I’m in love with you, Clarisse.” This sudden – rapid confession – had escaped into the atmosphere as a series of broken syllables.

“Stop. Don’t say what you don’t mean,” Clarisse replied, her face still painted into cloth and stuffing.
From Mildred’s ashen lungs came a soft and bitter laugh. Oh, Clarisse, how can you not see?

“You existed before he did, you know. You are flesh and earth, Clarisse. Not bits and pieces of stupid boys with sad eyes.”

“But will I ever be pretty?” she asked, finally lifting her sodden face from the mattress.

Soft hands migrated from her back to her face, cupping her soggy cheeks, “Pretty doesn’t even begin to describe you. You are a flower, Clarisse. How often did he call you beautiful?”

“Only once.”

Mildred gently pressed her forehead against Clarisse’s, “And please remember that you were beautiful before he told you that you were.”