I wake up the next day, the sun peeping through my blinds. I don’t like it. I used to be ecstatic on days like this. I couldn’t stay in the house knowing that there was a warm breeze waiting for me or even just a couple of sun rays. Now I dreaded it. It only meant that I would have one more thing to feel guilty about. I must have cried last night, I realize this now. My eyes are swollen shut and my throat is lined with broken glass. I get up and move to the kitchen on heave, leaden legs. I walk past a mirror in the hallway, which I never know why I hung up and I close my eyes as I do so. I know what I look like. I get two bags of Ice from the freezer and wrap them in kitchen towels and make my way back to the bedroom. I place them on my eye lids and wait. I can feel the water dripping down my face and I know regular people use spoons for this, which they keep in the freezer, but I never seem to remember that. Besides I don’t care. I haven’t washed my sheets in weeks, and it’s only water. I try to lay very still and to concentrate on the drops that keep sliding down my cheeks like ice cold tears. It’s hard not to think and no matter how hard I try, I never manage. I am up to 100, when I can’t take it anymore. I throw the bags across the room and want to scream but nothing comes out. Stewie gets up from his bed, obviously woken by my outburst and licks the floor where the ice is slowly melting. I am not sure, when I put water in his bowl last. Another thing I can feel guilty about today. I put it on my mental to do list. I get up once more and trod to the shower, Stewie right behind me. I make myself look at the mirror. The bruises have a hint of green in them now, it’s only been a day but it must mean that they are healing.the Thought isn't really comforting to me, but I try to look on the bright side for once. I want to be back in my routine, so I take my time in the shower. I wash every part of me thoroughly, because I don’t feel like it was enough yesterday. When I used up my entire shower gel I feel somewhat cleaner or at least as clean as I would ever feel now. I find a towel on the floor which is hardened by the many times it lay crumbled and wet on the floor and I left it there to dry. It smells but I use it anyways. I don’t know when I have become like this. I do know but I don’t want to think about it. I can't help it though. My mind wanders to my old home. The soft pink tiles and the roses on the walls. They were pink too and lush and even though they looked dead, the represented some sort of aliveness, at leas to me. The towels were always soft and clean there. They were so big, I could wrap my entire body in them, down to my feet and I never had to wear a robe. The towels I used to dry my hair with were so heavy, they’d pull my head down. I always felt like being engrossed in a soft pink cloud when I took a shower at home. People might say that I can’t cope with being on my own. That I am not responsible enough to live by myself but that is now true. I am not responsible enough to do other things, far worse things, this I could manage. I know how to use a washing machine, my mother taught me. She wanted me to be able to provide for my man if I ever found one worthy of my love. I know how to cook a decent meal and I know that sheets need washing every 2 weeks the least. I know all this, still I forget. I am not lazy, I am just thoughtless. I throw my towel on the floor again and briefly think about picking it up and throwing in the overflowing laundry basket, but I don’t. I blow dry my hair and apply make-up, carefully covering the bruises with concealer and translucent powder. I curl my hair, until they fall in shimmering waves around my face. I go to my closet and pick out clothes that no one besides Stewie will see me in. My closet is enormous. That is maybe the reason I never have to do laundry. I have enough clothes that I could last half a year without every having to wear anything twice. There are dresses with the tag still on them and shoes that have never been taken out of the box. When I run out of clean underwear I go to the store and buy new ones. If I have a good day I will wash them out in the sink first, but if I don’t I just throw them on. A rash is the least of my worries now. When I am dressed I go back to the kitchen. I have no food so I suck on a leftover ice cube and make myself a cup of coffee. Then I put my head in my hands and listen to the ticking of the clock on the wall, wanting to cry, but my cheeks staying dry.
2 YEARS AGO
My head hurts so much, I can barely think, but it is a good kind of headache. One you get from being outside all day, laying in the sun and drinking cocktails, grinning so much that your face hurts at the end of the day. A headache that I know will go away, once I close my eyes and fall into a deep sleep. „Honey, why are you so late?“ My mother is outside on the driveway the second I turn the engine off. I know I should have called, but it summer and I thought I might get away with it. Still I apologize. „I am sorry mother.“ I kiss her lightly on both cheeks but she brushes my kisses away. „Dear, you know we worry.“ I can see tears forming in her eyes and I know my apology is too late. I don’t want her to cry because of me. But I know she will. She always has so much to cry about, even though I really try to be good. I hug her but she recoils. My hug grows tighter, as if I can change the inevitable doom. „I am really sorry, mom.“ She tells me it’s ok as she angrily wipes the tears from her face, but I know it’s not. And I know it’s not over. I don’t see my dad’s car in the driveway, so he isn’t home yet, but I know she will tell him what I did. I am not scared of my dad. But I am scared of his face. The look he gets, when I make my mother cry. The disappointment edged so deeply into his wrinkles. If I were a dog, I would tug my tail between my legs and sit in the corner. Unfortunately I can't do that. So all I do is sit quietly and acknowledge and then accept. I know I am better. I don’t know why I always seem to disappoint them. All I know is that the day has been so wonderful, that for once I don’t really care.