Void
| Amelia Meyer
Pontiac, MI
She lays on her side, eyes focused on nothing, seeing little. She listens to the sounds of her blood rushing through her ears, the house climate control breathing. She wonders why she is awake.
She is embraced by her diminutive partner, who spoons into her back and digs small fingers into her belly. There is an abstract sense of “this feels nice” but it does not reach her. She considers whether anything will reach her again.
There is food. She supposes she should eat it. The delightful smells and tastes her large partner has created are experienced by some other woman far away. She tastes nothing. She smells nothing. Is there a point to any of this?
She is cocooned in her bed. A plush shark is tucked into her arms. Her pillow is wet, but she does not recall tears. What purpose would tears serve? Nothing matters and it is too hard to reach up to the feelings that flit so very far above.
A chime from the other room, and quiet conversation. A door opens and closes. A powerful motor whines and there is a mild screech of tires. She is on her other side now. She does not recall moving. Has she ever moved? That seems too hard.
A large hand pulls her into a sitting position. Another presses a bottle into her own hands. It is cool and slightly damp. A voice rumbles, “Love, please drink. For me?” Maybe she can do that. There is a straw. The water feels cool in her mouth. She swallows. A hand catches the bottle as she slumps back to her side.
The air feels thick in the room. She does not know what time or day it is. Time is hard. The room is dark, lit by a faint glow under the door. There are indistinct voices from another room. A plate sits on the bedstand, food the same temperature as the room. She pokes at it idly. Is she hungry? It seems likely but she feels nothing.
She howls at the tearing mass of nothing at her core, screaming at it to let her alone, to feel anything. It echoes her cruelly. “What is the point? Why am I awake? Should I eat? Why should I cry?” She has no answers.
She has food in her mouth. She does not recall eating. Small arms wrap around her from behind. She notes that she is sitting upright. She does not recall doing that. A voice wavers from over her shoulder, “I love you. Please eat?” Mild annoyance; she is eating already. Why does anyone bother with her? She is empty.
Blinding rage draws her into a frozen point, a weapon to be used at those that bother her. Vicious words flash, every one precise and calculated to draw blood. There are no survivors. The room is quiet but for the blood in her ears.
Regret. Recrimination. Desperation. Numbness. The bliss of the dark and the unconscious.
Her pillow is wet again.
There is a rumbling conversation in another room. A sharp exclamation. A rumbling answer. A choked-off sob. A door slams. Why is her pillow always so wet?
Why is she such a terrible person? Why did she let others get so close to her just so she could hurt them? Why bother? It is too hard.
Does she even sleep anymore? Does she ever awake? Her spine protests but she does not move. Is there a point?
She is pulled to her feet by an unstoppable force. She is bathed. She is clothed. The hallway and kitchen and garage appear and pass. There is a car.
The paper crinkles under her as she sits in the silent exam room. Was there a question? She does not recall. The bird lands and sharpens its beak. “Please fill out the questionnaire?” Oh. She looks at the clipboard and pen in her hands. She is empty.
She lays on her side, eyes focused on nothing, seeing little. She listens to the sounds of her blood rushing through her ears, the house climate control breathing. She wonders why she is awake. The pill in her hand weighs nothing and the world.
The paper crinkles under her as she sits in the silent exam room. Was there a question? She does not recall. The bird lands and sharpens its beak. A rumbling voice asserts, “It has been months and this does not seem to be helping. Are there other things we can try?” Has it been? She was just here, a brief eternity ago.
Is this pill different? Maybe. It tastes vile going down. Her pillow is damp.
An indifferent sun rises over a house. A red car sits in the driveway, its green pinstripes glittering in the new light. Someone opens the curtains in a bedroom. Water runs, is boiled, and turns into tea. An auburn-haired woman with tears in her eyes leaves in the car. A tall brunette follows her half an hour later. Someone closes the curtains in a bedroom.
She sits on the porch. Did she come here by herself? Did her partners drag her here? She supposes the fresh air might be useful. She wonders why they bother. She is empty.
She is no longer empty. She is filled with pain. The sorrow and grief and rage and recrimination tear her into atoms again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and
She wakes. She wipes torture instruments from her eyes. She manages to get her legs over the edge of the bed before Everything pile-drives her back into the bed. She is apparently not out of tears yet.
It was easier when there were no dreams. The silky, blessed blackness of not existing for a while. The dreams would be gut-wrenching were she to still have any left from the previous dreams. Is this better than before?
She wakes. Her osmium legs swing over the edge of the bed and drag her upright. She leaves craters in the crust as she plods to the bathroom. There is a shade in the mirror, a wisp, a phantom. Water runs. Soap bubbles. Her towel is wet. Her tear ducts are welded shut by overuse. She sobs anyway. She returns to bed.
She hates the woman in the exam room. Her eyes are full of pity, masking the professional judgements that surely lie beneath. She still tells the woman about the dreams and the tears. There are more pills.
She sits on the porch and watches the tomato plants. There is a hummingbird. She does not need to cry but does anyway.