He remembers her from a time long ago. He remembers the way she was before she gave her flesh to the underworld. He wants her back the way she was. Every last bit of her. He needs her to be more, not less. He needs her. He needs her laugh. Her smile. He needs the life in her eyes, the depths of her soul.
He loves the person she was.
He hates who she's become.
***
She wakes up on the first day of hell. Pulls her tired body upright in bed, where she's shielded herself with five blankets. Far too cold for a late-August morning. Far too could for any morning. She feels the blood sloshing through her veins, trying to warm up enough to travel efficiently. Her fragile feet touch down on the bitterly cold hardwood floor. She pads downstairs barefoot, knees cracking.
An empty kitchen. In the living room, her mother snores on the couch. Too wasted to get up the stairs last night. She snatches the half-empty vodka bottle from the crook of her mother's elbow. Her mother mumbles in her sleep, saliva cascading from her lip, and rolls over. Carrying the bottle, she goes back into the kitchen and dumps the entirety down the drain. The poison gurgles as it splashes down the drain to its death.
She yanks the fridge open and needs to use both hands. She glares down at the contents as though they are her opponents, the villains of the story. Self-control. She has it, she does. Practice self-control. Beat the enemy. She doesn't need it all. Doesn't need. Doesn't need.
Her shaking hand reaches for the milk.
Why is a gallon so heavy?
She pours tasteless bran cereal into a bowl and glazes the top with milk. Sits at the counter eating slowly. Chews each bite fifteen times. She finishes and looks into the puddles of milk at the bottom of the bowl. She doesn't need more. One bowl is enough. She does not need more.
He loves the person she was.
He hates who she's become.
***
She wakes up on the first day of hell. Pulls her tired body upright in bed, where she's shielded herself with five blankets. Far too cold for a late-August morning. Far too could for any morning. She feels the blood sloshing through her veins, trying to warm up enough to travel efficiently. Her fragile feet touch down on the bitterly cold hardwood floor. She pads downstairs barefoot, knees cracking.
An empty kitchen. In the living room, her mother snores on the couch. Too wasted to get up the stairs last night. She snatches the half-empty vodka bottle from the crook of her mother's elbow. Her mother mumbles in her sleep, saliva cascading from her lip, and rolls over. Carrying the bottle, she goes back into the kitchen and dumps the entirety down the drain. The poison gurgles as it splashes down the drain to its death.
She yanks the fridge open and needs to use both hands. She glares down at the contents as though they are her opponents, the villains of the story. Self-control. She has it, she does. Practice self-control. Beat the enemy. She doesn't need it all. Doesn't need. Doesn't need.
Her shaking hand reaches for the milk.
Why is a gallon so heavy?
She pours tasteless bran cereal into a bowl and glazes the top with milk. Sits at the counter eating slowly. Chews each bite fifteen times. She finishes and looks into the puddles of milk at the bottom of the bowl. She doesn't need more. One bowl is enough. She does not need more.
