The pain in her gut pulsated. Bad. Not as bad. Bad. Not as bad. What would happen, she wondered, if she had a day without pain, a day during which she never once thought about her body, her gut, her pain. She opened her hand, and placed it like a vice on her forehead, pressing index finger and thumb on either side of her temples.
She got up off the worn, lumpy couch, slowly raising herself upright, and finished the last swig of cold coffee. She hobbled toward the kitchen, using her hand to steady herself on the back of the couch, the back of the kitchen chair, the countertop.
Rinsing her mug at the sink, she stooped just a bit to look at the thermometer on the window behind the sink. Forty-three degrees. She looked past the thermometer at the trees in the backyard. This year the leaves had gone from green to brown, and the world seemed to slide from technicolor to monochrome. The branches shuddered in the wet chill, and fell, desultory, to the ground, joining what appeared to be a thick wet, brown carpet.
With an involuntary shudder, she turned from the sink, setting her cup nest to the wilted mum plant that she had brought home with her. With something approaching determination, she grabbed the plastic pot and threw the plant in the trash bag under the sink. Straightening her back, she headed to the refrigerator, and repeatedly turned from refrigerator to trash. Out with the moldy sour cream, the outdated strawberry preserves, the curdled milk, the bag of lettuce floating in a brown soup.
Then again the pain felt like a serrated knife plunging repeatedly into her stomach, her intestines, her bowels. An involuntary gasp escaped her lips, and she shuffled to the kitchen chair and sagged into it. She put her head down on her forearm, but there were no tears. When she sat up, she wiped the perspiration from her hairline.
Standing, she walked to the sliding glass door, and put her hand on the cool pane of the sliding glass door. The heat from her hand created a fog blurring her handprint. She removed her hand and realized there would be no proof that she had been here, no handprint, no footprint left behind.
Opening the glass door, she made her way carefully down the two steps. She walked on.
She got up off the worn, lumpy couch, slowly raising herself upright, and finished the last swig of cold coffee. She hobbled toward the kitchen, using her hand to steady herself on the back of the couch, the back of the kitchen chair, the countertop.
Rinsing her mug at the sink, she stooped just a bit to look at the thermometer on the window behind the sink. Forty-three degrees. She looked past the thermometer at the trees in the backyard. This year the leaves had gone from green to brown, and the world seemed to slide from technicolor to monochrome. The branches shuddered in the wet chill, and fell, desultory, to the ground, joining what appeared to be a thick wet, brown carpet.
With an involuntary shudder, she turned from the sink, setting her cup nest to the wilted mum plant that she had brought home with her. With something approaching determination, she grabbed the plastic pot and threw the plant in the trash bag under the sink. Straightening her back, she headed to the refrigerator, and repeatedly turned from refrigerator to trash. Out with the moldy sour cream, the outdated strawberry preserves, the curdled milk, the bag of lettuce floating in a brown soup.
Then again the pain felt like a serrated knife plunging repeatedly into her stomach, her intestines, her bowels. An involuntary gasp escaped her lips, and she shuffled to the kitchen chair and sagged into it. She put her head down on her forearm, but there were no tears. When she sat up, she wiped the perspiration from her hairline.
Standing, she walked to the sliding glass door, and put her hand on the cool pane of the sliding glass door. The heat from her hand created a fog blurring her handprint. She removed her hand and realized there would be no proof that she had been here, no handprint, no footprint left behind.
Opening the glass door, she made her way carefully down the two steps. She walked on.
