Abigail
Tuesday
21 February 2017
"It's astounding and absolutely unprecedented for something like this to happen Steven. Truly a nation -in shock. Here we see former district attorney and now ex Secretary of States, Elizabeth Masey, being officially taken away at her bail hearing for aiding and abetting in the murder of Kristen Wyland."
"Yes of course Wolf the -uh President and his wife, the campaign manager all implicated and charged in what's come out as the bizzarest story in William Mitchells' very short term in the presidency. Of course what we're all asking ourselves is 'how did we get this guy so wrong.' Stay on us, as we keep you updated, after this."
The blare of CNN alongwith the song stuck on repeat on my speakers is all white noise. My cheeks itch with dried tears - or new ones, I can't tell anymore.
The fluffy carpet is the only thing I feel as I walk to the toilet. My bladder forcing me to move.
The flashing of my answering machine screams what I already know from the missed calls on my phone. 64 new messages. 23 missed calls. Missed? No, ignored.
The bleep of the machine trills as I press play.
"Hi Ms. Mitchell, I'm Amanda Seinfeld, your assigned press secretary, we were suppo-" click.
Beep.
"Abigail we know it's been tough but your father needs you to -" click.
Screw this.
The crackle of cable and plug seperating is satisfying as I rip it off the wall.
There. No more noise. Out of sight, out of mind. Everything is just fine.
Wednesday
22 February 2017
The knock on my door drags me out of sleep. My eyes burning from being on my phone until the early hours of morning. Waiting for sleep to cradle me to a faraway places. The pills clearly of no use.
Only agent Kozak's steady knock let's me know that it's atleast 10 AM. Does she even still work for me?
"Not today, thank you!" I project, loud enough so that I don't need to move an inch from under the covers. A useless exercise because I do at some point have to get up and eat.
I should have just gotten up. Instead lower my hand to the side of my bed to grab last nights dinner: a bottle of red wine.
Thursday
23 February 2017
"Mam."
From the depths of random ideas and mashup of chaotic images reality swims, murky to my surface. There's a subtle awareness of who I am under my slow thoughts held together with their loose connections to my waking life.
"Mam?"
When did get to bed?
After a few moments I begin to analyze in a lazy way. Perhaps those words are meant to be heeded. A tether to reality. But I still can't grasp whether they're in this world or that one. The voice, the echo is familiar, I struggle to comprehend whether its still in my head.
My eyelids flicker open to the unlit room. A gentle hand on my shoulder and a whispered 'Miss Mitchell' belong to Agent Kozak's concerned voice.
I forgot to tell her I was fine. Probably not going anywhere - for a while. If I don't answer she comes in to check that everything is okay - that I haven't killed myself.
I close my scratchy sleep-filled eyes again, willing the stories to return. For my mind to tumble back to dreams.
For a minute they threaten to win but with sheer will I overpower the days demands. I pull the covers over me, more than it should be humanely possible, and burrow away to my dreamstate retreat.
