Distortion

Chapter 5: Dumped

"God!" he groaned, cradling his head in his hands. "I don't feel so good!"

"Nobody does after swallowing that much magic potion. Especially you, Mister I'm-so-mad-I'm-gonna-wallow-in-my-bottle." I couldn't hide the anger that rolled off my tongue. However, most of it had evaporated. Don't confuse evaporation with dissipation, however. I was still beyond pissed. My anger hadn't just disappeared into a puff of smoke. Instead, it worked its way into the clouds above us, awaiting another moment to cascade upon us in another freak storm that wouldn't and couldn't be avoided.

He lay on the floor, where I'd left him the night before. His eyes shut tightly against the bright ray of sunshine blaring through the open blinds. His shirt was wrinkled, his pants creased, and he wore only one shoe. Oh, Mr. President, I thought, look who's to blame now. Of course, I couldn't say that now. Not when he moaned in pain, writhing on the floor, seeking escape from his own head. I'd save it for another rainy day.

I'd went to bed last night drowning in the anger that my love bestowed upon me. So angry that I couldn't see straight as I stared at the popcorn ceiling, wondering who in the hell he thought he was. I hadn't found an answer before drifting off, but I'd discovered that I did deserve some of the blame. Certainly not all of it. I didn't make the final calls to all those important people. I didn't surrender the information to the enemy. And I hadn't run away from the problem when it got too big to be dealt with.

But I'd given nudges, tiny pushes that sent him spiraling in a rapid acceleration towards the destruction that lay in his wake. Every few nights he would call me. The trill on the phone awakening me from delightful slumber. 'Help me, Britt,' he would say. And help I would try to do. But it seemed that every word I spoke to him awoke something unexplainable, something catastrophic. He hadn't realized it and neither had I, until it was too late.

It had been months since I'd received the fateful phone call, the last phone call, that spoke of what he'd done. He had time to unravel the mistakes but he hadn't known how, so he ran. Metaphorically at first. Avoiding the problems. Then he began running for real, expressing his growing agitation by slapping his feet on the pavement.

Once, I'd tried his method of solving stress. It had been days after he left me. The first time I stepped foot out of the house, needing the air. I donned a pair of short shorts and a tight sports bra. I felt gorgeous but also disgusting. Not only was I dressed to attract a negative male's mind but I was aiming to do so while sprinting down the beach in a pair of new-ish tennis shoes. I'd wondered who I was trying to punish more: him or me?

It appeared to be me at that time. I'm no athlete and I wasn't then. Running was kicking my ass and I ran half a mile before nearly collapsing in the sand, leaning on my knees for support that they couldn't offer. I hadn't brought a water bottle and I desperately craved the liquid to run down my parched throat and rejuvenate my drought-infested mind. I'd padded thoughtlessly down the beach, carrying my arms above my head even as I craved letting them drop and taking me with them into the sand. How I'd wanted to fall onto the beach and just stay there until the waves came and carried me to better things.

But of course, that was dramatic. It's interesting how in times of despair, one instantly feels closer to nature, as if by allowing your emotions to take over you've allowed yourself to be in sync with the surrounding world, closer to your animalistic behaviors. Which can't be true, animals act on instinct, not emotion.

The wind whipped intrusively, lifting up brown and yellow leaves that had found their way to the beach, picking up sand with the bits of tree. The breeze allowed the items to float in the air before dumping them haphazardly back to the earth, abandoning them in whatever fashion that nature prevailed at. I knew exactly how they felt.