Desired

07 - Hope Dies

I expected him to call early in the morning. But he didn't call or text me.

I woke sometime before six, feeling like crap, tasting bitter regret in my mouth, and basically dreading the day. Except for the few mornings when I'd awakened at the Moreau house with sunshine pouring in my window, I had been waking up in that state for a while now. However, this morning there was something that I hadn't quite felt before. It was a subtle change that took some time for me to identify.

Instead of dutifully making my bed, unpacking my duffle bag, and neatly sorting my things on the bedspread I retrieved it from where I'd left it behind the door and carelessly dumped its contents on the bed. Some stuff clattered to the ground while the rest formed an untidy pile on the rumpled bed. I didn't bother to pick it up.

After pulling out some clothes and my towel from the pile in my bed. I donned flip flops and made my way downstairs. It felt strange, like I was again living my first year in college when I lived in the ancient girls' dorms and had to use the showers at the end of the hallway. I had hated dorming. I'd never befriended my room mate, I'd never had interesting talks with the other girls, I'd never even sneaked in a guy. Truly, I'd really been all too happy to move into aunt Viv's house in my sophomore year. I tried not to think about aunt Viv as I showered in the pink-tiled restroom, instead focusing on the task at hand feeling grateful that aunt Laura used the good stuff. La prairie? Yep. Good stuff. Anti aging, but still--I was pushing 30. Why the hell not?

I conditioned and exfoliated, and taking advantage of the five minute wait for the deep conditioning I examined my body. Belly, hips, arms, legs, breasts. It the steam of the room I fancied that I was beginning to look pudgy. I certainly didn't feel like a champion. When had been the last time I had gone out for a run? It felt too long. At the rate I was going—no exercise and careless eating habits—I was sure that it would only be a few months or weeks before I was back to size 10. Any other time I would have been horrified, but that morning I shrugged it off, muttering as I rinsed off. Again I paused to think about the niggling peculiar feeling, but was interrupted in my musings by an emphatic knock at the restroom door.

Ugh. I'd somehow forgotten about the shrew.

"Coming." I said and finished my rinse.

She knocked again. This time harder and with a loaded pause in between the knocks.

I sighed. "I said I'm coming" I turned off the water and reached for the towel. I had just managed to cover half my body when the door swung open. Frigid air rushed in the steamy room and I yelped. Tarai wearing the same oversized t-shirt she'd been wearing and looking no better for a night's rest, barged in and sat at the toilet.

"What the hell?" I yelled, "I said I was coming."

"I gotta pee." she said unapologetically

"Unbelievable." I said turning away to wipe down the walls and retrieve the hair from the drain. I was thus bending over when she gave a low whistle.

"Damn girl. Did you get implants or something?"

I stared at her in astonishment. She was meaningfully glancing at my towel-covered rear end. Was she checking me out? The thought was beyond disturbing, but then I saw a glint in her eyes—ah. She was purposely trying to say something that would either shock, anger, embarrass, or otherwise provoke me into a sparring match. She lived to sow discord. She thrived on conflict. Luckily, I knew that ignoring her was the best way to deal with her.

I bundled my stuff carelessly, and stepped out of the warm room. It was cold but I didn't really let that stop me from slamming the door shut behind me. My satisfaction was short-lived when I heard a satisfied chuckle coming from the other side of the door. Tarai really was the worst way to start anybody's morning.

I made my way back up the stairs and locked the door behind me. I glanced at my phone, half-expecting that in the half-hour I'd been in the shower I'd received a call. Nothing.

I dressed and dried my hair before bulling it up in a simple bun. One thing I've always been thankful for is the hair I inherited from my mother—thick, dark, and with a slight wave that gave it texture. I didn't need to straighten it to look decent, good thing because I was still in a peculiar mood. I was ready within fifteen minutes—fast, really, but then again short of UV + moisturizer I hadn't put anything else in my face.

I honestly didn't care. I couldn't bring myself to care.

And that's when it hit me.

That peculiar feeling I'd not been able to identify? It suddenly came to me: apathy. A feeling of who gives a crap. A feeling that simply accepts that the worst and is not troubled by imminent consequences. It was either apathy or simply giving in to hopelessness. Maybe it was both—as if they were two sides of a single coin.

Once I had a word for it, the feeling did not leave. Rather, it gained a more powerful hold on me, as I gladly let myself go. I was too tired to care now. I'd single-handedly made a mess of my life, become unloved and willfully chosen to push everyone in my life away. What was the use of caring now? Of doing anything? Of looking to the future? Of planning my next move? And for that matter what was the use of living? Despite myself I curled in bed next to my mountain of things, and stared longingly at my phone.

One call. My future hung on that one call. Then hope would not altogether leave me.

But the call, as I have said, never came.