Remains

Tsunami's Theme / Gretchen Ratke

After Liam had left, Isabelle found herself with an appetite. 

It was rare for her to feel hunger after the incident, and she always had to force herself to eat. But knowing that she began to feel something other than numbness again showed her that maybe unloading her pain onto somebody else was helping. 

The specialists that helped her already knew what happened, but when they tried to press her into recounting the subject, she always shut herself down and wouldn't speak. 

Looking back, Isabelle began to think that maybe she was uncomfortable speaking to someone that was only being paid to help her. Liam was the perfect example, he was a friendly face that she didn't feel like she had to keep secrets from, and she trusted him far more than any professional she had ever worked with. 

Isabelle had lingered at the closed front door long after Liam had left. She had to give herself space, but at the same time, she felt safe when he was around. 

Maybe it's nearing the time to let go. 

Maybe the world has changed, and maybe mine can too. 

Her right palm lingered on the door, and her left hand rested on the handle. She rested her forehead against the wood, taking slow and steady breaths. 

I think that maybe one day I'll be okay. 

This is the first step towards recovery. No matter how hard my life has been, finally things are starting to look up. It sounds so wrong in my mind after years of telling myself otherwise. 

Isabelle knew it sounded stupid, but talking to a journalist, of all people, was starting to lift the load on her shoulders. She had no idea if something like this had happened to others and they'd reacted the same way as her. Had anyone found release in someone that wasn't qualified to help? Or was she alone, just like always? 

She sighed and squeezed her eyes shut, pushing off from the door. She slowly paced towards the kitchen, where she pulled open the fridge door and stared mindlessly at her options. 

There was a punnet of blackberries next to an unopened carton of milk, and there were a few slices of leftover delivery pizza, and that was all. She pursed her lips at the scarcity of food and shut the fridge door, reminding herself that she needed to order more groceries online. 

Isabelle huffed, pacing aimlessly across her kitchen floor, trying to find herself inspired by anything. It was just past three in the afternoon, so it was too late for a proper lunch, so she just decided to use the last slice of bread to make toast. 

As she waited for her toast, she leaned against the counter, staring down at the kitchen floor. The tile instantly reminded her of the supermarket's flooring, and once again, she was back in the place she feared most. 

She stared into her mental void, feeling herself slipping back into darkness. 

No, I want to get better. Please, I can't let myself fall into my own trap again. 

Isabelle tried shaking the feeling away, but her thoughts only kept on returning stronger.

Why am I so weak? Of course I was stupid enough to think that I was getting better so easily. It takes time to heal, it doesn't just happen overnight. 

But it's been five years, and I'm no better. How have I been so useless that I can't even stop thinking about it for even an hour? Anything I feel that isn't fear or anxiety isn't real. I'm too scared to even try to get better, and everyone knows it. The behaviorists knew, Sadie knew, even my parents knew. Everybody gave up on me because they could tell that I wouldn't be able to pull myself together enough to make any effort to do anything. 

Stupid. 

Weak. 

Worthless. 

Isabelle slid down the front of the counter, curling up into a ball. She smacked her fists against her temple, letting out a frustrated scream. 

"Get out of my head!" she shrieked, trying to expel the poisonous thoughts and memories from her brain. 

She rocked back and forth, hyperventilating and bawling her eyes out, gripping her hair and yanking on it. 

I wish I was normal. 

Why do I have to be this way? 

"Why?!" she cried aloud, trying to force herself to get up and down some medication. 

But she couldn't. 

She rocked and cried until her tears ran dry, and she didn't even notice that she had burnt the toast. 

*

Liam was back at the door, knocking, a new day beginning. 

Isabelle had recovered from her episode, but exhaustion plagued her, despite having a sound sleep. She knew she had visible bags under her eyes, and she was having trouble keeping herself awake. 

She knew, however, that if she neglected to continue her story, who knows where her regret would lead her. 

Isabelle opened the door without saying a word, and she gestured for him to enter. He smiled and nodded once, quickly navigating his way inside to his designated spot on the sofa. Isabelle shut the door and made her way into the living room where he sat, and she dropped herself into her armchair across from him. 

"How are we this morning, Isabelle?" He asked. 

"I had an attack last night," she mumbled. 

"Oh no. I can come back tomorrow if that is what you wish," he said, sympathetic. 

"No. I need to get over myself." Isabelle snapped. 

"Isabelle, this isn't something you can just push away. Getting better will take time-"

"It's already been five years!" she interrupted, "it has been time enough, and I've decided that this is the first part in the new chronicle of my life." 

Liam sighed, looking down for a moment. "Okay," he said, meeting her dismayed gaze, "if that's what you choose, I'm ready to listen to whatever you have to say, and I have been since I heard about you. If letting you vent is helping you, I'm here for you. And just think, when people read about your story, they'll know just how strong you are." 

Isabelle smiled, with nothing but real feeling behind it. 

No more lies. 

I have to do this.