Cadaverous Love

Chapter Twenty-Nine

I wake up, startled by the sounds of my own breaths. I make my way carefully out of the bed, and cross the cold wood floor to the door. The gentle hum of murmured thoughts lurk quietly in the morning air.

I'm frustrated with myself as I look back at the bed where Dallas lays, I'm tired. Dreadfully tired, but I can't sleep. So instead I let the door click shut behind me as I step into the silent hallway.

My stomach churns and I rush to the bathroom and lean over the toilet, waiting to see yesterday in chunks float beneath me.

My back slides down the wall until I am met with the floor.

I'm sorry I can't give you all of the descriptions of what I'm wearing. Because I don't really know.

Funny how all of the stupid things bleed together until they make you blind in both eyes.

I can only give you the description of myself that I remember.

For mirrors only stir my stomach more.

I have pale skin, I've been called "paper" and "ghost" (ironic, really. I've been wishing to be a ghost for a while now). But my mom... She always referred to it as "fair skinned." My hair is an assortment of browns and blonds, but overall, it's made of golden-brown curls that push themselves on to my face.

I feel like my eyes are brown, plain and tell no story.

If I were to describe the rest of my features in my own voice, I would sound selfish. So, I will tell you the rest in soft words that float in my head. A gently memory of a mother's tone. My mother's.

"Pink, pouty lips,"
"Cheeks full and red as roses blooming in late spring."

How weird the last one sounds to me now. For if I were to look at my reflection I would see no color in my cheeks.

I hardly see color in anything anymore.

--

It's almost dead silent as we load the bags into the car and truck. I am overwhelmed with the feeling to punch myself in the throat.

It's my fault we are leaving. My fault all happiness was cut short.

Darry doesn't speak. He just throws things into the back of the car. Every movement swift and stern with anger.

Two-Bit minds his own business for once. But I wish he wasn't. I wish he would crack a joke and break this solid silence that stirs within me. Within all of us.

Pony whispers to Morgan, so quiet only she can hear.

Johnny doesn't make a sound, as usual.

Soda and Steve start up a small argument, only making the absence of sound into unjust, loud hatred.

"Her name was Mariah," Soda mutters.

"It was not. It was Moira."

"Mariah."

"Moira."

"Mariah."

"Moira."

Darry slams the trunk, breaking the argument and beats us back down in to silence.

Dallas stands next to the car, looking at the ground, curse words effortlessly and soundlessly forming themselves on his lips.

There's a sudden jolt of movement and with out a word, everyone takes their place in the car and truck.

I hate Wednesdays.
They've always been the worst.
Now I have even more reason to have them.
And that reason is, was, and most likely always will be: me.