Total Eclipse of the Hart

She Had the World

Personal Story: Skype calls and writing sessions are the best :)

Quote: "The value of a man should be seen in what he gives and not in what he is able to recieve." -Albert Einstein

Advice: Be your own kind of you.

Fun Fact: Women are more likely to commit road rage than men.

A LA NOVELLA!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I stand outside, the wind whipping through my leather jacket as I watch the cars fly by. I lean against the brick wall of my apartment building, watching cars and pedestrians live their daily lives. I couldn't sleep last night. How could I? It was like my mom's disapproving gaze was sternly fixed on me the entire night. I found my bottle of vodka in the kitchen; I drank until the fire in my throat exceeded the pain in my soul. I remember choking on the alcohol, as the fire helped me numb my feelings. I still couldn't shake my mother's presence though. 

I see a thin woman crossing the street, her hair onyx, with eyes similar to mine. Was it Zara, finally inviting me to the funeral? I stumble towards her, calling out to her.

"Zara! Zara, did you come to talk to me?" I slur, almost tripping on the pavement of the sidewalk. 

"I'm not Zara, ma'am." The woman says to me, in a distinctly Southern accent. She walks away quickly as I start to realize how idiotic I must appear to her. I reek of alcohol, I'm wasted, I'm probably a hazard to anyone around me. I wrap my jacket tighter around me as I decide to walk into the apartment building, the wind slamming the door behind me.

I walk to Julie's apartment, my feet shuffling as the walls seem to enclose and trap me. I knock on her door, and she answers. She opens the door, dragging me into her apartment and guiding me to her small couch. She puts her kettle on, grabbing mugs from her cupboard and tea bags from her pantry.

"The first night is always the hardest." She says, breaking the silence. I nod, too exhausted for words.

"The second night is really bad too. The first week without them is torture. Their memories engulf you, crippling you in their loss. Everything reminds you of them. Your memory plays tricks on you, you think they're on the subway with you, or they're out in the hallway, waiting for you. They fill your dreams and haunt your nightmares. You would give anything to have them back, to say goodbye, to just see them. But you can't. And everyone in the world moves on except you. You see people continue with their jobs, their personal lives, and you envy them, because in your eyes they don't know the depression you're going through and the anger you have at the world for the cruelties the world thrust upon you. And you cry. You cry because you don't know how to live, how to function without them. Showering makes you cry. Making their favorite dish makes you cry. Thinking about them makes you cry. And then, when you've shed every tear you have, you start to heal. Slowly. You start to smile when you think of them. Your throat doesn't close as much when you mention them in passing. You continue family traditions with the hole in the room that the person was supposed to fill. But you live. Like they'd want you to. You heal. Your heart is stitched. Sometimes it falls apart, stitches aren't perfect. But it's okay. Because the people that care help you sow your life together. And they help you live, in memory of that person." She says to me, clearing her throat and wiping one of her eyes. I fall apart, sobbing on her couch as she sits down next to me. She hugs me tightly, understanding the pain I'm in.

*****************************************************************************************************************

"So you haven't even recovered from your mother's death." She says to me, and I nod.

"Well, actually, I take back that nod. I'm fine now. I was fine before...it. I wasn't as upset after a week or so, because death clouded the awful things my mother had said to me."

"Yes, memory and death create wonders of the imagination," She replies, sighing softly.

*******************************************************************************************************************

Weeks pass, and the pain lessens. I'm able to go out without freaking out. I've stopped mistaking all women with pale skin and black hair as Zara. My mom no longer lives in my dreams, making me regret my life decisions.

I feel better, not having the burden of my mother skewing my decisions and playing mind games with me. I start to move forward in life, everything working out better for me as I pick up the pieces of my life.

Until life decides to kick me back down, and the pieces scatter across the floor, leaving scars where memories once were.