1
The pen in her shaking hand was barely controlled. She was surrounded by silence and yet still, the noise was overwhelming. The contributing sound was not around her, it was her.
She reviewed what was already on the pages of her writing book, the ink cutting across the paper like lacerations. It was the poorest excuse for writing she had ever produced.
The telephone screamed out in the silence like an air raid siren waking a sleeping city. I quickly rose to my feet, trying to grope in the darkness for the handset. My hand connected with its cold plastic casing, the just recently silenced shrill embedding itself as a burning coal in my mind.
Raising it to my ear with uncertainty racing through my mind, I spoke into the receiver, with a fatigued "Hello?"
The silence on the other end of the line was broken quickly by a tireless, yet gentle male voice. It was full of authority. "Ms. Roberts, we're so very sorry to wake you at this time of night, but we have some awful news.”
*******
Most people say they would be happy if they had a few million dollars. Would you be happy if you had a million dollars? I want you to answer honestly. What if I told you that you wouldn't be able to spend it for another twenty years? Would this money make you happy?
It wouldn't at all make me happy.
This thought caused frustration to rise again in my mind, and I tried to dull it by digging the blade further into my skin. I winced in pain, before realising that I couldn't go any further.
What is the point of Living?
You.
Thunder rumbled somewhere in the distant gloom. She looked up from her writing towards the frail wrist watch she wore. Its scratched face, the victim of a calamity of knocks, bumps and poor manufacturing, made it difficult to read.
Ten twenty-six.
She removed herself from the depressing prospect of continuing writing in the manner she had, and made her way through the darkness of the apartment towards the kitchen.
She reached the kitchen, and audibly sighed. On the disorderly bench, she could make out her continually growing pile of rejection letters from publishers reassuring her to continue submitting her work. She knew they were “unsuitable manuscripts”, for mass publication and commercial appeal, but it didn’t stop her from trying.
She fumbled in the darkness of the kitchen for a glass until she found one on the sink, clumsily knocking it over, but managing to catch it before it rolled off the bench. It made a tiny, resonating clang against the intricate, silver ring on her finger.
“Well, that's a win,” she said to no-one, with a sense of pride that disappeared as quickly as it arrived. Frowning, she turned toward the fridge, glass still in hand as she opened the door, about to rediscover its contents.
She looked towards the medicine compartment and took out a bottle of sleeping pills. Filling the glass with water, she promptly tossed three into her mouth, before receding back into her study and back into another round of intellectual combat, the sleeping pills from the fridge having just cut a cold path down her throat.
She continued to read and attempt review of the words she had scribed earlier.
I used to dream. Now, I have nightmares. I used to dream of the future, and what could be.
I had one modest dream, and that was to never leave your side. I always feared what your solitude could possess you to do. I thought that leaving you alone for half a minute wouldn't have hurt you.
The world around her eyes was not getting any brighter as darkness began to overwhelm darkness. Her mood was pessimistic and at present, she was not enjoying this seemingly arduous task. Somewhere, deep down a voice was telling her it only takes perseverance to succeed.
It was ignored.
Drowsy from the pills she had taken, in her mind it began to rain somewhere as everything began to fade to black. Thunder struck again as she stirred, trying to shake off the artificially induced fatigue. Her eyes blazed in the darkness like the final embers of a summer campfire, and in the dim light, she struggled to read on.
Too bad though hey? I had to leave you alone. Near a cliff. At night. Your placid nature made me believe that what you were doing was a hallucination. Never before in our relationship had I seen such uncontrollable and pure rage in your eyes. Never before had I ever seen such an act performed. Never before I would have believed it was you.
I saw you with a blade at your wrist as you were smiling, falling backwards to your doom. I saw the smile on your face. I saw the satisfaction and peace in your eyes as fear overwhelmed my every thought and instinct, before a surge of disbelief washed away the fear. It couldn't be real. It can't be real. It won't be real.
It was real.
The sounds in my head are echoing now. My own high-pitched, endlessly echoing scream of pure disbelief and horror plays in my mind now, on repeat.
Her head bowed again, mostly out of the lazy dance of seduction being brought forth by the sleeping pills she'd taken. It could have been a mark of respect to a distant memory. The pen slipped from her grip and clattered to the floor loudly, which seemed to startle her, yet in its insignificance, was as quiet as her caged and silent dreams, that always threatened to break through via the vessel of her writing.
As she leaned to one side to reach for the pen on the filthy carpet, littered with random dispersions of failed beginnings to anecdotes or poems, she fell out of her chair. Landing with a quiet, indistinct thud.
Sleep had overwhelmed her at last, and she was now embraced within its delicate, chemical grasp.