KATE
My body is shaking from the mental exertion it takes when you give someone an ultimatum and they choose the option that isn’t you.
The sink is dripping, the fan is on in the living room, and Michael slammed the front door closed so hard that it bounced back open, and I can hear it creaking on its hinges now. All these things, little inconsequential things, would be so easy to fix. But I can’t move. There’s nothing broken that can truly be easy to fix. If fixing it is easy, it was never really broken in the first place.
And that’s how I know. Whatever it was that Michael and I were trying to pass off as a relationship is broken, destroyed, damaged beyond repair. If we were a glass window, Michael shattered it. And as I tried desperately to pick up the pieces, he just kept taking swings, destroying whatever was left of the glass and even the pile of shards that I collected.
It wasn’t the same old story. It wasn’t ‘broken boy meets girl who fixes him.’ Michael was broken when I met him and he just became more and more broken the longer I stayed with him. Maybe it was my fault for never trying to fix him, but Michael was always saying that he was broken while acting like he wasn’t. Even now the memories whirl in my head, scattered and out of order. All I could ever do was hold him, tell him what he was worth, tell him that I loved him. It’s not up to me, if he didn’t want to believe it.
Finally, I let out a deep breath and I can move again. I walk to the front door, which is wide open. Cold air rushes into the room from the hall and I shiver, reaching for the handle. It is a product of the ever-living hopeful in me that I check outside the door before I close it, just in case. I’m a fool to think that he would come back.
Well maybe not. I am almost sure that he will come back, eventually. At some point, he’ll come back to an empty apartment and an even emptier girl.
That’s what happens when you pour yourself into someone’s hands and they don’t catch it.
Back in the kitchen, I sweep all of the stupid little boxes of medicine back into the shopping bag. I am tempted to rip the boxes open and pour the little pills down the sink, not wanting or needing his help in any form. But my head is pounding and my throat is dry, my skin still flaming to the touch. So I take out the one box of nighttime cold medicine. It’s barely midday, but this is what I need. As I dry swallow the huge blue capsules, I hope they knock me out for the rest of the day. I welcome oblivion for a little while.
I shove the little boxes back into the bag, my fingers brushing against something a little softer. When I reach inside, my hands finds the soft, broken-in leather of Michael’s wallet. He must have dropped it in the bag in an effort to free his hands and open the door. Sure enough, when I sift through the bag, I also find a small golden key. The key to my apartment, the key that I gave him and took back on several occasions. A lump rises in my throat.
For a split second, I consider walking outside and placing it back under the doormat. But I know I can’t do that. I can’t let him back in… into my home, into my mind, into my heart. Not when he had the chance to stay and he chose not to.
My fingers curl around the key and I set it on top of the fridge, standing on my tiptoes and tossing it so that I won’t be able to reach it again. Then I walk over to the door and slide both of the deadbolts into place.
I can slowly feel the medicine pumping into my bloodstream, making my body feel heavy and tired. I make my way to the bedroom, pulling the sheets up over my head. I both love and hate the way that the smell of Michael lingers in the fabric.
Most of the afternoon is spent in the in between, the state of being neither awake nor asleep. I imagine things that feel so painfully real, and my drug-laden mind gives up her fight and imagines that he’s here, that the warmth from the comforter is actually coming from his strong arms wrapped around me. I imagine that I can feel a warm breeze on my face, that I’m out in the airfield with Michael again.
