The next morning offered no relief to my questions. The blankets around me twisted my body, reminding me how badly I was wrapped up in you. Lead-filled legs finally left bed after 2pm. My eyes struggled to stay open as I waded through the ever-lingering confusion to my kitchen, sadness pooling around me like a thick stench. I could smell the salt on my pillow when I had awoken, and it seasoned my breakfast.
The pantry looked empty, 'sides a few cans "I care about you". I pushed past those; I knew they were well within shelf life, but if I tried to consume the bittersweet contents, I'd surely choke. I settled on a box of instant emptiness, and felt no relief as I picked at the wretched mess in front of me. My sister stopped by with a warm plate of "I'm sorry" and a shoulder to cry on.
The shed still burned outside, a constant reminder. You were gone. I stared at the sad remains, watching the wood deteriorate under the pressure of my wrath. I forced myself to turn away and go back inside. The calendar on the wall looked fuzzy until I realized I couldn't read any of the dates. What time was it? What day was it?
I threw the calendar into the burning pile outside; more fuel for the fire. You told me to let it out. I pitched my anger at you like a gun, firing without really looking to see if I was making you bleed. The dark part of me needed you to bleed, letting me know you weren't walking away unscathed. Responsibilities pulled me away to the real world, where I could leave behind my troubles for a few hours.
She was the only person who answered my text to help me not be alone. Funny how I always call her after incidents like these. She brought me chocolate and a charm bracelet, and again let me know how much of a unicorn I was. I'm a damn unicorn. She listened intently to my rantings, and accepted my anger without hesitation. I yelled as if you could hear me. The bracelet doesn't fit as well on my wrist as the one you gave me did, but it would work as a suitable replacement for the time being.
I returned to my kitchen table, surrounded by family trying to share a meal as if nothing happened. My sister made rice, and I stared at it, almost not wanting to eat for the bowl held 2,000 tiny fragments of memories. White rice. Brown rice. You served up love that wasn't the same. I forced the food down my throat, trying to find comfort. My family talked like nothing was wrong; my mom's hand almost never left my knee. They scraped together a façade of normality, trying to stitch myself back into reality.
The smoke from the embers outside held my attention still. I heard my mother say she was worried about me.
