The Remains of Hope

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Emptiness.

It was almost funny how the world alone could convey many things – but all conveyed a description of something. It might not be an emotion in itself, but really, didn't it work as a description for emotions? Emptiness from what you wanted to feel, emptiness from what you did feel. It was emptiness and yearning and hoping ceaselessly. A yearning for the emptiness to go away, and emptiness from the yearning. It was a cycle I was all too familiar with, more so because I never really acted on removing said emptiness or yearning. Cerise liked to say I pushed people away, as if I wouldn't allow myself to benefit from their company. Their contagious happiness.

Ivan – stupidly persistent, annoyingly handsome Ivan – could attest to that.

I kind of hated Ivan.

Letting out a disgruntled sigh, I glared at myself in the mirror – you do not think about Ivan – watching the ways my dark eyes darkened even further. It was almost like looking at Amarantha glare at me.

That was all it took for the momentary frustration and anger to flee away, replaced again by that emptiness.

Emptiness reminiscent of a fleeting light, a receding breath. It made every sight of her body all too familiar. Of red, red, red. She'd know of a better, more specific word to match the shade, artistic eyes matching it to the perfect color.

The shrill repeating sound of trilling bells dragged me away from it, though the thoughts and memories were never too far away, always in the back of my mind, just as how they were supposed to be. The black phone on the edge of the sink continued to ring its loud call, the volume high enough that the sound shook the phone, causing it to vibrate, edging precariously closer to the edge.

Knowing well enough who it was, I picked up the phone, not letting myself hesitate before swiping my thumb across the screen and accepting the call. Trying to brace for who was on the other end would be a futile effort.

"You're late, Amanda," The voice exuded anger, frustration, and boredom all in one tone, and I could already imagine the person on the other tapping her fingers in a rhythm against something as she filed away another disappointing detail about me. "Again. I don't know why we bother anymore."

I pressed the speaker button and leveled the phone well away from me on the sink as I finished my routine. Why do you? I wanted to ask her. I stopped bothering a long time ago. And yet, for some reason, the reflection staring back at me in the mirror was of someone trying hopelessly to impress.

Clothes neatly pressed. Hair in a sleek ponytail without a strand out of place.

My "armor" as Cerise liked to put it, was all that was left. I pulled open a drawer under the sink, the sight of a small neat row greeting me. All lip colors. All varying shades of red.

"Tell me that you're at least on your way now," she asked, and I could practically feel her edginess at another "disaster" caused by me.

She'd be upset that the food was going cold, that everything was ready and I was all they waited for. But that'd be a lie. It would be a disaster anyway -- has been, for the past few years now. It was always a disaster when she was missing a piece.

"I am not on my way," I answered, selecting a lighter shade from my small collection and applying it liberally, allowing each coat and surfacing of the color to ease me back into a dull comfort.

No one will ever see anything other than what you let them see.

A prolonged sigh filled up the silence as I finished getting ready, grabbing the phone off the sink's counter and rushing out. I was now late enough, and while I loved to push it with my tardiness, I didn't go over a limit. For the same reason I stupidly tried dressing up.