Pain Killer

9 ~ Isdfa

an accurate song for what anxiety feels like

^^^^^^^

I miss being a kid. I miss the zip-ties on the spokes of our bikes that make them sound like motorbikes. I miss the board game with the hippos that ate marbles, and the way our neighbor made grilled cheese sandwiches.

I stroke Oreo, Martha's black cat that has one thin white strip on his tail. He ignores my touch, watching the glittering reflection on the ceiling from a pond outside. Reaching for my camera on the coffee table, I set it against the couch cusion and lay my head on the arm rest, lining it up so that the picture catches the light on the ceiling and the cat's attentive stare. I twist the lens a little closer to focus and snap a photo, admiring the glitter in the cat's eyes.

My History class ended five minutes ago. I didn't go. I would be on my way to the bridge at this moment.

I keep my legs from taking a mind of their own and bringing me to the very place I'm thinking about.

The apartment is silent. Like it usually is during most of the day. While Martha is gone, I either go to the library or the bridge. But I sit still. I stare at the hole in my crew socks, studying the chipped black paint on my toenail. There's only a little of it left, showing how long it's been since I've painted my nails.

The time sludges along at a slow, painful pace. There's no energy in me to move. So I only stay still, letting myself fall on my side and curl my legs up with me. My eyes watch the single patch of sunlight slide across the floor as if searching for a sign of life. It never finds me. There's no life to be found. What must it think, finding nothing but unvacuumed carpet and a stack of Indiana Jones DVDs in the corner? Perhaps this person lives alone. From all the cat hair, it's probably a middle-aged woman who's in a relationship with her work, never stable enough to keep a long-term relationship. It might be the flannel shirts though. But how could the searching beam know she wears flannel shirts? Why? It doesn't matter.

A new train of thought collides with my wandering daydreams.

Would Uri be there at the bridge, waiting for me?

Did he miss me?

I clench my jaw, thinking about the mess he saw me in last time. Last week, on Thursday afternoon, I burst into tears right in front of him. I'm not as bothered by that fact as I had first suspected I would be.

I wonder why.

And I wonder if he's missing me right now.

...

My lip bunches between my teeth as I stare at Uri's name on my phone screen. The empty message box shows that neither of us has sent a text yet. Nor called.

I open the chat and stare at the white empty space, wondering how I even contributed to this friendship. It's always been him, approaching me, smiling at me, complimenting me, being patient and understanding with my mistrustful comments and even insults. Has Uri been carrying our friendship this whole time?

My fingers hover over the keyboard as I twist words around in my mind, but nothing surfaces. What would I even say to start a conversation? Of course, I could just fall into my feelings, sending a blubbering thank you for everything that you do. But there's really no way to gracefully go about that. So then I could go, I've been meaning to thank you for your kindness and consideration, but why does that come out like one of those charity organization cards that you receive in the mail every Christmas?

Okay, then what about, have I thanked you for being the bestest friend I could ever ask for? That's a greeting card, isn't it? I can see the stupid-looking pug, wearing its most pitiful face on the front of one of those cards you find at the Dollar Store.