After experiencing a life-altering tragedy, Emersyn feels as if her world has collapsed. Attempting to accept her new reality, Emersyn wonders how she can possibly keep going when it feels like her life ended months ago. Until she meets Haven, and s...
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The earth never stops spinning–that's a fact. The earth rotates around the sun endlessly, spinning on its axis as it does so. However, the movement is so slow that the inhabitants of the planet don't feel a thing. Gravity ties everything to earth's core, maintaining as much structure as one can have whilst living on a floating rock out in space.
I know that the earth circles at a measly thousand miles per hour around the sun. This speed is nothing compared to what I'm feeling now, buckled into the passenger seat of my mother's SUV, pushing seventy miles an hour down the interstate. However, I feel the earth spinning now. Everything is a blur. The movement of the vehicle's wheels, the world an unfocused view as I glimpse out of the window, the tears welling in my eyes obstructing my vision, the music blasting from my headphones overwhelming my brain. Nothing is clear. Everything is a haze clouded by my dizziness.
Though I suppose everything has been a bit of a blur these last few months. It's a funny thing, to be so aware of the fact that the earth is still spinning around out in the milky way, meaning that the world has yet to end–even though I feel like my life has been over for months. I have felt locked in time, frozen to a stand-still . . . yet I am dizzy and the earth is spinning and the wheels attached to this vehicle are in fact still moving. Everything around me does, keeps going, pushing, spinning. Except for me.
I squeeze my eyes closed tightly, hands clenched into wired fists. There is a dull throb pounding in the back of my head, signaling an oncoming headache. I wish that–for just a moment–everything would stop.
A sudden grasp to my shoulder causes me to flinch. My eyes are startled as they burst open, burning as my tear-filled vision is once again exposed to air. My mother glances at me over her shoulder, taking her stare off of the road for a moment. Her eyebrows are furrowed, lips drawn into a wilting frown–it's her usual expression these days, filled with concern. Her lips are moving, though I can't hear a thing.
I remove an earbud, ceasing the roar of overwhelmingly loud music to my senses. The noise was supposed to stop all of the thinking. Evidently, it didn't do its job very well.
"Sorry," I mutter with a quick sniff, trying to rid my appearance of any signs of distress. "What were you saying?"
Mom's hand is still on my shoulder, her touch foreign. We don't show physical affection much these days. I know I'm supposed to find the gesture comforting, though I'm left feeling the opposite.
"Are you okay?" Mom questions. Her tone is gentle and soft, which means she's trying to mask her prying behind a facade of genuine small talk. Of course I'm not okay. She knows this much. Therefore, her question is pointless.
I don't voice my thoughts. She knows how ridiculous all of this is as much as I do. But what's the use in stating the truth? I could tell her that I'm miserable. That life fucking sucks, if life is even the correct term to describe the daily routine I've become used to by now. I haven't felt truly alive in months. I merely go through the motions, existing simply because I am still breathing.
