The stone floor of the church is cold as I sit on it, utterly exhausted from my second breakdown of the day. I feel completely spent but continue to just stare ahead of me up at the peaceful scene. I can't seem to leave.
Adoration must be scheduled to go on all night as people come and go. No one seems to notice the lump on the floor in the back (me).
I rub the crusty tear streaks off of my face, giving a final sniff before standing up and taking one last look all around the church.
There is so much I don't understand.
Folding up the wrinkled pamphlet, I stick it in my pocket, planning to read it in a private setting where I can cry to my heart's content. I don't understand this either. Even if it's untrue, I want to believe every last word of it, and I have no idea why.
I feel silly as I finally leave the church, with the streetlights all on and the night's cold enveloping me. Pulling out my phone, I send a quick text to Martha before I forget.
The strangest of feelings follows me home. Even though I left the warm building full of little candles, I still feel safe as if nothing can touch me, even my own fears.
I unlock the apartment door, a smile finding its way to my lips.
Martha sits on the couch, snuggled in a blanket as she watches TV. She looks over at me and stops to stare. "Delilah, what's the matter?" she asks, concern filling her eyes. "What happened?"
I just realize that tears are falling down my smiling face. Big drops land on my jacket. I can't seem to stop.
She stands and walks towards me, worried.
I shake my head, almost laughing. "I don't know... I'm just..." and then I giggle, the sound watery. "I'm just really happy."
...
It was disappointing to wake up in bed with a headache. The happiness that followed me home last night didn't last long. As reality settled in, the familiar sensation of depression also came back. And with that, my worries for Martha, my loss of Uri, and my own inclinations to scar myself bombarded my momentarily-peaceful mind.
It all came back.
Within that short, euphoric state of mind, I somehow pulled out my phone and found David's text. I skipped over the very same message that had sent me over the edge, not two weeks ago, and began to type.
Me: "Even though we don't live together, I want to be a part of Dalia's life. I want her to know me. I want to be her sister. Please let me have at least that."
Within a few minutes, I received a reply, asking what time I could meet her every week.
I said Wednesday.
The next day happened to be Wednesday.
...
I'm nervous.
My knee bounces to a tune in my head. I run my fingers through my hair, almost wishing I didn't send that stupid text at all. But I remain in the gray, heathered sofa, sinking in far enough to feel like I'm being eaten alive by the stuffing.
The baby is laying on the carpet before me. Her bright blue eyes are sparkly as they wander about the room and glide right past me as if I'm nothing but a fly on the wall. Less than that; a stain.
Stupid baby. I send a bitter look at her, resentful of her perfection and clear prideful air over me.
Her onesie is pink and frilly. A little elephant is quilted on her stomach.
I avert my eyes as memories seep through my cracks. Simply being back in the living room makes me feel a cold loneliness and nostalgia, all rolled into a painfully bittersweet burrito. I'm a touch nauseous, simply sitting here, surrounded by gray walls and monochrome art that must have been recently updated because I don't recognize any of it.
Dishes clatter in the kitchen. Caroline is home. She let me in and pointed down on the floor to where her baby was laying. I guess she and David talked over my weekly visit and approved of the plan because she smiled at me and said to take my time and stay for however long I like. My abrupt exit from last time must have shocked her, but she never showed it.
I glance back down to the pink-ensconced little girl. Something in me pushes me out of my seat and I settle on the floor beside her, taking a closer look at her bright eyes and wispy hair. "Baby hair..." I mutter as my fingers test the short little tuffs. It's almost too soft to feel.
A delicate hand catches hold of my ring finger and pulls it down to her mouth. It's cold and sticky. But I don't hate it.
I watch her gnaw on my finger as she contently closes her eyes.
Sighing, I lower myself to the floor, my head settled close to her as a heaviness overtakes me. "I'm sorry, Dalia. You haven't done anything wrong," I whisper. A shudder racks my shoulders and a tear slips down my cheek, into the gray carpet. "You've done absolutely nothing wrong..."
...
My eyes open to a sound-asleep baby, my hand resting on top of her, a finger pulling down on her slobbery bottom lip. Slowly, I lift my hand. A string of spit follows and I scrunch my nose.
I'm still half-asleep as I pull myself to my feet and search for something to wipe my wet hand on. A roll of paper towels on the kitchen counter does the job and I find a juice box with a note stuck to it.
Delilah, are these still your favorite?
The sun cascades upon me through the large window above the sink. I swallow hard, unsure of the warm flutter in my chest.
Caroline remembered I liked juice boxes...
The sound of typing and papers rustling in the office causes me to pause in consideration. The juice is slid into my jacket pocket and I tip-toe past the sleeping little girl, towards the office. Peeking into the doorway, I shyly speak, "I'm leaving now. Dalia's still sleeping."
Caroline turns and offers a gentle nod and smile. "Thanks for coming. Did you find your juice?"
"Uh, yeah... Thank you." I'm not sure how to speak to her after so many negative thoughts have fed my image of my parents. Still, I do my best to smile and make my way out the door with a soft goodbye.
I pull out my phone, checking for a call from Martha, but come to find another unknown number in my inbox.
It's a photo.
I squeeze the juice box in my pocket as my throat begins to ache.
It's me beside Dalia on the floor, the both of us asleep with my finger in her mouth. I didn't realize how close I was to her. My little sister.
Below the picture is a text: "It's mom. David gave me your number, I hope you don't mind."
My hand grips the phone tightly as if it might all disappear into a cloud of smoke.
~~~~~~~ May-6-23
pub, May-24-23
YOU ARE READING
Pain Killer
Romance[Completed AND EDITED Novel] "You sure you're alright?" "Yep, I'm okay." I purse my lips, watching the little dust particles float in and out of the phone's light. "I got my required dosage for the night." "What is that?" "You." For as long as she c...
