REDAMANCY [h.s. au]

05

*alcohol abuse
*poor mental health

"All my grief says the same thing:
This isn't how it's supposed to be.
This isn't how it's supposed to be.
And the world laughs.
Holds my hope by the throat.
Says:
But this is how it is."
- Fortessa Latifi

⭑Holland⭑

It's Saturday, February 1st.

February 1st.

A text from Harry appeared on my phone a few days ago giving me the details pertaining to getting ice cream with him and Ivy today for his birthday. I threw my phone across the kitchen counter when it came through, like I could rid myself of it with some distance. Since then, I've stared at it, typed a few words and then deleted them, and pretended it didn't exist.

I wish it didn't exist. I wish I lived in a world where I didn't hate him and he didn't leave. A world where my mum is still here. A world that didn't strip me down bare to the quivering bone. But that's not my reality. That's a fantasy that inhabits another realm. Perhaps a different version of me in another dimension has all that. I hope for her sake she does.

I sit on my unmade bed, with my phone in my hand now. It's heavy with the weight of his words and my lack of response.

Like he knew and wanted to add to the misery of indecision, a new message from him pops up as my languid stare is disrupted.

A deep breath leaves my lips as I read the words. They send nothing but a painful sting through my body. A painful sting because I can't do it. I can't pretend I'm okay or that I like Harry or that seeing him with his daughter doesn't absolutely crush me like a boulder. I can't eat ice cream with them and pretend that I don't want to scream with frustration and anger at him. I can't disguise my disdain. I can't do it. I won't do it.

So I do what I know I can do-what I always do on his birthday.

Sliding my phone face down and away from me, I scamper off the bed and dig through my closet, looking for something to wear. I come up with a black mini dress. It's the dead of winter so I grab the only pair of black opaque tights I own, crossing my fingers that there's no holes or runs in them.

In the bathroom, I reach for concealer, dabbing it on only where needed, dusting my cheeks with a soft pink blush, coat my lashes with inky black mascara and finally swipe red lipstick over my lips.

I find the knee high black boots and slide them over the tights before grabbing the leather jacket that I toss on over the dress.

Standing in the kitchen, I snatch the tequila bottle from the bar cart in the corner, not caring one bit that I'm smearing lipstick all over it or that I haven't even measured out any shots. Bottle to my mouth, I gulp the fiery liquid down, it's warmth spreading from my chest to my limbs and extinguishing the lingering disappointment that exists in me. Of course, the mess of feelings will come back tenfold later when I'm hating myself for drinking into oblivion. It's a repeating cycle.