Vital Signs

The phone rang for the twenty sixth time that morning. I didn't move from the spot on the bed that I inhabited, nor did I incline my head in the forty degree angle that would allow me to look at the phone.

No. I just sat there, staring straight ahead at the blank wall. The once-white wall that over time has darkened, stared back at me. I could practically see the way the painter's brush had run its course. I'm sure that if I walked over to the wall and ran my fingers over it, I would feel the smooth finish.

But I won't.

I feel numb. Like nothing matters anymore. In my opinion, nothing does. I wonder why I never painted my walls. Why I left them bare - gave them no character. Was that just how boring I truly was?

I feel the anger bubbling in my chest. What's wrong with me? How can I think like this? I feel the overwhelming feeling of the anger taking over. I saw red, and my fists clenched; I wanted to hit something.

In a rush, I find myself jumping up off my bed and running out of the room. I ran through the eerily quiet house, headed for the basement. The house passed by in a blur and I reached the basement in a matter of seconds.

Opening the cupboard under the stairs, I was able to find the paint can. I reached for the can and once I had a firm grip on the handle, I tugged with all my strength. I hissed out a breath as it nearly dragged me down to the ground.

Using both hands and all my strength I managed to pull the can into my arms and I cradled it like a baby in my weak, fragile arms. It wasn't full, but it wasn't empty either. I'd say there was about one fourth of the paint left in the can. 

I walked more slowly up the stairs to my room, pausing only when the phone began to ring again.

That's the twenty seventh time. I wanted to scream at it to stop, but I knew I didn't have the strength to do so. 

In my room, I dropped the paint can on my bed and exhaled a long breath. In no time I had the cover off and I put the can on the ground, close to the wall.

Bending down, I dipped my hands in, pulling them back out a couple seconds later. They were completely soaked in the blue liquid as I straightened and roughly thrusted them against the hard wall.

I didn't even care what it looked like, I just wanted there to be color. I smeared a hand print of blue. Then another. Next, I splattered it on in dots, flicking my fingers when they were full of paint so that the paint flew everywhere.

Sitting on the ground, I yanked off my shoe, not caring that it had yet to be untied; not caring that I got paint on it. Pulling off my sock, I was able to free my foot. I dipped my hands yet again into the paint, not pausing as the phone's shrill melody vibrated through the house once again. I crossed my right leg over my left knee to gain better access of my foot and smothered it in the blue liquid.

Once there was enough on it, I pressed it firmly to a blank spot on the wall. Pulling it back, I smiled at my work.

Just one more thing, I thought. Dipping my fingers once more into the paint, I stood on my tippy toes and began writing with my index finger.

When I finished writing, I stood back to appraise my work. My anger subsided as I stared at my wall, a smile forming on my face - albeit a small one.

Without the anger to block my other emotions, reality came down upon me, and it came down hard.

Gripping my long blonde hair in my clenched hands, I held my head. The tears filled my baby blue eyes and fell to the ground within the same second. My breathing seemed to become strangled gasps.