Proof of Life

Torn

The thick textbook hit the opposite wall with a resounding bang, leaving a sharp impression of one corner as it fell with a slap that was almost just as loud. Breathing heavily, I leaned against the table in front of me, hands flat against its surface, wrist aching under the weight. Almost snarling, I leaned harder on it, relishing the sharp pain of nerves pinching beneath a collapsing tunnel of jumbled bones.

The silence that followed was thick enough to choke on, and I felt like I couldn't breathe despite the furious pumping of my lungs and heart. The book I'd thrown sat innocently on the floor, looking no worse for wear, and I shoved every stack of paper and every insignificant book left on the table in its direction, frustrated at its indifference. How dare it just sit there, withholding its secrets from me.

Turning away, I paced, the building frustration refusing to sit idle within me. Even that wasn't enough. I shoved the chair into the bookcase, threw breakables at the door, papers of useless data and notes went into – or at least near – the fireplace that happily ate them. Every horizontal surface but the floor itself was clear of items, every upright thing that could be moved was turned on its head – or side – and I was left sitting in the middle of my own mess. And it still wasn't enough.

Closing my eyes, I leaned back against the bottom of the chair, closing my eyes and just breathing. In the silence, I could hear the cackling mockery of the fire. Somewhere on the other side of the door, there were small, hurried footsteps, quiet and quick, as though they were trying not to be heard as they passed, and then they were gone. I tried to imagine what it might've sounded like from outside, but soon gave up, finding myself too exhausted to do anything other than silently cry out what was left of the frustration.

When I finally opened my eyes again, the fireplace provided the only light, as the sun had finally set into darkness. Noticing the hole in the wall beside it, I was faintly amazed I'd managed to avoid breaking the window, and laughed at the strange, sheer luck of it. Of all the things I'd broken and thrown around, the window and its curtains had remained unscathed by the carnage. A good thing, too, as I noticed the faint shimmer of water on the other side, catching the dying firelight.

Taking in the rest of the damage, I was somewhat amazed at myself. The desk, table, fireplace mantel, even a couple bookshelves, were the cleanest they'd been in years. Almost nothing was on the walls anymore – no taped-up charts, no old oil paintings, no pictures or portraits... The only thing that remained was the calendar, hanging haphazardly on one of its two hooks.

Beneath it, I noticed one of my favorite paintings in the room, the canvas torn against the corner of the table. The face, her hastily sketched cheeks and smiling eyes, was split in two by the tear. Crawling across the paper-strewn floor, I pulled its broken frame into my lap, straightening it out as best I could and carefully touching the rough surface of long-dried paint.

Turning it over, I ripped out the nails that had stretched the canvas over the frame, tossing the splintered wood vaguely in the direction of the fireplace, and shakily got to my feet, never taking my eyes off the young girl's face. Gently, I laid it out on top of the table, the bright colors looking absolutely vivid against the dark stained wood.

I ran a hand over the tear, smoothing it out and, momentarily, bringing back the laugh that had been torn asunder. In lurching steps, I abandoned it, kicking around the piles of random items from a broken desk drawer until I found the bottle I wanted, finding it thankfully unbroken, and grabbing a sheet of paper at random.

Hurrying back to the painting, I slipped the paper underneath it, just beneath the tear, the laugh, noticing with a bitter grin that it was one of the charts of data from the early weeks of my work. Once it was in place, I unscrewed the bottle lid, wrinkling my nose at the smell, and scooped out a large glob of the clear liquid with two fingers.

With a surgeon's precision, I smoothed it over the tear, repeatedly stroking it to make sure the coat would be even and not too thick. Stepping back, I could still see where the damage had been done – nothing would be able to truly repair it – but... If I squinted, I could imagine. If I squinted harder, it was lifelike. If I let myself forget... It was almost like she wasn't even gone.