Cigarettes and Coffee

Now

I woke up hot and with a stale taste in my mouth. My brain had turned into molasses and each thought I attempted to have was muffled by layers of syrup. I knew I was sad but couldn't quite remember why. God, this heat was dreadful. It was sticky and sore and red; I took a cold shower and stayed in there until my blue hands ached. That's better.

Eventually the pain subsided and in its place came a tingling numbness all over my skin. It reminded me of Skai, and the day we went bad. Pain, then numbness, until I stopped caring completely. I wonder if we went numb at the same time, or if my apathy was contagious. My fingers were prune-like before I remembered that I was in the shower, and should probably get out soon.

When I returned to my room, I noticed all the signs of yesterday's torment. I'd ripped most of my clothes from their hangers and thrown them on the floor; on my side table there was a whiskey glass and a half-empty glass of water, probably put there by my roommate when I'd drunk enough for it to concern her; my pillow was stained with mascara that I'd forgotten to remove before swaddling myself tightly in the sheets in the hope that I could suffocate the thing burning in my chest. It was odd, seeing such things now. Now that the avalanche had ended, and all that was left was the ruin. Being in that room was suffocating; I needed to get out.

When I got dressed, or at least as "dressed" as I could manage, I followed the smell of breakfast downstairs. I entered the kitchen and found Jane, my roommate, making lunch. It must have been later than I thought. Hearing me come in, she turned to me and said hello in the way you would to a recent widow. She offered me a cup of tea as if I'd just had been in a traumatic accident. In all fairness, that was how I felt.

She knew what had happened the day before, and I watched her trying her best to seem empathetic whilst hiding the pity in her eyes. The very act felt condescending, so I ignored it. I knew she only wanted to help but for some reason it made me angry. I hate when people try to make me feel better. It's always so fake; so empty. You engage in this back-and-forth of them trying to console you and give advice that you've heard before and you both know isn't very helpful. When you've finished your phony conversation filled with meaningless proverbs like "it'll be okay," you pretend as if their support really did help, and now you feel so much better.

Of course, you never really feel better. You just want them to stop. The whole ordeal is more to make them feel better, so that they don't worry about you. I'd really rather they said nothing at all. But I suppose when a person has a friend who's hurting and they don't know what to do, they want to show that they're there. It's sweet, really. I guess I appreciate the effort.

Jane asked if I wanted to go out after lunch. It'd be good for me, she said. Knowing that if I refused she'd be even more worried and pester me further, I reluctantly agreed. She seemed pleased with herself, which I was glad about.