State of Mind

Breathless

"I'm so sorry for your loss."

It still stings to hear that. It still hurts like hell to hear those words. They make the atmosphere feel heavy and my lungs burn with pain, though it's not the pain caused from smoking too many cigarettes. I'd take choking on the smoke over those words any day because at least then the burning can be managed. But this...how do I handle this? Can I handle this?

I tighten my hands into fists and swallow, "Thank you."

For what? For condolences that I didn't ask for? For pity that can't change what's already been done? Why should I thank anyone? Maybe I'd be genuinely thankful if they took some of this pain away...or if they passed me a new cigarette. I should quit. I did quit. But now here I am once again tangoing with my vice. Stress does this to me. Stress and unasked for sympathy.

I didn't ask for this.

But, then again, who would? Who would honestly wish this sort of agony on themselves? I wouldn't even wish this on my worst enemy. If anything, I'd pray they'd never even get a taste of a suffering like this. This is hell...pure, unadulterated hell. Not hellish, but hell itself. There are no flames climbing the walls or a circle of demons laughing at me manically, but this is still hell.

No one deserves this torment.

"Here," Mrs. Ida says, setting a tray of cookies in front of me. "I know you've heard this so many times already, but I am so sorry." She brings her old, gray eyes to me. "If you need anything -anything at all- then you just let me know."

I fake a smile. "Thank you, ma'am."

"Of course," she nods. "Take care, Kyler. Remember, don't be a stranger, hun."

But I am a stranger. At least, I feel like it. I don't feel like myself. It's like my soul left my body, leaving me numb and disoriented. It's like my body isn't even my own. My arms won't respond to any of my commands and my legs refuse to move. Is this true sorrow? Was this the type of pain I read about in all those books in high school? Has Mrs. Ida felt this way before?

She's old. Not saying that old is bad, but she's lived seven decades...seventy years. Surely, she's experienced something similar to this. She's watched new life grow into old life. She sees that evidence every day in the mirror, but she's also watched life become snuffed out by death's touch. She watched her husband of forty years die of a heart attack the day after their anniversary. I know she's seen more. Did the pain she felt then amount to the agony I feel now? Maybe.

I breathe haggardly and lean back, bringing my gaze to the porch roof. The aged wood beams are weathered from all the years of standing firmly against the elements. A few cobwebs also hang in the corners. It's not pretty, but it's better than looking anywhere else. After all, I don't want to go inside. Inside...it is congested. There're so many people there. Besides, the breeze feels nice. Its touch is warm and relaxing...but I still can't relax.

"Why are you out here?" my mother asks, closing the front door behind herself. "Everyone is inside."

I shrug, "I needed some air. It's suffocating in there."

"Don't you think that's rude?" she continues, making her way to me, the porch's deck creaking beneath her weight. "All these people are here for you and Karina. Don't you think the least you can do is visit with them?"

"I needed some air," I repeat, lifting my stare higher to the sky.

It's so blue today. The sun is beaming down, its cheerful grin bathing the landscape in its warmth. A few clouds are dotted across the azure, but they are small and faint. None of them are heavy, their bodies threatening rain. But that doesn't change the heft of the humidity lingering in the air. Its weight is almost as overwhelming as the mass of people inside that house. Almost. At least in this humidity, I can still breathe.