Romantic love story

Chapter Twenty: The Sweetheart

In the darkness, she crunched a tortilla chip and didn't bother to catch the crumbs that fell into her shirt. Clutching the large bowl, she felt for another chip, bit into the salty crispness as white flashed behind the window blinds. Angry noise boomed in her ears, and she forced herself to keep eating. The chips made her thirsty, but she kept going, kept crunching as loud as she could to keep the thunder from filling her ears.

The angel on the dresser shone in a brilliant flash of lightning, and Madison prayed the electricity would come back.

The thunder rolled and pounded, then all she could hear was rain. It beat against her window with a rage that pushed her deeper into the comforter. One tortilla chip after another crunched in the darkness, until all she had left were crumbs and greasy fingers covered in salt.

The only thing worse than lightning, was no lightning at all. She lay in blackness, tucked beneath the warm comforter Terry had bought her. Despite the electricity, things had improved. The apartment no longer felt icy, her tummy didn't rumble with the thunder, and her hip didn't feel like bursting into flame. Of course, her bladder was full, and after all that salt, she craved water in the worst possible way; other than that, this was almost endurable. She could imagine herself like this for the rest of the night, holding out until morning, just the way she was right now.

Outside the safety of her blanket was the darkness. She couldn't see the hand in front of her face, let alone the door that would lead her to the bathroom.

She could hold it. She would hold it until morning.

Was it an hour yet? Terry had said he would call in an hour.

She reached for her cell phone, and felt only blanket.

Don't panic. It was here. Somewhere.

Her hand ran across the top of the comforter, then she felt below it, then the crevices of the sheet where it tucked into the cushions.

"Terry, where are you?"

She searched under her pillows, then hung off the side of the couch to run a hand over the carpet.

Okay, now it was time to panic.

She was alone, in the dark, and without a way to get to Terry. Her angel was out of reach, but her devil was not. In the dark, the Dragon came close, like he might touch her at any moment and remind her why it hurt to be alive.

The phone. She had to find that phone. Blind desperation bubbled into her soul. Layer by layer, she pulled apart her couch, ripping off blankets, thrusting her hands into the crevices of the sheet-covered cushions, hands feeling about for the slim hard object that meant she wasn't alone. Her lifeline to hope. Frenzy took hold as her hands found nothing.

She tore off pillowcases, the sheet covering the couch, then threw aside the cushions. She found the hard frame, the rough material of the underside of the couch, but no phone. Blood pounded in her ears, mixing with fear until her stomach rolled and pitched and she wanted to vomit.

It took so much energy to fight off insanity. She was crazy anyway, so how could it matter if she plunged even further? Why did she resist?

With a cry, she sank into the tangled heap on the floor. Oddly angled cushions jutted at her, collapsed under her weight, and partly buried her in a grave of cushioned madness. They padded the rooms of mad people, didn't they? The thought pushed at her hope while she weakly fought to untangle her legs from the blankets. She couldn't even see. Her senses overloaded, she stopped fighting and numbed herself to the world. Rain beat the windowpane with a vengeance, beating her back until she withdrew bit by bit. Until it didn't matter.