Breathe

2

I cocked my head towards the wooden door, hurriedly straightening my posture. "Yes," I stated slowly, as I'd rehearsed the phrase through my head beforehand to sound composed and patient.

Silence encompassed the room. The petite figure's light breathing was drowned out by the abrupt pick-up of wind bursting inside, almost as if the element was ungracefully entering to eavesdrop on the conversation, tripping over itself as it stumbled into the room. Papers were swept up with the gust and drifted to the floor; the metallic knell of wind chimes echoing in the distance—rebounding off the walls of neighboring houses in the vicinity while carrying the rather solemn tune.

The feminine voice poised on the opposite side of the door inhaled sharply, stumbling over her following words as she broke the silence, "L-Look, about yesterday, you know that—"

"—it isn't important," I finished triumphantly, closing the subject for debate.

Taking large strides towards the door, I swung it open with enough force for the girl to abruptly stir from her sleep and bang her head on the bedpost, clutching it as pain consumed her forehead. I brisked past the woman whose wrinkles reflected her age and the stress she'd beared throughout the decade and slid through a narrow crack in the doorway at her side. She vainly swiped at space and grasped my shoulder. The warmth of her touch jolted the senses awake in my skin in—instead of the comfort of a motherly embrace—anger. I flinched as my shoulder recoiled from her grasp like it was an infectious disease and barred my teeth.

"Don't. Touch. Me."

Her pursed lips parted a moment as if to speak, but then she bit her bottom to stop herself. Her eyes darted around—eying the floor or engaging in weak eye contact with me that could be severed with even a slight movement—before implored words sputtered out of her mouth like a dated sprinkler, "Please, just speak to me! You've been giving me the cold shoulder since last night, and I-I've been patient! I've had faith you would come to me! I'm your mother!" Her bottom lip quivered and her knees buckled, as if the grieving weight on her shoulders had been literal. "But you instead choose to ignore me, like I'm not even here! Ethan's mother told me what happened and—"

"Don't ever say his name again."

With that, I slammed the door, and pieces of glass rattled on the decorative shelves of the bathroom. The familiar sting of salty tears welled in my eyes, and I threw my head back as I tugged at clumps of hair from my head. Slumping to the floor and colliding with an echoing thud, my breaths became ragged and shortened. My palms clammy. My legs shaking and collapsing on themselves—so instead I pulled them close to my abdomen and buried my face into my chest, as if to absorb the waves of tears.

Sobs seeped through the cracks of the doorway, and the thuds of fists knocking on the door with such desperation rattled my body pressed against it. Soon, the cries faded—as well as the despairing pleas to open the door.

"So be it! Ignore your mother for all I care!"

With that, the creaks of floorboards indicated a descent down the stairwell separating the two floors. Silence occupied the area, as well as lingering anxiousness.

Look who you've become.

My iris' hastily darted to the mirror above the counter, and down looked an unrecognizable monster. Streaks of running eyeshadow loomed beneath eyes glazed in red, veins bulging. Strands of brunette hair were thrown every which way, and streaks of rose lipstick smeared upward after rubbing at it for too long.

That's it. You've finally broken.

An agonizing wail escaped my lips as I stumbled to grip the countertop's ledge, and my face laid atop my crossed forearms.

Who are you without him?