Me & Her

Me

Somehow, I manage to spend the rest of the afternoon in my bedroom. 

For one horrifying moment, I fear I'm back in that room again, inside my own head. In the coma. But I couldn't hear the birds in there and here they are a constant symphony. Moving towards the window, I drag the curtains to one side. As I reached for the handle to pull the window open, the white lever doesn't budge. Locked. And I don't fancy asking for the key. That would mean having to traipse downstairs like a dog with its tail between its legs. That would mean having to risk seeing him, with that lightning bolt of hair and cutting smile. 

He is a construct: pretty and fake. One of those forged paintings that on the surface appear beautiful, but when you dig deeper, they start revealing their true colours. 

He has no idea what I've done or what I've been through to get here. To ground myself in a reality that I can trust. Because of him, I know I can no longer trust this one. The chorus of the birds threatens to sink, prompting me to rush to the closet and rummage around the nearly empty space for a key. The chest of drawers is next, but I can only find my underwear and a few jewels of dust. My bedside table eventually catches my eye, as if something in my mind doesn't want me to see it. Carefully, I pull out the top drawer. The sight of the Mp3 Player makes me want to vomit. It's hers. No, no. It's hers and it wasn't there before. Flashes of that day roar through me, and I have to swallow the remnants into bile. She set my world on fire, but I was the one who had to watch it burn. The Mp3 Player almost laughs at me; the need to vomit is growing. Slamming the drawer closed, I stumble to my feet, numb to the smudge of the glass cup as my fingers knock it to the floor. It's all too much. As the glass smashes onto the floor, I find that I'm falling. 

Not dropping to my knees but falling. In a panic, my hands flare out to catch—