Moving On
The nights are always the worst.
Turning down the cold, pale lilac comforter, Lizzie climbs into her cold bed and snuggles with cold sheets and cold, stuffed critters, exhaling deeply and somewhat loudly for the end of the day. She blows out all the trapped worries into the air and watches as they shimmer like little fireflies, only they aren’t nice like fireflies, and she only wishes they would go away. Her light brown hair spreads over her matching lilac pillowcase, careful not to overlap onto his side of the bed. She remembers how he hated her hair wrapped around his clean white pillow. She hugs his pillow, wrapping her arms around it like how she used to hold him. Breathing all her fireflies back in deeply, she catches a faint whisper of his scent as it curls silently up her nostrils and into her brain, leaving gentle trails on her mind. His memory floats into her vision and for a brief moment, he’s there again, promising never to leave. But, he did. She smiles, tears running down her pale cheeks. She knows he was there, caressing away the fears, even if the only proof is the unfurling of a foreign cologne and the invisible scorches where his touches are burned into her skin. How long has it been?
“Come back to me.” She sobs into the empty room, tears dripping from her large, green eyes, but there is no reply, only the sound of a stray dog chasing a cat in a garbage pail across the dark alley, and the smell of something rancid, probably from the trash, drifting in. “Without you, I can’t take these nights.”
During the daylight, she can smile and chat, and pretend that he’ll be there when she gets home. He’ll be waiting with a romantic candlelight supper and they’ll sit on the rug by the space heater. He’ll tell her all about his last trip to India or Africa as they sip French chardonnay and cuddle close to savor the warmth they can find only in each other.
But at night, she comes home, and he’s not there. There is no meal, and the only other warm body is her over-weight gray tabby curled up on her old-fashioned wooden rocker. The cat purrs and rubs her legs until she carries him into the kitchen for his dinner. She pours him canned tuna and liver, or whatever else they mix in the chunky slop, and settles for a bologna sandwich, after lifting the meat to her face to check the age.
“This doesn’t smell bad.” Lizzie smiles as she surveys her tidy apartment. “Must be the litter box,” she shrugs. After that, it’s a quick shower and then off to bed with a novel. Novels are the only things that can keep her semi-entertained nowadays. Fantasyland is the only place she can forget that he’s gone, so she scours book after book looking for an imaginary lover to take the place of the one that has left her. She opens her books to the same pages every night, thumbing through and trying to stay focused on the words, but they fade just as quickly as she can read them. At the end of the pages, she lets the book fall to the floor, trying to hold on to her daydream, but he disappears, and she’s still alone, only the nightmares visit now.
The lonely nights are always the worst.
The days march on at work, but no one knows that he’s gone, or that he was ever even there at all. They watch her age more and more each day, but never see themselves grow older as they watch her. They only see the smiles and the laughs, and the way she’s learned to throw her hair back over her shoulder with a sense of annoyance and beauty. She leans over to get her water, providing just enough of a view to be looked at, not enough to make a spectacle, but that’s all they see. Loathed and loved by all her co-workers, but not one knows where she lives, or what she goes home to find. She never leaves work early anymore. Sometimes it’s nine before she leaves the garage, slowly trudging her way toward her apartment. All that’s left for her at home now is a fat, lazy cat and a cold stove. So, she avoids it. She drives around in her ancient blue Camry until she’s out of gas and then fills the tank, just to drive it home.
When he lived with her, she felt complete. There was a sense of perfection that she wouldn’t believe could end. All good things come to an end. So that’s all there is to it. I really don’t need him. I don’t . . . yes, I do. The pretty things are gone now. She used to think of pretty things. Long flowery phrases used to pour out of her soul while he wrote them into her notebooks. She would shape them later, but when she thought of them, all that she could do was let him write for her. That’s what she did: she wrote - nine books were published and sold – all with his help. Four months ago, when he left, the words stopped. All of them – she didn’t speak to anyone for a month – not even her parents. She was too scared and tortured to speak. Every morning she went to work, every morning the same thing – without words. She let the answering machines take all her calls and relied on the old-fashion typewriter on her desk as her only companion.
No one at work cared. They didn’t even notice. She came in early, ate lunch alone, didn’t take breaks, and left late. The pictures in her tiny cubical disappeared, even the ones without him. Pictures of Milo, the cat, were untacked and hidden for later, along with the olive toned man holding him. No more thinking about him. Picked up for the safety of her sanity and stored for some rainy day. Someday in the real rain, instead of the artificial one that dampens her cheeks when she’s alone.
Her lonely nights are always the worst.
She watches the plasma lightning outside the dirty window as it mixes with the rain. Strangely attracted to the light, she steps over the lump of dirty clothes in her otherwise neat and very red living room to go to the windows and fling them open. Milo meows and rubs himself on the pile of clothes, looking up at her with his huge yellow-green eyes. She shakes out of her foreign trance and quickly shoos him away from the pile.
“Get out of there. . . And don’t look at me like that. It couldn’t be any other way, and you know it. He told me he had to go. What the hell was I supposed to do? I couldn’t just let him leave.” The sobbing starts now, collapsing her body into a crumbled, tangles mess on the floor. She’s talking to Milo now, and she doesn’t care if it seems strange. He’s the only one who cares anymore. He loves her even if Paul didn’t. The rain pours in the window and stains the burgundy carpet in darker shades like her make-up stains her cheeks gray. Shivering, she pulls herself to her feet and tugs down on the window panes. They start to stick, but she forces them closed, slamming them into the sill. “And that’s enough of that. We don’t like the rain anymore, okay, Kitty?” She turns on her heel and deliberately steps through her pile of clothes to get to her bedroom to change.
Her lonely, stormy nights are always the worst.
“The lipstick follows the earrings and the necklace in depressed ritual, then, the rest of the make-up. The dress is always followed by the stockings and garters, and the shoes go last,” She sat at her vanity table outlining her wardrobe to Milo as she completes each task. The pale face in the mirror smiles as the face inside cringes in fear. Tonight was the last night she would live in such pathetic depression. “You know, Milo, depression is only good for one thing,” she smiles down at the cat, who is sitting on his haunches at her feet. “More depression. That’s all I’ve been feeling the last two months, but no more. It’s time to stop the cycle once and for all.” The last words become muffled as she slips the fire engine red dress over her head. Sweeping her hair into a simple up-do, she slips on the tall heels that she has pulled out to match her dress. One last drink before I go. She returns to the kitchen and pours herself a glass of Merlot out of the crystal decanter on her tiled island. “Here’s to you, lover.” She raised the glass in a mock toast as she let the fiery liquid scorch its way down her throat.
Her drunken and lonely stormy nights are always the worst.
Detective Stoker stepped out of the elevator and into the small apartment. A large gray tabby cat was curled in the arms of his assisting officer, Lieutenant Morgan. It meowed loudly as he walked over to the coroner. A petite brunette lay sprawled on the floor, a wine glass held lightly in her fingertips.
“What’s this?” he asked nonchalantly in the way that cops do when they already know.
“Suicide-Homicide.” The detective took a step back from the smell. “He’s been gone for more than a couple of months . . . her . . . maybe two days. He was covered in that pile of clothes. Cause of death appears to be poison for both.” The coroner finished his report and handed the clipboard to Stoker who looked over it briefly and handed it back.
"Case closed. She got her revenge on him for whatever. Wrap this up and get it out of the neighbor’s way. He’s been complaining to the super about the smell for two months.” The detective picked up the cat and rubbed its collar as he walked slowly to the elevator. “Depression does funny things to people, Lieutenant Morgan. In this town everyone’s got an issue.” He turned and stepped into the elevator, nodding before sinking slowly out of sight.
Her drunken and lonely stormy nights are no more.
Depressing, no? Oh well. What's done is done and it cannot be undone. Love it? Hate it? Let me know.
Turning down the cold, pale lilac comforter, Lizzie climbs into her cold bed and snuggles with cold sheets and cold, stuffed critters, exhaling deeply and somewhat loudly for the end of the day. She blows out all the trapped worries into the air and watches as they shimmer like little fireflies, only they aren’t nice like fireflies, and she only wishes they would go away. Her light brown hair spreads over her matching lilac pillowcase, careful not to overlap onto his side of the bed. She remembers how he hated her hair wrapped around his clean white pillow. She hugs his pillow, wrapping her arms around it like how she used to hold him. Breathing all her fireflies back in deeply, she catches a faint whisper of his scent as it curls silently up her nostrils and into her brain, leaving gentle trails on her mind. His memory floats into her vision and for a brief moment, he’s there again, promising never to leave. But, he did. She smiles, tears running down her pale cheeks. She knows he was there, caressing away the fears, even if the only proof is the unfurling of a foreign cologne and the invisible scorches where his touches are burned into her skin. How long has it been?
“Come back to me.” She sobs into the empty room, tears dripping from her large, green eyes, but there is no reply, only the sound of a stray dog chasing a cat in a garbage pail across the dark alley, and the smell of something rancid, probably from the trash, drifting in. “Without you, I can’t take these nights.”
During the daylight, she can smile and chat, and pretend that he’ll be there when she gets home. He’ll be waiting with a romantic candlelight supper and they’ll sit on the rug by the space heater. He’ll tell her all about his last trip to India or Africa as they sip French chardonnay and cuddle close to savor the warmth they can find only in each other.
But at night, she comes home, and he’s not there. There is no meal, and the only other warm body is her over-weight gray tabby curled up on her old-fashioned wooden rocker. The cat purrs and rubs her legs until she carries him into the kitchen for his dinner. She pours him canned tuna and liver, or whatever else they mix in the chunky slop, and settles for a bologna sandwich, after lifting the meat to her face to check the age.
“This doesn’t smell bad.” Lizzie smiles as she surveys her tidy apartment. “Must be the litter box,” she shrugs. After that, it’s a quick shower and then off to bed with a novel. Novels are the only things that can keep her semi-entertained nowadays. Fantasyland is the only place she can forget that he’s gone, so she scours book after book looking for an imaginary lover to take the place of the one that has left her. She opens her books to the same pages every night, thumbing through and trying to stay focused on the words, but they fade just as quickly as she can read them. At the end of the pages, she lets the book fall to the floor, trying to hold on to her daydream, but he disappears, and she’s still alone, only the nightmares visit now.
The lonely nights are always the worst.
The days march on at work, but no one knows that he’s gone, or that he was ever even there at all. They watch her age more and more each day, but never see themselves grow older as they watch her. They only see the smiles and the laughs, and the way she’s learned to throw her hair back over her shoulder with a sense of annoyance and beauty. She leans over to get her water, providing just enough of a view to be looked at, not enough to make a spectacle, but that’s all they see. Loathed and loved by all her co-workers, but not one knows where she lives, or what she goes home to find. She never leaves work early anymore. Sometimes it’s nine before she leaves the garage, slowly trudging her way toward her apartment. All that’s left for her at home now is a fat, lazy cat and a cold stove. So, she avoids it. She drives around in her ancient blue Camry until she’s out of gas and then fills the tank, just to drive it home.
When he lived with her, she felt complete. There was a sense of perfection that she wouldn’t believe could end. All good things come to an end. So that’s all there is to it. I really don’t need him. I don’t . . . yes, I do. The pretty things are gone now. She used to think of pretty things. Long flowery phrases used to pour out of her soul while he wrote them into her notebooks. She would shape them later, but when she thought of them, all that she could do was let him write for her. That’s what she did: she wrote - nine books were published and sold – all with his help. Four months ago, when he left, the words stopped. All of them – she didn’t speak to anyone for a month – not even her parents. She was too scared and tortured to speak. Every morning she went to work, every morning the same thing – without words. She let the answering machines take all her calls and relied on the old-fashion typewriter on her desk as her only companion.
No one at work cared. They didn’t even notice. She came in early, ate lunch alone, didn’t take breaks, and left late. The pictures in her tiny cubical disappeared, even the ones without him. Pictures of Milo, the cat, were untacked and hidden for later, along with the olive toned man holding him. No more thinking about him. Picked up for the safety of her sanity and stored for some rainy day. Someday in the real rain, instead of the artificial one that dampens her cheeks when she’s alone.
Her lonely nights are always the worst.
She watches the plasma lightning outside the dirty window as it mixes with the rain. Strangely attracted to the light, she steps over the lump of dirty clothes in her otherwise neat and very red living room to go to the windows and fling them open. Milo meows and rubs himself on the pile of clothes, looking up at her with his huge yellow-green eyes. She shakes out of her foreign trance and quickly shoos him away from the pile.
“Get out of there. . . And don’t look at me like that. It couldn’t be any other way, and you know it. He told me he had to go. What the hell was I supposed to do? I couldn’t just let him leave.” The sobbing starts now, collapsing her body into a crumbled, tangles mess on the floor. She’s talking to Milo now, and she doesn’t care if it seems strange. He’s the only one who cares anymore. He loves her even if Paul didn’t. The rain pours in the window and stains the burgundy carpet in darker shades like her make-up stains her cheeks gray. Shivering, she pulls herself to her feet and tugs down on the window panes. They start to stick, but she forces them closed, slamming them into the sill. “And that’s enough of that. We don’t like the rain anymore, okay, Kitty?” She turns on her heel and deliberately steps through her pile of clothes to get to her bedroom to change.
Her lonely, stormy nights are always the worst.
“The lipstick follows the earrings and the necklace in depressed ritual, then, the rest of the make-up. The dress is always followed by the stockings and garters, and the shoes go last,” She sat at her vanity table outlining her wardrobe to Milo as she completes each task. The pale face in the mirror smiles as the face inside cringes in fear. Tonight was the last night she would live in such pathetic depression. “You know, Milo, depression is only good for one thing,” she smiles down at the cat, who is sitting on his haunches at her feet. “More depression. That’s all I’ve been feeling the last two months, but no more. It’s time to stop the cycle once and for all.” The last words become muffled as she slips the fire engine red dress over her head. Sweeping her hair into a simple up-do, she slips on the tall heels that she has pulled out to match her dress. One last drink before I go. She returns to the kitchen and pours herself a glass of Merlot out of the crystal decanter on her tiled island. “Here’s to you, lover.” She raised the glass in a mock toast as she let the fiery liquid scorch its way down her throat.
Her drunken and lonely stormy nights are always the worst.
Detective Stoker stepped out of the elevator and into the small apartment. A large gray tabby cat was curled in the arms of his assisting officer, Lieutenant Morgan. It meowed loudly as he walked over to the coroner. A petite brunette lay sprawled on the floor, a wine glass held lightly in her fingertips.
“What’s this?” he asked nonchalantly in the way that cops do when they already know.
“Suicide-Homicide.” The detective took a step back from the smell. “He’s been gone for more than a couple of months . . . her . . . maybe two days. He was covered in that pile of clothes. Cause of death appears to be poison for both.” The coroner finished his report and handed the clipboard to Stoker who looked over it briefly and handed it back.
"Case closed. She got her revenge on him for whatever. Wrap this up and get it out of the neighbor’s way. He’s been complaining to the super about the smell for two months.” The detective picked up the cat and rubbed its collar as he walked slowly to the elevator. “Depression does funny things to people, Lieutenant Morgan. In this town everyone’s got an issue.” He turned and stepped into the elevator, nodding before sinking slowly out of sight.
Her drunken and lonely stormy nights are no more.
Depressing, no? Oh well. What's done is done and it cannot be undone. Love it? Hate it? Let me know.
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