Face The Music

Porcelain

The onions just had to be chopped. It was quiet this Sunday morning. But really, it had been quiet every morning for the past two weeks. Speaking was for the living.

I rubbed my eyes with the back of my hand and shuffled to the counter. The bunny slippers looked sadder than I'd ever seen them. 

The sharp scent of the onion sliced through the air, and I felt a prickle behind my eyes. No, that's not right, I thought. I kept cutting. Uncle Henry sat at the table, so so empty, staring at a newspaper. I could tell he wanted me to think he was filling out the new crossword, but I knew better. He'd been reading and rereading Lynn's obituary for the past two weeks. Last night, I'd walked in on him caressing it with a finger, reading glasses on at 2 in the morning.

The TV was blaring Sesame Street behind him, where the couch was sat. Josh couldn't have found much pleasure in the kid's show, but Bennie seemed to enjoy barking at Big Bird. With those ugly yellow feathers, who wouldn't?

The prickling kept coming, and I closed my eyes for a second. It stung. "Shit," I whispered under my breath. The wateriness in my eyes was starting to blur my vision. But the onions had to be chopped. Josh heard me. He patted Bennie on the head a last time and came over behind me.

He wrapped his arms around my shoulders with a sigh. "What's the matter, Ki? Did you cut yourself?"

"No," I murmured, "it's just strange. Onions have never made me cry before."

"Do you want me to do it?"

"No. I'm fine. Wouldn't want those instrument-playing hands of yours to get hurt, would we?" 

"Uh huh. And what about yours?"

I ignored his question. The useless tears came slowly, oozing down my face into the onions. They weren't mine – they couldn't be. Hadn't I cried enough? It wasn't because of me. Clenching the knife harder, I dug my fingernails into my palms. Stop crying. 

It wouldn't, it wouldn't, it wouldn't stop. The knife dropped onto the cutting board with a clatter, and I spun around, knocking past Josh. My bed would be a good place to be. I slammed the door and threw my face into the pillows. There was a cracking somewhere in my chest. Maybe my ribs were breaking, or maybe it was just my heart. Damnit. At least, if it were the ribs, I could get a lung puncture as well as a heart puncture, and then I could die, too. Breathing hurt, so I suppose the lungs could be messed up somewhere. My hair was splayed all across the sheets, silvery because the purple had long since begun to fade, and I was choking on it.

"Kiera!" It was Josh, banging against the door.

I managed a level voice and shouted back, "I'm fine, Josh. Go away. Please?"

"You don't sound very fucking okay."

Well, damnit. And here, I thought that I was capable of sounding unhysterical. "Fuck off just a little, Josh. I bet Uncle Henry is mighty lonely with his fucking obituary! Go help him with a sudoku puzzle, won't you?" There was a little spark in the air as the electric plug came free of the outlet and I slammed the alarm clock on my dresser against the door. There wasn't noise from outside the door after that, and I buried my face in my knees, back shaking.