Cold Coffee and Stale Cigarettes *on hold*

Chapter 11

                I woke up with sticky sweat clinging to the back of my neck, heart racing, blood roaring. My cheeks were wet with tears and I could taste salt in my mouth, tangy and unpleasant. Why now? The dull ache throbbing in my chest pulses, slowly consuming my soul. I could feel it eating away the caverns of my heart and wanted it to be over. I was so sick of hurting all the time. I don’t bother to flick on the lights –it was only a flashback, nothing more- and creep from my room, the floorboards barely creaking beneath my feet as I started a brew of coffee. It’s late. Or early. The sky is pitch black and the moon is new, so there is only the faint illumination of streetlamps to guide me. When the coffee is done I perch on my father’s old chair, folding into myself, wanting to be small and insignificant. The coffee makes my stomach feel warm for a moment, but it’s a temporary warmth. The noticeable kind. I ache as it disappears, the tired feeling in my sore bones weighing down my thoughts.

                There is a faint breeze –or maybe it’s just my imagination- that brushes against my senses. It’s the smell of stale cigarettes and booze and sweat and tears. I taste gray-purple jelly on my tongue, warm and slimy. Revolting. The air is stiff and dusty in my lungs. I can feel it catch in my throat and even the coffee cannot stop me from wanting to cough.

                “Samantha? Honey, is that you?”  There is a soft voice that glides through my ears, wrapping around my shoulders securely. No. It is not me. Me is gone. Me is sleeping. You never knew me. Me died five years ago.

                “What’s wrong?” Tara flicks the light on and I blink, eyelids lingering close longer than they should.

                “Nothing.” Robotic words exit a robotic mouth from an empty robotic girl who does not exist. She reaches for me, fingers outstretched and trembling, but pulls back, afraid I will flinch and scream and cry. I am not fragile. I am not broken.

                “Couldn’t sleep?” Are you having flash blacks again?

                “Not very tired.” No. I want to. I’m scared to close my eyes.

                “You’re drinking coffee.” I know you’re lying.

                “I’m cold.” If I don’t, I will keel over and never wake up.

                “You want me to turn the thermostat up?” Do you want my help? Should I tell your father?

                “No.” No.

                “Honey, you know you can talk to me about anything, right?” I’m worried.  I worry. I’m scared for you. Tell me what’s wrong.

                “Yea.” No. I can’t.

                “Ok. Just wanted to remind you.” Do you need to see the doctor? Did you stop taking your pills? Tell me. Tellme. TellmeTellmeTellme.

                “Night Tara.” Goaway. Go away. G o a w a y. G  o  a  w  a  y. A   w   a   y.  Go.

                She hesitates.

                “Good night Sam.” Ok.

xxx

                I’m trudging through the hallway at school when I notice something about Gabe I had never really taken the time to notice before. He’s walking towards me, in the opposite direction I have class in, and everything about him is displayed for me to observe. He can’t see me. His head is tilted upwards, nose pointed airily into the air, eyes fixated on the space ahead of him. There is slowness in the way he walks, yet a slight jump to his step, as if he knows he could kick the ass of anyone who accidentally steps into his path. His eyes are too close and cold, flat blue; the endless, unforgiving blue of an ocean you’re drowning in. A freshman darts around his leisurely amble and there isn’t even a flicker of acknowledgement, dreary eyes still focused on nothing I can see. Today, he’s wearing a shirt with weed on it. Cute.