Guarded Hearts and Broken Wings || S.R.

21 - Memories of Flesh and Bone

The bed was unusually cold that morning when Mel awoke with a groan. She was unable to piece together the reason why because her mind was still floating between the world of dreams and consciousness. As she began to awaken more, she was suddenly aware of an uncomfortable silence, and she jolted awake expecting to find a great terror that had silenced the world. Instead, Mel realized in between heavy breaths that it had simply stopped raining for the first time in days. That did not stop the world from being depressed outside her window, but at least it had been given a chance to breathe.

Now, sitting propped up on her arms, Mel noticed two things. The first was the ache that ricocheted through her body at every movement. Her leg where the bullet used to reside felt like it was being stabbed with a hot poker. She knew what her physical therapist would tell her to do, and she hated it. The second was that of her bed, specifically her sheets. They were folded back on the right side of the bed as if someone had already climbed out of it this morning. Her eyes only lingered for a moment before she grasped why the bed was cold. She hated this too along with the memories it began to pull back from the night before.

Temporarily avoiding both of these discoveries, Mel swung her legs over the edge of the bed. When she stood, her leg screamed in protest so she huffed and reached for her crutch leaning against the headboard. Then she began her hobble out of her room and to the bathroom.

The bathroom was different as well. Upon inspection, she noticed that the mirror was no longer speckled in toothpaste and popped pimples and the sink's faucet sparkled. When she stood to flush the toilet, she noted the brown ring that had been forming at the water line and the poop stain that had been there all week was gone. A normal response, she knew, should have been gratitude towards Spencer, the only suspect. But she could not help but feel a twitch of annoyance and even fear. The only answer was a fuzzy memory buried in her bones.

She leaned against the doorframe and sighed at the sight before her. Her boyfriend was on his hands and knees scrubbing at the tile grout of the bathroom floor. "Mark... I had planned on doing that later tonight."

"Yes, but it needed to be done now, baby. It is disgusting in here. I can smell the trash when I'm sitting on the toilet because you leave your tampons in it for so long."

"But it's my chore, and it seems like you end up doing it more than me."

"Well," he gave her a forced smile that read 'Then maybe you should do it sooner before it gets so filthy in here that I'm forced to clean it.' "Don't worry about it. Focus on your painting. They need all the focus they can get."

She spun slowly on her heel and left the doorway. Her shoulders slumped in shame. God, she was so useless.

She left the bathroom and started towards the kitchen only vaguely aware of why her feathers were so ruffled. She paused when the distant memories of last night hit her full force. She dreaded to see the full extent of the damage she had done. Just when she began to turn around, Spencer's voice called from the kitchen, "Mel, is that you? Are you up?" She winced but headed toward him.

Her eyes rested on him leaning over a steaming pot on the stove for a moment before they snapped to the living room. Everything was surprisingly orderly. Canvases were stacked in neat piles on the edges of the room though many of them were busted through the middle with fist-sized holes. The cracked table, chairs, and easels with ranging degrees of damage were pushed into a corner. The table, before holding myriads of paints and canvases, now only held piles of papers that previously belonged on the walls. Sketchbooks were again stacked on top of the piano.