Cigarettes and Butterflies (Incomplete)

Chapter 8: A Spark That Ignites Change

I don't want to do this.

I've been standing in the hallway for almost fifteen minutes, arms crossed tightly over my chest, and eyes narrowed onto the red towel covering that sinful stain on the carpet. The gentle beating of my heart fills my ears in a regulated tempo, only being interrupted by the occasional sounds of shuffling drifting from an open door down the hall.

It's been an hour since we've gotten back from the shopping trip. Long story short, my wallet is nestled safely in my back pocket, I am one hundred-fifty short of cash, and Brian has several new pairs of clothes that he is now folding and putting away in the spare dresser in his room.

I mean the guest room.

However, walking in and glancing at the wreckage of my living room reminded me that I needed to tidy the place up as much as I can, but I'll be damned if I do it alone. I'm not the one who caused the mess, now am I?

I shake my head slowly.

I can feel my thoughts getting more and more bitter as minutes fly by, the emotions I'm feeling becoming dumbed down. As gently as I can, I push myself off the wall I had sank my weight onto and maneuver myself into the kitchen. I turn sharply at the breakfast bar and grab hold of the drawer handle that leads to the case I keep my pills in. Yanking it open, I reach in and close my fingers around one of the two tacky orange bottles inside and draw it out. The dull rattling encases my thoughts in a subtle echo.

Take one when needed. No more no less.

So, I do as I was instructed. I twist open the cap and shake a small, blue gel pill into my palm and like all the others, I take it dry. I pop the cap back on and shove it into the drawer. Resting my elbows onto the chilled marble of the counter, I place my head in my hands and run my fingers through my hair anxiously. My deep sigh reverberates through the empty space.

It only gets worse with time.

I nod my head nonchalantly at the darkened voice, affirming its words.

Usually the words are: it only gets better with time. Unfortunately, I find that to not be the case with me. As the years drag on and on, this only gets worse. The solitude and the constant edge of fear only building it up higher and higher until the medication can barely make a dent in it. That means another doctors visit, then a higher dose. Then the cycle starts again. Better to worse in a month. More questions, more tests, and better yet that ill-advised quote again.

It only gets better with time.

I lift my head up slowly to look across the house and back into the hall.

What a load of crap.

"Hey Brian, you almost done?"

His firm tenor floats into the kitchen almost meekly. "Yeah, just give me one more minute!"

Great. One more minute.

A sigh skims over my hands, warming them from the early winter chill.

My next paycheck, I'm calling the roofing guys and having them insulate my house better. It's cracking off from the sudden cold front. I didn't pay them to give me that cheap insulation-in-a-can. I could do better than that, in fact, I should be doing it myself. I know how so I might as well.

I feel the rough callouses on my fingers touch the skin of my cheek, the sudden thought making me flash back to a better time in my past. Days of working in the tough Alabama heat on sunny days and the dry chill during the autumn months, my body remembers those hours of heavy lifting and sweat covered faces that still smiled despite the hard labor. The loud screeching noise of equipment and the pattern beeping that cautioned us to tread lightly. All of my senses get lost in the memory, a time when I actually enjoyed my job. I can almost feel the dust of the construction layer onto the already sullied skin of my hands.