22.06.2019
She sits alone in the dark room. She stares at the darkness until it starts to reveal the secrets it has been hiding. The books on the bookshelf. The lamp on the study table. The cupboard. The painting on the right wall. The ceiling fan. The girl sleeping next to her.
Everything is okay, she thinks. She tries to convince herself that she is okay. That the comments on her body don't affect her. That she loves the shade of her skin. That she has a healthy brain. That she loves her family.
Her eyes well up with tears. She closes them and takes a deep breath. She inhales and counts to 4. Holds her breath for 7 more seconds. And releases in the next 8 seconds.
She smiles, she is in his arms. He smells of laundry detergent. He is kissing the top of her head. She can feel him smiling. Everything is okay, she thinks.
A fly sits on her noses, she wakes up from her thoughts. She is back in the dark room. She picks up her phone. One last try, she thinks. She dials the only number she has memorized.
She falls asleep to the sound of a phone ringing.
The next morning he wakes up to the voicemail of her snoring.
YOU ARE READING
Sillage
General Fiction"There's a word for it, (...) in French, for when you have a lingering impression of something having passed by. Sillage. I always think of it when a firework explodes and lights up the smoke from the ones before it." -Robyn Schneider Cover credit...
