The rain never stopped. It drowned the night, turned the streets into raging rivers, and fashioned the morning into one that made the warmth of your bed a refuge. This is why Amelia found it particularly odd that an itching desire to move was crawling up her legs, causing her toes to flex and hips to squirm.
Usually, a genuine desire to move after so many sluggish weeks would fill one with uncontrollable joy, but it only made Amelia more miserable. Her muscles screamed to move but her heart could find no reason to steer them. At least when her body was immovable, she could lie in peace. Now, there was an incessant gnaw to do something with nothing to do.
In an attempt to quell her legs, Amelia sat up in bed and stared through the window into the dreary day. Again, an urge from deep in her bones seized her, and she was suddenly on her feet moving towards the glass. She could not explain it but every part of her was screaming to touch the rain. When she reached the window, she fumbled with the opening latches with the urgency of someone being poisoned with a gas every ticking moment. She yanked it with vigor like it was going to swing open at her touch only to slam into the glass. A pained grunt escaped her lips then she began fidgeting and pulling with a madness until it burst open. Amelia lurched out the window headfirst and gasped as if she had been underwater. Cold trails of rain worked their way through her curls then down her scalp and unto her cheeks.
It was incredibly uncomfortable. A stark contrast to the warmth she had left in the bed. Yet, she eagerly reached out her palm and caught the drops in hand precisely because they stung. A relieved breath of air escaped her lungs as her lips pulled over her clenched teeth. She stayed like that for a very long time until her bladder made other demands.
Leaving the window open, she turned and limped her way to the bathroom, shivering with a trail of water following her. There, the mirror gave her an unfortunate view. Her typically well-cared for curls were a stringy, matted mess. It was enough to nearly make her cry. Her hair had always been a precious thing to her. It was the first thing she had worked hard to improve in her life when she had started to recover from Mark. Since then, it had been a symbol of pride and overcoming hardships. Now it was a disaster again, and so was she. She took a deep breath and turned away from the mirror. She had no energy to do anything about it now. Soon, she told herself. But it still nestled into her heart like a thorn.
When she returned to her room, she crawled back into her bed, too exhausted and upset to care that she was soaking wet from the waist up. She fell back asleep until her stomach woke her again. Yet another unusual occurrence to add to the day. But again she listened and began to limp down the hallway. When she entered the living room, she could see that the rain had only become more aggressive as she slept.
The living room was strange. The eyes of the paintings were less intimidating and the scattered paints that promised a past life seemed less disheartening. She gave it a nod like you would an acquaintance you pass on the street and turned to the kitchen. Marcie's radio sat on the counter, and after a staredown, Amelia hesitantly reached out and pushed the 'on' button down with a clunk.
"SITTIN' DRUNK ON A WAGON IN MEXICO
HER HAIR WHAT A CHUMP"
Mel jumped and nearly knocked the radio off the counter as she scrambled to turn down the maxed-out volume.
"Geez, Marcie," she laughed as The White Stripes now quietly ripped out a guitar riff in the kitchen. "Since when?" It sounded more like Andrew's shop than Marcie's kitchen. Even at the low volume, it was still too much energy. She pushed down the next saved radio station and soft, jazzy classics replaced the hard rock. It crackled in protest of change, so Mel adjusted the antenna until it was clear. She released a sigh and turned to Marcie's clean and organized domain. After rifling through the cabinets for easy snacks and coming up empty-handed, she swung open the fridge. Front and center was a box of Indian takeout with a sticky note that read:
In case you get hungry and I'm not here - Spencer a.k.a. The Twig
She took the box in hand and smiled down at it with knitted eyebrows. The fridge closed with a swish, and she turned with the box in hand, reaching for the utensil drawer. Her head gently bobbed to the music as the familiar feeling of herself appeared like an ember sputtering back to life. As she opened the drawer, the song flowed into the next.
"Des yeux qui font baisser les miens"
The rhythm familiar to her muscles gripped her entire body in tension. Her eyes widened, and her breath hitched.
"Un rire qui se perd sur se perd sur sa bouche
Viola le portrait sans retouches"
Her teeth chattered as she tried to grasp her breath. A beast in her chest smothered the ember and clawed at her ribs. No, no, no, no
"De l'homme auquel j'appartiens
Quand il me prend dans ses bras"
She grasped at her throat as her lungs collapsed. The emptiness of the apartment was suddenly terrifying as panic filled her.
"Il me parle tout bas
Je vois la vie en rose
Il me dit des mots d'amo—"
She lunged towards the radio and slammed it off, but it was too late. The damage had been done.
"Oh god. Oh god. Oh god." She repeated over and over as she gripped the counter for support. Help. I need - Somebody- please. She struggled to reach into her pocket with shaking hands and lifted the phone to her ear. It rang. One. Two. Three. Four. Five.
"I'm sorry but the person you have called has a voicemail box that has not been setup yet. Goodbye."
"No -" Tears streamed down her face, and she immediately called again. "Spencer - please," she begged. One. Two. Three. Four. Five.
"I'm sorry but the per—"
Hang up. Try again.
One.
Two.
Three.
I'm gonna - god - Je vois la vie en rose
Four.
Five.
"I'm sorry b—"
No one's coming. No one's coming. Her hands could no longer grip the phone, and it fell to the floor with a thump. She hunched over the counter and struggled for breath as a phantom gripped her throat. Her eyes blurred and the granite counter was replaced with wooden floors. The swirls of the stone became eyes. Lifeless eyes. Blood exploded behind them. Her stomach turned. She stumbled backwards. A woman's scream pierced her ears.
It was granite again, and Mel was shaking so hard she could hardly return to the counter. She was above the wave for only a moment before she could feel its imminent return. Without any time to prepare, it slammed into her again and forced her under. The kitchen blurred away.
"But the moment I create something that speaks against that capitalist obsessiveness. You replace me with this shit art. You push it—"
"SHUT UP WHEN I'M TALKING!!"
Up again for air. Gasp while you have a chance. Cigar smoke filled her lungs. Down. How did I get on the floor? God, it won't - it keeps - it won't stop. Stop stop stop - please. It all pounded against the cage and every wall she had ever established. It hammered and battered against her until she cracked and warped and it flooded her chest till it felt like a cracking dam. She clawed at her chest like the bloody claw marks would somehow break it. Release the pressure. It won't come out. It won't stop. She could cut it out. Rip her skin till there was no barrier between her soul and the cold air.
Il me parle tout bas
Je vois la vie en rose
That air. It entered her lungs in jolts. She wished it was colder. She wished it hurt. She wished an icy wind wound shred her lungs to bits till everything spilled out in a sloppy exhale. Rip. Shred. Shatter. Pounding. Pounding. POUNDING. Hot bolts into her thigh. Hair ripped. She could taste the cigars.
The drawer. The drawer could help. Get up get up get up. Open the drawer. Glints in the artificial light. Sharp. Fast. Clean. Fingers grasped the blade.
"You're just as pampered and selfish as the rest of the lot whether or not you have the guts to admit it. Why wasn't it me?! Huh? TELL ME?"
"I don't know. I don't know."
No no - the eyes - I can't - Her head twitched to her shoulder as voices bombarded her head. Failure. Worthless. His eyes. God his eyes. Her scream. Red. Drop the knife. No no no. It clattered to the floor, barely missing her bare feet. She pulled on her hair and released a barbaric scream. Head swung back. Her chest lurched forward. Tears ran in torrents. Her hand flew to her teeth. Flesh and bone, clamp. Teeth stabbing skin, pulling the pain away from her chest.
Pounding. Her leg on fire. Pounding.
Can't breath - oh god- I'm going to- I'm going to die- can't - can't -
Gasp for air. She wished it was icy. Her shoulders in a racked shake. Empty. Still all trapped. Growing. Pushing. Her ribs might push out of her skin. Move. Get out. Go go go go go. She stumbled into the ballroom — living room. The monster was still there. Like a great spider scheming in its web. Like a ghost with hollow eyes.
Cigars- Il me dit - cold eyes - blood eyes - run -
It was all spinning now. A pinwheel caught in a hurricane. Every decent thought she tried to hold on to was burned away by his venom-dipped words. His cold stares at her fiery exclamations. It broke through every levee, every dam, every sandbag. Bite again. Eyes darting to the drawers. Nails clawing chest. Suddenly her whole body convulsed in disgust and rage and her fists flew to the nearest object. A canvas. Now like a broken drum.
She stared. Eyes wide. Shock. Horror -- Inhale. Sharp, painful. Relieving.
Turn away. "Give it back!" She threw her fist back with a scream to the spider-like demon that dangled from the ceiling spinning a web around her soul. She pulled at her throat to grasp hold of the phantom around her neck.
She was trapped with no escape. There was nowhere to hide from herself anymore. If she could plunge a knife into that phantom... no, no, no, she grasped for reason but it was long gone on a tattered raft among the rising waves.
Relief. It was all she had. In a sudden plunge forward that could only be described as a desperate grasp for any form of movement other than ripping her own flesh off, she flung her sketchbooks across the floor. Paper resembled carpet. The crave subsided. Her bones shook in anticipation. Her lungs filled with air. One hand. Lunging, gnarling, clawing at the walls. Sketches shredded. Plans vanished. Anything to keep the pressure away, throwing herself against walls with a manic desperation.
"Just leave!" Fists ripped canvas.
"Oh shut up you pig"
"Me!" Nails clawing sketches off the wall like old scabs.
"Whatever you want, I can get it to you. Money? Recognition?"
"Alone!" The table covered in paint was thrown so vigorously across the room that it cracked in half upon crashing to the floor. Easels snapped. Chairs were flung in opposite directions. Legs put holes in the drywall. Only the piano was left. Her shoulder crashed into the side of it, and with every ounce of her strength, she heaved and fought against it. It did not budge. She backed up and slammed into it with a scream. Nothing. With all her movement, her limbs had become thoroughly entangled in the conniving spider's web. Exhale.
Her feet slide away from her as socks pressed against wood, and she slumped down the side of the piano in jolts like a glitching video. A sob escaped her throat as she slid down the side of the piano to collapse into a heap among the destruction. Every effort she had ever made was destroyed in a fit of rage around her. The monster had reached through the bars and ripped through her life's work in a matter of seconds.
Her body shook, and her breaths came in ragged gasps, bordered by hiccups. She clutched her cast to her chest as if she was clinging to a life preserver. Her body slowed and her mind raged again, flashing images in a horrific loop.
Crowds -
Shoots -
Je vois la vie
Screams -
Pain -
Eyes -
Blood -
There was nothing she could do now but watch. Then in a frayed exhale, it all left and the familiar feeling of nothingness washed over her. Her eyes clouded and her bones turned to mist. The crash of the thunderstorm outside flooded her mind and washed her into a deep well. There she remained, floating, empty, staring up knowing no one was coming.
There she stayed.
The reality of her loneliness pushed her deeper. There was no one to stop her from laying here till spores filled her lungs and moss covered her skin. No one standing over her till she could return to the fight. A commander without an army. No vanguard or cavalry to lessen the blow. No flanking force to turn the tides moments before the defeat. No one was coming.
"Run."
Why...why...
No one's coming. I'm going to die.
I want to die.
12 Missed Calls.
Four Voicemails.
Hey, Mel. This is Spencer. Sorry I didn't answer your calls. Morgan and I got into a prank war of sorts. Garcia had to shut my voicemail down and everything. I'll explain it all over Indian later tonight. Call me back though?
Hey this is Spencer again. Just wondering if you got my voicemail. I know you're probably too tired to call, so maybe send me a text so I know you're alright? You called me a few times, so I want to be sure you don't need anything. So, yeah, call me back. Or text.
Hey me again. I'm sorry if these calls are overwhelming. Maybe you just accidentally called me in your sleep. You know, rolled over on the phone in your sleep? I know it sounds a little ridiculous or unlikely. That's because it is. It's actually - no, sorry, that's not important right now. Please contact me somehow. Soon.
Okay, I'm leaving work early to come over. I'm sorry if I'm overreacting, but I'll blame it on my job. So if you're okay, let me know before I get there, and I will stop to get you some incredible food. Please be okay.