The last time we spoke—or rather, when I jabbed at my keyboard with my heart in my throat, as he went from annoyed to ambivalent to appeasing in the blink of a cursor—that’s when I knew it was nothing. It, meaning us. It, meaning me.
I wept about it, still, when I was alone and that great swell would hit—the pain buoyant despite its weight, though it tried like hell to sink. Oh how it tried. And humiliation loomed like a scud hurling stones, each squall a reminder I was just another girl—a filament—a spec in the wind.
He’d broken something inside of me, yet he remained unscathed—content in the procurement of pretty distractions. His eyes roved. His hands roamed. He kept his pulse wet in borderline jailbait. He never stopped pursuing. Never stopped moving.
Yet I was deeply rooted to the love I felt…and something else.
Hate.
I wanted nothing more than to mute him with all the music and cloak him in all the static, to lay upon his empty words and sleep until I vanished. But I didn’t. I couldn’t. I wouldn’t.
So I breathed. I ate. I lived.
But I was not alive.*
*The above excerpt comes from a story I’m working on for National Novel Writing Month. Best of luck to all those who are taking part. Keep writing and may the words flow freely. 🙂
Copyright © S. A. Healey
