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They don't know when I cry
Jun. 9th, 2004 05:10 pmThings were being thrown everywhere, tears were running down her face, and she was sobbing and screaming at the top of her lungs.
No one came bursting through their bedroom door to see what was wrong. No one called her name in panic as she listened for non-existant footsteps. And no one wrapped her in strong arms and held her while she wept.
She closed her eyes. They weren't coming. Why weren't they coming? They loved her. Didn't they? DIDN'T THEY!?! Throat hurting too much to speak, she curled up on the bed.
She couldn't even smell their scents on the sheets. They'd been there that morning; she remembered watching them sleep, beautiful and golden, gorgeous green and blue eyes closed. Now even their scent was missing.
Trembling, she dragged herself off the bed and went into their bathroom. (Everything was theirs. There was no hers, no his, no hers. It was theirs.) Delicately picking up an eye pencil, she slowly began to rim her lower eyelid with thick khol, the deep chocolate color smearing steadily, a sticky mixing of flesh and wax.
As she switched to the top lid, she ignored the tears that were dripping, muddy river brown, into the sink. Then, hand shaking, she dropped the pencil and collapsed to the floor, shivering.
She couldn't deny the truth any longer. Lifting her head, she looked at the picture of the three of them stuck in the corner of the bathroom mirror. And more tears fell as she rocked herself back and forth, knowing death had taken them just a few days after that picture.
No one came bursting through their bedroom door to see what was wrong. No one called her name in panic as she listened for non-existant footsteps. And no one wrapped her in strong arms and held her while she wept.
She closed her eyes. They weren't coming. Why weren't they coming? They loved her. Didn't they? DIDN'T THEY!?! Throat hurting too much to speak, she curled up on the bed.
She couldn't even smell their scents on the sheets. They'd been there that morning; she remembered watching them sleep, beautiful and golden, gorgeous green and blue eyes closed. Now even their scent was missing.
Trembling, she dragged herself off the bed and went into their bathroom. (Everything was theirs. There was no hers, no his, no hers. It was theirs.) Delicately picking up an eye pencil, she slowly began to rim her lower eyelid with thick khol, the deep chocolate color smearing steadily, a sticky mixing of flesh and wax.
As she switched to the top lid, she ignored the tears that were dripping, muddy river brown, into the sink. Then, hand shaking, she dropped the pencil and collapsed to the floor, shivering.
She couldn't deny the truth any longer. Lifting her head, she looked at the picture of the three of them stuck in the corner of the bathroom mirror. And more tears fell as she rocked herself back and forth, knowing death had taken them just a few days after that picture.
