The Aftermath of Tragedy

I still have the same morning routine. Trudge from bed into the bathroom, sit at the edge of the tub and stare, and I work myself out of whatever night-clothes I bothered with.

Stare.

 Then get dressed slowly, slowly enough that I really barely have to move at all if I don’t want to. Go to the mirror. Brush hair. Brush teeth. Stare. Find lines on my face, find scars from my teenage acne, squint, examine my eyes. Stare.

WashRinseRepeat.

It takes me at least an hour to go through this routine, but I had to change my mornings when they came. They bustled in through my door in scads and droves, filling this old house to the cupboards. My mother would be so happy, her guest room crammed full of people. She’d make them food in a big huge pot, chili or spaghetti. I can’t. I can’t cook for them and I’m not allowed to have my morning routine, so I don’t want to.

Squabble-Squabble

She can’t be alone that long. She’ll… Well she’ll do it just like he did…

Eat

What is she even doing in there, obviously not make-up. I see why he offed himself, Jesus Christ.

Squabble-Eat-Squabble

Honey, we’re worried about you, you… well, you shouldn’t be by yourself too long, dear…

And so I trimmed the fat. To hell with it all and dress like a normal woman. Fifteen minutes flat. But then I find myself staring when I shouldn’t.

At the wall.

At his mother.

At nothing.

Staring makes people uncomfortable, I’ve learned. Almost as much as silence. People, or at least the people milling about my house like so many ants, don’t like it when there’s nothing to say, so they make things up.

“Weather’s nice today, Lena, we should go out.”

“You look tired, Lena, are you tired?”

“I’m so sorry, dear, so sorry.”

“Do you want to talk?”

No.

I do not want to talk. I want to be alone. And not in the I-want-to-kill-myself way. Because I don’t. I just want to be alone so I can laugh. Nobody will let me. Their concerned eyes, their pursed lips, their shoulder clasps and tight hugs, they smother me. My lungs are never full enough for so much as a giggle.

But I need to laugh. I need to smile and bounce around and scream.

Because that’s what you do when you’ve gotten away with murder.

Unseasonably Warm

You pull up the zipper on your faded, blue sweatshirt and cross your arms.
You aren't cold exactly,
In fact, it's unseasonably warm.
You sway from side to side and kick your legs up in a runners stretch.
You're not anxious,
In fact, you're the calmest you've been in
(What I estimate to be) your twenty-three to thirty-one years (roughly).

You look at the man in front of you.
He's wearing an expression I'd call worriedly optimistic,
You're probably adding grays to his already salt and pepper hair
(Mostly salt)
With all this suspense.
You open your mouth for the seventh time.
Still, as if there's a lack of words (or possibly too many),
Nothing is said.

There is something in this silence.
I stand inside it, feeling not the cold nor the thickness I'd expected.
No.
This is tear-stained t-shirts and home-made cookies.
This is first dates and a true, unwavering love for black coffee.
This is something.

I am in this moment, not with you,
But around you.
A snow-globe world.
I supposed I'd be the snow.
Softly touching all the elements,
But not part of the picture.

You set a hand
(Which, the ladies in the audience have recently noticed looks strong and capable)
On the table,
Stabilizing yourself on the dark, weathered oak.
The man,
Who, by now, we
(The wide-eyed, salty fingered onlookers)
Should know is your father,
Gives an encouraging smile and covers your hand with his own.

I know what's supposed to happen here.
We all do.
You say, in a hushed tone
(I lean forward, face bathed in blueish light)
"I love her, Dad."

Neither your father nor the rest of us are suprised.
We stand there silently,
In the kitchen (granite counter-tops, hard-wood floors, wide windows)
Of your surprisingly large (for an office assistant) two bedroom house,
Which we've been told you can afford
(I'm not convinced)
And just when it feels it's been too long, too quiet.
Your father clasps a your arm
(His plaid shirt quite similar to yours)
And lets out a long, loud whistle
Followed by an even louder (floor rumbling, lumberjack-esque) laugh.

When the lights go up,
I can't help but feel a little sad.
Your wedding was beautiful, by the way,
All lace trimmings and softly glowing lights.
I gather my things, and step out into the night-time air,
Which, (I can't help but notice) seems unseasonably warm.