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.