His eyes were that haunting shade of blue: that color that etches itself in your brain and just refuses to leave. I remember those eyes far too well. I remember every time they bulged a little bit, whether in pain or in passion, and every blink, every squint. Every single detail that just refuses to leave. More clearly than anything, I remember them closing for the last time.
I remember his hand in mine. The way his grip grew weaker and weaker, how it faded and how it clung. Still, more than anything, I remember when it went limp, and the way it grew cold as I stayed at his side for God only knows how long. That was the part that haunted me the most, that coldness, the very chill of death itself.
The nurses had told me to leave, but I had not. I had stayed at his side until he passed on, and long after. I am not certain why I stayed so long, knowing that he was very much gone. There was just something making me stay, something in his eyes, his voice, his screams, his grip. I wish I had left sooner. There is something incredibly terrifying about looking into the faded eyes of a man whose life has left him, and to feel his fingers grow stiff and cold in your own. There is something about it that will never leave you. I wish it would stop, I wish I could forget and let go, and yet it has been the very thing that has driven me for so many years.
And so I both love and hate it, as I love and hate that man, as I love and hate myself. There is some sort of familiarity that bids me not to forget. I hate it.
The light appears red behind my eyelids, and I slowly open my eyes, looking around I realize that I am lying on the kitchen floor, gallon of milk opened beside me. I stretch slowly, laying out flat on my back, and test every muscle, every nerve, every bone, seeing if they are still as they have always been. Satisfied with my results, I slowly ease up to sitting, my mind surprisingly clear. In any case, it is much clearer than it has been for some time.
I glance across the kitchen at the broken wine bottle, vaguely remembering the events of last night. I scramble desperately to my feet and look around for my phone, there, there it is, right in my pocket. I pull it out, remembering vaguely the voice of a man. Was it reality or a dream? Is this the test?
I look at the incoming calls history. Private number. Yesterday. 8:46pm. I lay back down on the floor, humoring the dull ache at the back of my skull. Does this mean that I had not imagined it? That he did call? That he even exists at all? The possibility of schizophrenia again flits through my mind as viable at this point, but I ignore that for the moment.
It occurs to me that it has been some time since I’ve known what is real. Days and nights have blended themselves together in some kind of endless loop. Do I even remember what day it is? Can I even recall the year? Or my own age? How can I, then, decide whether or not something has happened, if there is a man, or if he is a mirage. And there is some part of me that does not care.
I check the time. 3:22pm. I pull myself, somewhat reluctantly, always reluctantly, to my feet. I momentarily debate between cleaning up the mess I made last night and taking a shower. The shower wins. The mess can wait.
I cannot even remember the last time I took a shower. Has it been days? Weeks? Mere hours? When was the last time I brushed my teeth, or combed my hair, or ate a meal? When did I last make it to school? Was I any longer in school. I check the date on my phone. March 13. I must still be in school. Or had I dropped out?
As I towel off, I realize I am uncertain about everything in my life. I do not remember anything. Yet in this same moment, I wonder if this is such a bad thing? Maybe it is better not to know, and to let life rush by as quickly as it can. It seems I have survived the world in some way up til this point, perhaps it would be best to continue. It occurs to me that I may not have a choice whether I continue or not. I have watched people go through withdrawal. I don’t think I am strong enough to survive that kind of agony.
I walk to my room. It’s a mess. I don’t remember the last time I cleaned. I don’t remember that I’ve ever cleaned. I walk over to my dresser, wondering if I own any clean clothes. It appears that I do. I slip into a pair of jeans and a shirt, then make my way back to the bathroom. My teeth feel strange and tingle when I brush them. Perhaps this is not unusual, with how much alcohol I’ve had over the last… however long it has been. After this, I slowly work the knots out of my hair. It occurs to me somewhere in the process of this that my hair is disgusting and probably has not been cut for years.
Something about this realization deeply disturbs me and prompts me to frantically run through the house, and upon retrieving a pair of scissors, cut my hip-length hair off just below my shoulders. It is an uneven and ragged excuse for a haircut, but a vast improvement from the state it was in some ten minutes ago. And to look at this objectively, with the state of my mind right now and the clarity of my vision, I did a pretty decent job.
I stare at my reflection in the mirror as I run the brush through my hair, wondering how long it has been since I even looked at myself. My face is thin and my eyes are bloodshot and ringed with purple. I look like a zombie or something. I had not realized how much weight I’d lost. Too much. I barely look human anymore. I look something more like an alien.
I step on the scales, wondering how much it has been, exactly. 97lbs. I wince at the number on the scale. Far below a healthy number for my height. I try to recall what I had been before. 130? 140? Perhaps 120, at the lowest. Certainly not below 100. I run my fingers over my stomach, suddenly aware that I can feel every rib, every bone. How long has it been since I have eaten anything of substance?
I take the stairs as quickly as my body/mind combination will allow me to at the moment and find myself in the kitchen once again. I pick up the broken shards of glass and the gallon of milk, take out the trash, and return. I open up the fridge and pull some coldcuts out of the drawer. Granted, it is not the most nutritious thing in the world, but it very well may be the most I have eaten in months, perhaps years? How long has this gone on for?
I grab an apple from the bottom door and take a bite of it. It hurts my teeth as I chew, but I will myself to continue, and swallow. I sit down at the bar and make myself a sandwich while slowly working on the apple.
Upon finishing this meal, I stand up, get a glass from the cupboard, and fill it with water.
My phone rings.
“Hello?” I ask cautitiously, aware of the private number, and silently willing it to be the man – Jack – yet at the same time convinced that he may have very well been a dream, and a man selling cable will try to convince me to buy more channels.
“Anna, I am glad you are awake. You sound well. How are you feeling?”
“Jack?” I ask breathlessly, a bit more desperate sounding than I had expected for it to come out.
“Yes, or whatever you would like to call me. Have you woken up, or did I wake you?”
“I am awake.”
“Will I be seeing you tonight?”
I ponder his words, sorting through how crazy I have become. A wise person would certainly not meet up with a stranger in a bar for the purpose of chasing what is probably nothing more than a dying man’s hallucinations. Then again, I am hardly a wise person. “of course,” I reply.
“Good. I am looking forward to it. Have you been able to eat today?”
“Yes.”
“Good, that is very good. How about drinking? Are you keeping hydrated.”
I glance toward the glass of water on the counter and answer to the affirmative.
“Excellent. How about alcohol? Have you had any of that today?”
“Not yet. I’m not going to promise I won’t, but not yet.”
“Drugs?”
“Not yet.”
“Marijuana?”
“Marijuana is a drug.”
“Well, some people don’t think so. I was just making sure you were not letting yourself off on a technicality.”
“No pot, I swear.”
“Good, then. Should I be expecting you around a certain time, or are you likely to show up whenever?”
I think about this, “I will be there soon,” I decide. No need to prolong the inevitable.
“You sound skeptical.”
“I’m meeting up with a strange bartender who is stalking me on the other side of town, is there any reason that I should not be skeptical?”
“No, no, I suppose you are very right in your hesitation. It is good to be wary of strangers. I could easily say that I won’t harm you, but many a man will say that, and it is of no good unless they prove it. I will prove it at some point, but you are right to distrust me at the moment. You still have some sense of self preservation about you, after all.”
“I guess so.”
“Well, I’ll let you get on your way, then, and we will talk more when you arrive, I suppose.”
“I guess so.” And with that I shut the phone, wondering what sort of a thing I have managed to get myself into.
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