literature

3 Emotionally Exhausted

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Emotionally Exhausted.

I lie fitfully in my bed. I can't sleep. I wanted so desperately to escape from reality for a few hours before I would be forced to deal with everything you've just told me. But the much desired peace of mind that I'm chasing is out of my reach. This morning when I woke, I loved being able to pick up your scent in my room; on my pillow, my towels and my clothes. You smell like coffee, lemons, apples and a faint hint of cigarettes. And warm. You smell warm. I never knew it was possible for a human being to smell warm, but you do. My sheets smell like you; it makes my stomach hurt.

My muscles ache, as if I've run ten miles. I feel trapped, but I can't move. I'm too tired. The covers protect me from the outside world, they feel safe. The duvet doesn't compare to the father's embrace I'm longing for right now, but for a few more days it will have to do.  I stare at  the painting that used to be over my bed. It's still leaning against wall where we put it there so it wouldn't fall down on your head. I want chocolate. No, I want Bailey's; the adult version of chocolate milk. But then I would have to leave my room. And I know my friends are in their own rooms, just waiting for me to come out, so they can accidentally meet me in the kitchen and ask me how I'm doing.

The walls between our rooms are pathetically thin. I have no illusions of that they have heard us in the early morning hours, as I have them, but is it odd how I do not seem to mind others hearing of our pleasure, but it turns my stomach to know at least some of them have listened intently, having heard every word we spoke less than two hours ago?

At least none of them have come to talk. As much as I love my friends, a part of why I love them is that they usually know when to make themselves scarce; moments like now. I'm tempted to knock on the wood cabinet over my head as to not jinx my blessed privacy, but I never was one for superstition. The seconds tick by as I try to clear my mind. Maybe if I meditate, and think of clear skies and the ocean, the ache in my chest will go away. But as fate has it, someone knocks on my door. I pull the duvet over my head and try to ignore it. But whoever is knocking just will not go away.

I get up and wrap my sheets around me. As much as I want to cry, right now I'm glad I haven't. On the small possibility that whoever it is has not heard The Rumour by now, I leave the lights off and hope I can play it off as just being tired. Or hung over. Ah, student life. But I open the door, and I slam it right in your face. Well, I tried. You push in annoyingly easily, even as I try to close it- with you still outside. You close the door gently. I can't decide if the expression on your face is resigned, or just plain sad. I don't know. I can't look at you long enough to decide.

You talk, I hear your voice, but I can't hear what you're saying. You step closer, but I back away. You reach out, but I lean away. My back hits the wall, and I'm literally cornered between my door, my painting and you. You're only an inch taller than me, but I have never felt so small. My hair hides my face, and I'm grateful, because as you speak, the tears are burning, threatening to spill. But you will never see me cry. I always hated my hair. I know it's stunning; it had become my trademark, in a way. I'm the blonde girl. Not the bottle blonde, or the highlighted one, but the tall, golden blonde, can't-tan-to-save-her-life blonde. The Barbie in the biker boots and leather jacket. Sometimes it seems that even at university people tend to assume I'm stupid just because I'm pretty.

My mom always had the same problem; being looked down upon because of a common misconception of that blondes, pretty ones at that, are without a doubt stupid. Of course, then she opened her mouth. While we drive each other up every wall in sight, I always wanted to be like my mom. My dad always told me to be like my mom; she's got her life sorted. She works her ass off and accepts no bull. But what strikes me right at this moment is that my mom would never take this kind of shit. My mom would have shot you. She would have locked and chained the door.  She would have verbally dissected and calmly ripped you into a thousand metaphorical pieces; like you were not worth the sweat marks a proper bout of fury would cause on her tailored shirt.

At any other time the image of my amazon of a mother laying into you would have made me giggle- or smirk depending on my mood, now it just makes me feel inadequate. Because as I'm standing here wrapped up my sheets, I'm shaking. I'm not afraid, because I know you would never lay a hand on me. But even as I'm wrapped up in queen sized sheets, I feel naked. I feel bare and vulnerable. Fourteen hours ago we were still covered in sweat, and other things, but now the though of having shared my body with you makes me want to shower until the water tank is not only freezing, but empty. Because while I can wash my sheets and cover everything else with air freshener, nothing can wash the ghostly touch your hands off of me.

"Have dinner with me, let's talk," you say.

It's really hard to think clearly when you're standing this close; when I'm literally backed into a corner. I know you're not doing it on purpose. I've never really had an issue with personal space or small spaces before, at least not when sharing them with you. But now I feel like I'm suffocating. I shake my head, "No," I say. My voice doesn't sound like my own.

"Please -"

"No," I repeat. I can't stand to be near you right now. "Please just go," I whisper. You look away, your teeth firmly planed into your bottom lip. Eventually you nod and move away. It takes me a second to remember that I need to move so you can open the door. We brush past each other, our bodies touching briefly in the small space. Your hand lands on my waist, and even through the sheets, I can feel how warm you are. My body can't seem to decide if the flash of heat that courses through me is affection- some variation of it, or nausea. It may be longing; longing for things to be as they were not even half a day ago. I don't want to think about it. You say something again, but I don't hear you. My head is a mess of a billion thoughts and all I want is to be left alone.

You open the door and you step into the harsh light. Rebecca walks by and I can see her giving you a deadly glare, but she doesn't say anything as she disappears into the kitchen where I can see Mary and Kristin leaning against the counter. They're looking at us as well.  I thank whoever built this building for the two doors between my room and the kitchen. At least they respect my privacy enough to not eavesdrop. Their rooms are wall to wall with mine, and sometimes I swear I can hear the tapping of their fingertips against their laptop keyboards though the wall. But then perhaps they chose the kitchen to know when he left. Friends are great like that.

You stop like a deer in the headlights and you seem like you want to sink into the ground, "Bye," you say, then you disappear down the corner and down the staircase. I can hear every step you take, and I know the moment your feet hit the pavement. I'm tempted to, but I don't watch you leave. Instead I grab my towel and head to the shower. I pass the kitchen on the way and Mary speaks softly, "You okay babe?" I just shake my head and close the door.

While I shower, I concentrate on breathing deeply. I want to scream, but my pride stops me. Silly thing that. I think a scream would do me good, and well justified. But it would scare the living daylights out of anyone living on this floor. I don't try to stop my tears. Instead I just pretend they're water drops from the shower. When I get out, I methodically go about my routine, while watching American Psycho. I always found the effect of the monotone voice of Christian Bale rather fascinating.  While I know the narrative of the mass murdering psychopath Patrick Bateman should not calm me down, it does. And it numbs the confusion and eases the heavy feeling in my chest. I pick up a paint brush, and I start putting the final touches on the paining by the door. When the film is finished, I put on The Wall, by Pink Floyd, pop a bottle of wine and keep painting.
Emotionally Exhausted

Who thought talking could be draining?


Part 3 of Letters From Me To You
© 2011 - 2024 MarieTHNHayes
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monstroooo's avatar
I just realised why you're using second person, because I just read the title of the trilogy.

What a moron I am :dummy:

Oh, well. Carry on using that :)

Anyway, this part is also wonderful. Powerful and emotional writing. Not quite as powerful as the second part, mostly because it's longer. But I really like how you don't transcribe Micheal's dialogue: the narrator isn't listening to the words, and so the reader can't hear them, either. I also like how we don't really know the backstory: we just know what he's broken her heart, and she's in shock trying to deal with it.

I caught a few little typos:

"No," I repleat. -> "repeat"

You stop like a dear in the headlights -> "deer"

I cane hear every step you take -> can