| 1 My eyes open suddenly, and I see that I am besieged by darkness. My heart is racing. It hammers in my chest like a love-sick tiger ramming against its cage, hungry for its mate. I pant until my stomach aches, and I lie on my side. I can see a faint outline of a picture on the wall. The frame juts out into the darkness, and the glass collects a pool of velvet air. The blackness feels frigid and hostile against my face. I pull my covers up to my chin, and shiver uncontrollably despite the heat in the room. I grab my stomach, half-expecting it to burst through my skin. It churns, and releases several sharp pains. I wipe my hand across my forehead, and find it surprisingly cold and clammy. I feel like I am burning up, but my shivers have not ceased. This must be what dying feels like. My cheeks burn; they scorch my flesh from the inside out. I groan. I try to remember what had just happened to me, and why I have this disgusting feeling of being bound to a nightmare. The remnants of Sol�s voice dissipates into the dark room. I have heard his voice in my dreams so many times in the past few weeks. I can�t walk down the street without seeing him in the crowd, or comb my hair without feeling his hands on my back, or bang on my computer�s keyboard without hearing his sarcastic comments about my bad grammar. I can�t survive without him. I roll over, and look at his side of the bed. It�s empty. It has been empty for two weeks now. I had stopped ripping the days off of his pocket calendar on the fourteenth. That morning ritual was his job, and I have neither the incentive nor the desire to do it for him. I had kept it up for three days, pretending that he was in the bathroom, or that he was away on business. The scrunched pieces of paper are still sitting on the carpet beside the night stand. At times, I lie in bed with my nightgown twisted around me, waiting for him to crawl back into the warm covers, but he never does. I sometimes call to him, telling him dirty little secrets, hoping that they will draw him out of his hiding place. Occasionally I beg him to come back. But he�s gone and he�s never going to come back. My stomach feels sick again. I quickly grab the pure white wastebasket, and vomit into its depths. Paper bends inside the basket, giving way for the thick puke. I gag on the sour taste. Hanging over the side of the bed, I shake like a timid puppy with its tail between its legs. I spit twice. The acidic bile scorches my throat, and I stifle another gag. I carefully untangle my feet from the bed sheets, and slide them into Sol�s heavy slippers. I trudge into the bathroom, and flick on the light. The white room causes me to squint and I look into the mirror. I can hardly recognize myself now. The changes happened very slowly, but they have gradually increased in number and intensity. My forehead is now a labyrinth of creases, both separating and uniting at hundreds of points along its surface. Dark circles have started to build under my eyes. Sol used to tell me that my eyes could light up the darkest of nights. The bags make my eyes look murky and undefined. I feel ashamed now that I have allowed my appearances to slip through my fingertips. I wet a pink washcloth, and I touch it against my face gingerly. Water drops roll down my face and onto the marble counter. Beside the pool of water lies Sol�s green toothbrush. I pick it up, and place it into the drawer where it belongs - it was not like Sol to leave his toiletries around the bathroom. I hold on to his can of shaving cream. A small spiral of chaste froth oozes out from the spout when I press down on the button. His scent leaks into the room. I expect him to jump out from behind the shower curtains and drag me in with him. Peeking into the shower, I realize that it�s empty. Not even so much as a footprint of his remains on the green bath mat. Not a single hair. Did he ever exist? Page 2 More Stories Lair Homepage |