Scraping and Scrubbing

A Story by Jillian

Kinda long, but just had to get it out.

I cleaned my room yesterday. Simple as that, nothing more. I dug up the immense amount of treasures from under my bed. I found the stuffed bunny rabbit you had won me at that fair you insisted on going to. I couldn't help but hold it close to my chest, next to the hole under my throat that you left. I moved it's tiny orange arms up and down, as if it were waving, exactly as you did when you tucked me into bed that late Tuesday night. I pressed it's soft ear to my nose, expecting your gentle scent to crash through my nostrils. I was surprised when it didn't. I didn't smell you at all, actually.

I cleaned my room yesterday. Simple as that, nothing more. I picked through all of the clothes in my closet. I found the dress that I had wore to my brother's wedding hanging restlessly in the back, behind all of the other colorful clothes. I couldn't help but to put it on, drape it around my shrinking body to recall that night. It grazed my knees, and I felt the lace peeking out from the bottom. The lace was ripped in one place from when we had come home and made love. You were so excited, you told me how beautiful I looked. That didn't stop you, though, from carelessly ripping off that restricting dress. I had expected, when I put on that dress yesterday, to release my skin and instead, feel yours around me. But, I didn't. I expected to feel your careful breath on my burning cheeks and your hands curving around my waiting hips. I didn't, though. I didn't feel anything at all, actually.

I cleaned my room yesterday. Simple as that, nothing more. I washed my mirror that hung on my purple wall till it was spotless. I found a photo of you taped to the corner of it. The bottom right corner, because you always liked to be right. It was a photo of our first date, when you drove me to Mill Avenue. And it was so late. So, so late. And we stayed out almost all night. And we didn't care because I was so taken back by your utter oddness. Really, honey, you were a strange one. And I remembered how you took me to Fatburger, and we raided the restaurant like pirates. As I was eating, my elbow resting steadily on the countertop, you inquired softly about the scars on my wrist. The miniscule scars that I thought no one could see but me. You saw them, though, didn't you? I told you a secret that I kept so dear to my heart. I ripped the photograph from it's home, and peered at myself in the mirror. I expected to see your eyes looking back at mine, and feel the tears burning straight through my baby blues. But I didn't. I didn't feel any tears, really.

I cleaned my room yesterday. Simple as that, nothing more. I cleared out my shelves that rested on my walls. I found a mix tape you had made for me. I couldn't help but let it play through my unsuspecting speakers. I heard the voice of Ronnie Winter, the singer of the Red Jumpsuit Apparatus. I will never let you fall / I'll stand up with you forever / I'll be there for you through it all... I choked up the memory of you singing this to me. Gently, softly, sweetly. You held my hands and gazed tenderly at me as I melted. You had me in the palm of your hand, the first night we made love. I expected to feel your voice in my ears, listening graciously as your voice suffocates my mind. But, I heard Winter's voice. A stranger's voice singing simple words. I didn't feel you in my mind at all, not even a bit.

I cleaned my room yesterday. Simple as that, nothing more. I tumbled through my jewelry box, throwing away necklaces and bracelets that I no longer wear. I found the ring. The ring we bought together, bought identical rings for each of us. I couldn't help but slide it on to my left ring finger, where it had sweetly stayed for so many months. You promised me this ring and your heart. Promises don't mean much to me, anymore. They never meant anything to you. I wondered if you were wearing the ring when you kissed her, when you touched her, when you pressed against her. You were wearing it when you broke my heart. I twisted it on my finger, expecting to feel your palm against mind. Your calloused fingers intertwined with mine, softly stroking my knuckles with each step we took. But, I didn't feel your hand in mine. I didn't feel anything.

I wished I could feel something. I believe that feeling anything--even sadness, is better than feeling nothing at all. But I couldn't feel it. You took everything from me, even the things that I had thought were mine forever.