Brain Stew

Inspired by Green Day.

     It’s been three days since you died. I’m having trouble trying to sleep; the empty space next to me still has your scent, your indentation, your presence, yet it’s still an empty space. I can’t sleep knowing that I’m the only one in this bed. So instead I lay awake, staring at the ceiling. There’s a spot on the ceiling from a leaky pipe. You always nagged me to get it fixed. What I would do to endure your insistent nagging once more.

     It’s been a week since you died. My eyes feel like they’re going to bleed. They’re so dry it hurts to keep them open, but every time I close them I start to tear up. I don’t know if it’s the loss or just the natural process of keeping them moist, but I can’t start crying every time I blink, so I leave them open, instead. You didn’t like it when I cried, anyway. I still hate disappointing you.

     It’s been three weeks and two days. My mouth is dry. I don’t eat a lot and I barely drink anything. My tongue is cracking; it would probably start bleeding if I ate anything sharp, like chips or pretzels. My stomach causes an uproar everywhere I go. People tell me I should start eating something more often. Apparently, I’ve lost a lot of weight. Every time I eat, though, I want to throw up. Something in my stomach just pushes everything back up, and I can feel it scratch the back of my throat a little harder each time.

     It’s been one month, two weeks. My face is numb. I still don’t sleep well. I drift in and out at various points throughout the night (and morning, and afternoon), but I couldn’t tell you when. It just happens. When I’m not sleeping, I’m trying to sleep. I’ve started pushing my face into my pillow and shutting my eyes tightly. I hold myself there, hoping the darkness will help, but it doesn’t. Still I try. I try with your pillow, pulling your fading scent through my nostrils and into my brain. My head spins: ecstasy. Fucked up and spun out in my room.

     Two months, six days. My mind is set on overdrive. I started taking up more hours at work. I’m up to 60 a week now. I pour all of my heart into selling anything I can to each and every person that walks through the front door. I put a fake smile on that appears so genuine that I can start up a conversation with anyone. I can’t believe how many life stories I’ve absorbed from customers in my attempt to wake up and start living my life again. Although it still feels like I’m distracting myself rather than moving on.

     Some number of months, some number of weeks, and some number of days. The clock was laughing in my face, always reminding me how much time has passed since your death. So I punched it. My fist broke the glass and the stupid thing fell to the ground, the hands sliding across the floor and face cracking. I ignored the shards sticking out of my knuckles and brought my foot down on the remains of the clock. And then I did it again. And again. I kept doing it until I finally let me eyes tear, and then I kept smashing it some more, broken pieces bouncing on the floor with each drop of my heel. Then I got on the ground and cried. Sorry for disappointing you but by now, I passed the point of delirium.

     After my tantrum, I crawled into our bed. It was the middle of the night and I was tired. I didn’t breathe in your pillow. I didn’t stare at the ceiling. I shut my eyes. I cried some more.

     I was on my own. Here we go.