A Slow Death

The argument demonstrated the slow destruction of her mind perfectly. She was ageing and he was angry and she didn’t know who he was and yet he was still angry. I turned the corner and walked into my parent’s room. I was staying with them in Milwaukee for a weekend while my boyfriend moved his stuff out of our apartment. The breakup was a bitter one. One filled with his cheating and my constant worrying and him not being able to cope with my OCD. I knew I could be hard to deal with at times but I always thought he understood that and loved me just the same. Apparently not.

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Angry, alone, scared, worrying. He left me and now I sit alone in this room with a terrified expression on my face.

My shaking hand raises a lighter and soon the warm cigarette is in my mouth. Freezing wind blows in from where he ripped the curtains down in anger, leaving me exposed to the -12 degree temperatures outside. I am cold and wet and he is gone and I am sad. He drove out into the snow, impulsive as he is and now I fear he may be dead. My hands slide against one another, trying to stay warm. I consciously pull them apart from their random attempts at keeping me alive. I don’t want to be warm. I don’t want to live. As I sit there on my own in the cold, empty room, I realise that this is basically a re-enactment of that scene in St Elmo’s fire where the girl is sitting alone in her apartment until everyone comes to try and help her. I grit my teeth and shake my head. There’s no one who’s going to come for me. I pushed them all away. I pushed them all the goddamn way away. I decide to stop hiding away and feeling sorry for myself. I get up, I don’t like being alone. 

Author's Note

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