let go

(Hopefully, someday, this will be a chapter in my book.  Enjoy)

Excuse me, too busy; you’re writing your own tragedy..

     He couldn’t take it anymore. Instinctively, his body moved out of his room and towards the front door. The sky was just beginning to darken completely. Music in his ears, he proceeded to try and calm down while he sat in the rocking chair. Night was one of his favorite aspects of life--a time when light ceases to exist; what could be more perfect? Darkness hid the truth he didn’t want to face. Each small breath was full of cursing. His eyes, exhausted, easily lost their focus; the landscape began to dissipate into an abyss of nothingness.

     Never had he wanted more to take in the aroma rising from a smoldering cigarette. The tranquilizer for his ever-increasing stress was within access, but he could not bring himself to move from his quiet chair. For such a warm evening with little cloud cover, the sky was practically bare from any celestial objects. A sense of despair began to overwhelm him. Thoughts of the future, plans for life, reputation, suicide, and self-hatred bombarded his mind.

     Why had he allowed the situation to elevate to this level? Why the problem even posed a question was beyond his own understanding; he knew the source of the problem. The past three days had been the worst in his life. Smiling had become an effort rather than a reaction. There really wasn’t anywhere to go from where he was.

     After what seemed an eternity of waiting, his phone rang. “I’m so freaking sick of this.” She couldn’t even spare a greeting for him. Sycophantism was by no means the root of this conversation. His heart sank.

     In all honesty, he hadn’t any idea what could, should—needed to be said. Moments passed one by one as he searched within himself to find an appropriate response. “I’m sick too,” he admitted, “literally.” And it was true; not even a sliver of food had dared to come near to him in the past three days. Just the thought of food made him nauseous. Eyes beginning to coat themselves in saline, “I can’t take this.”

     “Well, what do you want me to do?” she exclaimed. “It’s not fair that you won’t let me have any other friends! You have no claim to me and I should not feel bad for anything! So quit making me feel bad just because you’re unhappy.”

     “What’s wrong with us?”

     A pause of silence lay like snow in their valley of despair, only breathing.

     “I don’t know,” she told him. “I just don’t know.”

     “I’ll talk to you tomorrow. I’m sorry we—I let it get this bad.” His heart screamed, I love you, but his mouth and mind knew that this would only further complicate everything and suppressed the passion’s plea. With a click, the conversation ended. What’s wrong with us? Those words echoed in the endlessly reverberating halls of his thoughts. Hours later, his eyes finally surrendered to the night and eased shut.

     As he tried to sleep, his dreams were teeming with visions of her. The sleep was interrupted several times by sudden shakes and what seemed to be the breaking of fevers. Sleep was in vain. He lay awake until the sun’s beams invaded his quarters. As he rolled over out of the bed he whispered to himself, “Great, another day.”