Burgundy Red

It’s dark outside when Jane cracks the egg and holds it, fingers shaking, over the frying pan.

Drip, drip, drip…

The yellow yolk slides, as if in slow motion, to meet sizzling butter. Bits of eggshell follow after it. Jane wants to pinch the bridge of her nose as the liquid egg mixes with hard bits of shell, and then she wants to scream and cry and shout. But she can’t—not with egg now splattered across her fingers and dripping down her arms. It cascades down, slowly and steadily, as if taunting her.

Jane grits her teeth and turns towards the sink before she can do anything stupid. Out of the corner of her eye, she can just make out the deep shadows of dirty moving boxes haphazardly stacked atop each other in the living room. Some of the shadows sag with weight, as if they are begging to be free. Jane moves her gaze quickly away, and lets cool water run over her fingers for far longer than necessary. 

The egg in the pan, along with bits of eggshell, begins to scream and sizzle and pop.

Jane blinks, and with still wet hands, turns to yank the spatula out of the kitchen drawer with a quiet curse. She shoves it under the egg and flips it over. The yolk breaks the moment it lands. The hissing of butter and messy, dripping egg atop the hot frying pan drowns out Jane’s shaky sigh.

She hears something, soft and fairy-like, below the slightly open window above the sink. The sound draws Jane’s gaze away from the hardening egg yolk as she cranes her neck towards the noise. From the dim light of the moon, Jane can just make out two girls laughing with each other. The taller one with light hair is slumped against the shorter girl with a pixie cut. Pixie Cut is holding her up as they take long, unsteady steps across the sidewalk. Slumping Girl lets out a loud guffaw, and bright tinkles of laughter fall from the smaller girl’s lips. Maybe they’re drunk. Maybe they’re just happy.

The toaster dings. It sounds utterly mechanical; ugly and sad and completely unhuman. Jane plucks the slightly burned toast with delicate fingers. She slides the drooping mess of egg atop it.

The girls are laughing again, but Jane doesn’t really notice their joy when the dry crunching of toast takes up all the space in her eardrums.

Jane chews, mechanically. And keeps her focus away from the looming shadows peeking through the next room over. She looks anywhere but there.

///

Jane knows how silly it seems, how odd it must appear, to eat an egg and a piece of stale toast at 9:27 in the evening. She understands that the sheer number of dirty dishes piled in her sink, piled so high they seemed to be reaching towards the moon, is irresponsible—especially for a woman in her late twenties. She recognizes that it’s abnormal to be living with the barest of essentials; re-wearing her dirt-caked socks and ratty jeans that desperately need washing, when her clean clothes are sitting so close by—and taking up so much space in those boxes, which collect dust with each passing day.

Jane recognizes all of these things. Knows she should tidy up, get her act together, and pick up her feet. But she doesn’t have anyone to impress with clean and competent living. Not anymore.

She continues shoveling flaky egg and dry toast into her mouth until her mind is blissfully blank. Until nothing can take up any space in Jane’s head except for the harsh sounds of her chewing.

///

There’s no light on in the living room. When Jane stubs her big toe against a big dark shadowy something, effectively stabbing a giant hole through her already disgusting sock, it’s all she can do to stop any tears from falling.

To Jane’s utter horror, she cries anyways, crumpling against the large cardboard box in a fluid motion. Warm, salty tears fall against her mouth and drip down her neck.

///

Two days later, sunlight peeks out from behind blinds when Jane walks into the living room. She’s figured out a route so perfect, so impeccable, that not a single one of her limbs brushes against any cardboard. She could practically walk through the mess with her eyes closed. And she does.

///

It’s 12:02PM when Jane wakes up. She doesn’t know what day it is, but the sun has long since risen. She leaves her room with matted hair and dark circles under her eyes and takes a couple of steps into the cramped living room.

Her body freezes.

Maybe the world is out to get her today. Maybe that girl from some nights ago, with her tinkling fairy laugh, released a wicked fairy into this room. Because one of her boxes—one of her boxes of all the things that remind her of him—is slightly open.

Jane walks over to it on soft, unsteady feet. Her fingers flutter as she lifts her limp arms to close the box shut.

Burgundy red cloth glares at her from beneath the cardboard. Jane’s hands drop to her sides, ice-cold and still shaking, despite the warm sunlight that peeks its way into the living room—like an intruder.

The last time Jane wore that burgundy shirt, her dad was still here. Happy and bright and alive. A single moment took all of that brightness away. Now there’s just a blot of darkness over everything, and a hole in Jane’s chest where there should be a heart.

///

Jane is slicing off the tops of strawberries with a dull knife, until her hand falters and the knife pricks her finger. She curses and whips around, only to realize that her two kitchen towels are grease-stained and dirty with grime.

She doesn’t like where her mind goes next. But her feet carry her to the living room anyway. She tears open the rest of the cardboard box and clutches the burgundy shirt close to her chest. The blood from her finger stains it, but she can’t bring herself to care, not when her blood and the shirt are the exact same shade of red. 

Jane cries. She doesn’t try to fight against her tears this time. She slumps against the box, then sags to the floor when her shaking shoulders can’t hold her up anymore, curling into a fetal position as her tears streak against the carpet.

She inhales deeply against burgundy shirt and smells the woods. Blood dribbles against the cloth as Jane remembers how the sun shone against the river one day with her dad. When this red shirt that she cradles against her chest was still too big for her. When Jane’s dad splashed her with water and their laughter echoed through the wind-blown trees. How their happiness was louder than anything else.

Through the window, a ray of sunlight falls across Jane’s tear-stained face. Another intruder—or perhaps a gentle spirit, wishing his daughter well.