A practice in despair

I lay on the sofa and watched the mornings light creep across the wall, its warmth and brightness in stark contrast to the cold darkness that crept across my soul.

How long had I been lying here? The TV screen had gone dark and silence lay heavy in the air. Two bottles of red wine stood empty and proud on the edge of the coffee table.

I thought about all the Tupperware holding casseroles in the fridge. When did I last eat? I still wasn’t hungry, would I ever feel hungry again? The emptiness I felt ran deeper; like someone had reached inside me and removed my insides. Like I no longer deserved them. Like I was no longer human.

“With deepest sympathy”, “thinking of you at this sad time”. The cards were littered around the room. What was the proper etiquette, did these cards require a response? When could I throw them away? At least all the flowers would soon die.

My hair sat limp around my face, I hadn’t showered in, how many days? I would have to shower and dress soon. People would start arriving and I would have to present a face of composed sadness. I was no longer the person these people thought they knew. The last few days had changed me forever. I would never, could never go back. If they could see my soul, they would recoil at what it had become.

What I had become? Or, what I always was? I shook the question from my head and the throbbing started. I pulled myself up and went to find some pills. I went to our; my bedroom; and walked to the bedside locker on the other side of the bed, the side that would now be empty. I opened the top drawer and found a book that would not be finished, a charger, a lip balm and a pack of tissues but no painkillers. I closed the drawer and went to the bathroom cabinet. I took twice the dose; one dose for each bottle of wine.

Two toothbrushes stood in the holder on the sink. I picked up the one that would no longer be used and threw it in the bin. Then I took it back out and put it back with mine, was it too soon to start throwing things out? I hate clutter! What about all the other products that wouldn’t be used, such waste they were expensive.

I turned on the shower, I would always get to take the first shower in the mornings now. Always alone. I stepped under the hot water and let it warm my skin. I could feel my muscles relax but the heat did not reach the chill inside.

When I looked in the mirror ten minutes later I resembled myself again just the eyes were changed not red rimmed as one might expect but dark, dead, would anyone notice or could I only see this because of what I knew?

I found a black dress in the wardrobe and slipped it on with a pair of nude pumps. I pulled my hair back into a sleek low bun and applied some make-up. In these sad times we must still put our best foot forward.

The doorbell rang, it would be Harriet. I walked slowly to the door taking time to compose myself. Harriet stood there with another casserole in her hands and that now all too familiar look. She gave me a small smile and placed one of her hands on my arm. I smiled back making sure to reflect the sentiment of hers.

We walked to the kitchen so she could try and find a space for the casserole in the fridge with the others. I watched as she started to clear the empty bottles, I looked around the open plan room and saw what l thought looked rather acceptable for the current situation. “I’m sorry” I said. “ you shouldn’t have to tidy up after me.” Harriet stopped her pottering and put her arms around me. “She was my oldest friend and I love you both. I will always be here for you.” I stood there in her embrace, unfeeling and rigid. If only Harriet knew.

The doorbell rings again saving me from whatever would of come next. More relatives and friends with small smiles and arm touching but no casseroles, thankfully.

I take a seat and nod politely in response to each condolence offered as the room fills with more mourners. When the car arrives Harriet comes and removes me from the current wave of sympathisers.

The drive to the funeral home is quick, not long enough for me to prepare for the next onslaught of handshakes and arm touches. As I make my way inside I realise that all eyes will be on me as I see her for the first time since she died. Not the first time I’ve seen her dead but the first time since they moved her lifeless body from the end of the stairs.

She had stumbled on a loose rug on the landing and tripped, tumbling the entirety of the staircase breaking her neck before landing at the bottom. Her eyes unblinking, her body still.

I peer into the casket. I touch her face, it is cold and wax like. They will say how peaceful she looks. Some will even discuss what a good job the mortician did. To me she looks like she was never alive, had never smiled or walked with me hand in hand along the beach the sand between our toes. Like the last ten years existed only in my dreams. Like I imagined it all.

In a way I suppose I had. I had done what I thought you were supposed to do. Fall in love, get married, buy a house all the things they say makes a life. For me I had only truly felt alive in those minutes when I pushed her down the stairs and watched her fall.