November 19th

The fire crackles in the weathered brick fireplace, although cackles is probably a better word. The orange and yellow flames lick the red bricks smoothly and loudly, as if they are laughing at my misery. The tattered hunter-green blanket, usually so comforting, tonight feels more like it’s strangling me than hugging as it used to. I pull an arm out of the emerald death trap and grab my mug of tea. The gray ceramic, flecked with indigo, is lopsided, the handle dented, the lip cracked. The imperfect mug has always been my favorite, the words of its maker practically engraved in the messy glazing: Our flaws give us character. Tonight the mug feels more like it’s taunting me. Reagan must have a lot of character.

One sip of the vanilla chamomile burns its way down my throat, scorching everything it touches. With shaky hands, I set the mug down on the worn mahogany table, built by the same hands that brought the blanket and mug to life.

I throw the tattered blanket off of me and walk over to the calendar hanging next to my pantry. My messy x’s occupy the first eighteen boxes of November. I grab the red marker from the holder hung on the yellow wall and check the nineteenth box. The felt tip scratches the paper with a louder screech than usual, almost like a scream that I pretend isn’t familiar. The red ink soaks in the paper, spreading beyond the two perpendicular lines, dripping like blood. 

I wonder if I’m hallucinating as I turn around and check the time on the microwave. The tarnished silver gadget that’s been in this apartment since I was seven. The perfectly angular red numbers spell out 9:48. Two hours and twelve minutes until this day is over for another year. I’m practically counting the seconds. This old apartment—not even mine—threatens to suffocate me in its musty yellow walls. My eyelids droop, and I’m tempted to walk around the corner to the single bedroom, but I push through the exhaustion. That bedroom is the last place I want to be right now, and I won’t sleep until 12:01 anyways. Not until November 19th is over. I reach for the refrigerator door, hoping to find some caffeine, and my fingers graze a scrap of newspaper. I yank it from the snowman magnet I made in first grade and strain my eyes to see the fine print.

November 19th, 2015: Marina Jolie Addams passed away in her family home this morning. Forensics claims she died of drug overdose.

I don’t bother to read the rest; I’ve seen it enough times. Besides, it’s wrong. Marina was always hesitant to take her medicine. She claimed her thyroid disease would kill her anyways, no need to make her last few years miserable with all the side effects of the medication. The teal pill box was always kept beside her bed, more for decoration than use. The little plastic container hadn’t ever emptied. No, Marina hadn’t OD’d.

I pin the scrap of newspaper back to the fridge, but the words are engraved into my eyelids. 

I still remember the fight we had that night. 

“It’s all your fault!”

“Reagan, I miss him too-”

“No! You don’t get to say that! If dad wasn’t getting your medication, he would still be here.”

“None of us could have predicted a crash. Things like that just happen.”

“You don’t even take your medicine! He died for nothing—for you.”

It was two years after my father was hit by the drunk driver, and the apartment had been closing in on us. I blamed her for my father’s death—she blamed me for wanting to leave.

“Reagan, please! I loved your father, and I love you.”

“Well, I still love dad, and I hate you.”

I shut my eyes to block out the memory. Those were the last words I ever said to her.

When I can’t take it anymore, I run to the laundry room and pull on a coat. I shudder, realizing it’s the beautiful navy coat made by the same craftsman who supplied my other torture devices. The stiff material runs halfway down my thighs, with deep pockets near the hem. The inside is lined with white wool, warm and soft on my arms. I pull the hood over my light brown hair, the faux fur lining the front itching my forehead. I grab my car keys and step out into the flurry. There is a thin layer of ice on my windshield, which I quickly scrape off with my white mitten before clamoring into the driver’s seat. I turn on the heat, but the warmth of the car does nothing to thaw the chill that’s settled inside of me. My one working headlight is the only light around; even the moon is covered by the snow clouds. It’s all I can do not to let the darkness envelope me in its suffocating thickness.

After what feels like a much longer drive than usual, I open the car door. The weather has grown worse, with the snow falling in almost a blizzard. I’m tempted to turn back and wait out the storm. After all, now there is only an hour and forty-two minutes until November 20th. But I’ve come this far, I can’t turn back now. I pull the hood lower over my head and lean forward, pushing myself through the wind and snow. I wander through the maze of flowers and stones until I find what I’m looking for. I kick the snow off the gray tile to reveal the words “Here Lies Marina Addams”. I fall to my knees, sobbing. Hot tears roll down my cheeks, melting away the frost that’s settled on the pale skin. The blizzard stops, each snowflake now slowly floating to the frozen ground. I don’t know how long I’ve sat here. I cry and cry until my eyes are dry and every limb is numb from the cold. 

“I’m sorry, mother,” I whisper through sobs. “I miss you. I’m sorry for everything I ever said. I’m sorry for that fight. And I’m sorry for killing you.”