by Violet

Monday morning I woke up and felt like screaming. Another week of what ought to be the ‘best time of my life’  lied ahead of me in mockery. It occurs to me that I am young and healthy, that a sickly, more unfortunate person would give anything to trade lives with me, yet the thought offers me no peace. I sit alone with quiet contempt at the world, suffocating under the weight of my own guilt and invented misery.

Tuesday I gambled away daylight in the library. Searching for the perfect book so I could connect with someone else’s imaginary friends because mine were too scary. I sat in the softest chair I could find and let my thoughts wander through the pages of fictitious agony. I hid my face behind the cover so no one could see that I was lonely. I wanted someone who understood, not a stranger’s pity.

Wednesday afternoon I tried to seek comfort in sleep. I put on some soothing music because the silence is too awful when I miss you breathing next to me.  I looked at my phone again and decided not to delete your number because it wouldn’t fix anything. Some time in between loving you and hating you my brain had committed those digits to memory.

Thursday night I went to the beach with a man who wanted me. He was charming and polite, or at least well adjusted enough to pretend to be, and I was tired enough to believe. We held hands and I wondered what you were doing with your evening. He gave me his jacket when I started to shiver, unaware that it was his touch that froze me. He kissed me and I felt nothing.

Friday I said no when he asked to see me again. I knew I had no feelings left and you had taken the last part of me worth keeping. I was exhausted from not thinking about you, and convinced that faking another smile would kill me. I didn’t need to kiss him twice to know I would never love him, and I’ve lived enough to know that men who fall for damaged goods are full of cruelty.

Saturday I was invited to go drinking. A chance to drown my sorrows or at least numb the pain, and of course, dance with the devil. Clever men claim they drink to make others more interesting. Maybe I’m not clever enough, or perhaps it’s because I’m not a man, but I never thought ten shots of tequila made anyone less boring. Alcohol only ever made me dumb enough to tolerate the idiocy.

Sunday I went to the grocery store to pick up dinner. I walked down the cleaning aisle and waited for the voices. A bottle of clear liquid with large letters that read AMMONIA caught my eye, and I pictured myself chasing it with a bottle of Jack. One to destroy the body; one to mend the soul. I looked at the price tag and realised for $7.99 I’d never have to face Monday again.