Night Images

I can't sleep... again... at least I think I can't. The rain is pouring outside, the drops making such crystal clear sounds against the pavement, the window pane, the door. The sound of traffic, disrupting the clear and even beating. The quiet hum, that grows, a crescendo to the unbearable loud crash, as the tires splash water into my front lawn, fading fast, returning to the pace of the rain. How long have I been asleep? The clock is blinking, it's red numbers seemingly changing, seven? Eight? Three? I cannot read it, I am blind as a bat in the dark.

I reach to the other side of the bed, my hands clasping only air. Stroking the empty space, the empty sheet. I miss her. I sit up slowly, the same way I have sat up for the last eight months, every night. My feet seem to glare up at me, only one sock, dangling off my right toe, mocking me, mocking my ability to stand. I brush my hair from my face, my fingers grazing my skin. I feel strange, foreign, uncomfortable even from a touch of my own body. I want to escape this capsule, this box.

I am haunted by her, her memory, her image. I can see her, seated at the desk. She is laughing, her perfect white teeth. There is color here, her arms outstretched, offering her embrace. I touch her hands, bringing them within my own... so beautiful, so perfect. She presses her lips against my forehead, the warmth penetrating my skin. Vanilla, lavender, her smell is a part of me.

I stand slowly... looking left, than right... where is the door? Where is the bathroom? This house, so cold, so distant, the tiny hairs of my arms on end. Am I alone? Am I really alone? The hallway so long, so far to the washroom, so many whispers. "Rene..." the singular word escaping my lips, was it me? Did I say it? I feel so unsteady and I brace myself against the wall. I can feel my hip bone pressing against the cool surface, skin against bone. Making my way in the shadows, tapping the wall until I find the doorway, the exit towards the toilet.

I can feel her, her breath on my neck, hands gliding down my waist. She is kissing me here. Tongue to shoulder blade, her hips against my backside, pressing me against the wood. Fingers quick and smooth, across my belly, so warm.

I turn on the faucet, the water rushing from the tap, so urgent, so desperate, it feels so cold. My feet are so cold, the tile biting my toes, my only sensitivity, my extremities. In the dark I can see her, she is looking at me, she has come to me, she has come back.

As I place my glasses to my head, it all becomes so desperately clear. A mirror image, it is my own face, my own sunken eye sockets, my cheekbones pointed and noticed. I have become so thin. What would she think of me, this shell I have become. Where is my shirt? My breasts almost nothing, flaps of skin against shiny ribs. Subsisting on coffee, cigarettes, an occasional carrot stick. I don't want to eat, such an empty table. A place setting for one, the chair across from me stagnant. Is that really me? The self, the coil, the me. I am sickening.

The steam is rising from the faucet now, framing my face in the mirror, a halo almost, filling out my face. I wipe a hand across one side. Clear and empty, glazed fresh and almost her. Why is she gone? I turn my hands over and under the water, it slides off my skin, so dry, almost reptilian. I can feel the heat yet I do not remove my fingers, I want to feel it, feel it deep into my bones. I know I am being burned, the steam is too much. I slide the faucet to off, so slowly. The water reducing itself to a gentle trickle, a drip, hearing it pattern with the sound of the easing rain.

As I exit the room, I can see a light haze patterned against the hallway. The shape of the slats of the blinds, the morning light, fog, casting a shadow, a form. Fog or rain, I can no longer tell, the same nebulous substance, all one, all the same dark feel, the same dark colors.

She is dancing in the living room now. Her skirt in a pattern among her, laughing, her cheeks with a blush. She bounds towards me quickly scooping my face towards hers. Lips on lips, skin on skin, the taste of chocolate. Her face so warm. In her arms I am whole, in her arms I am so free, so loved. She makes me dance, my middle held tightly, her forehead pressed against my own. There is no music, only hers, only the rhythm of her breath against my skin, our hearts seemingly beating in time.

And there it is... waiting for me, beckoning me to approach the door. Her studio. Her freedom. My own breathing is now labored, a wheezing sound escaping my throat, a thick mucus, bubbling from underneath. I can feel my urge to cough, my chest burning, pulling taut. I whimper, a pitiful empty sound. Someone please, don't make me go in, don't make me see her. My hands touch the door, tracing the molded indentations. So lovely, her own design, her own creation.

She... seated next to the door, our new home, our new place to make our own. Paint of all colors, in her hair, on her cheeks, in her fingernails. She is so dedicated, so concentrated, her brows somewhat furrowed, but remaining inviting. Her studio light, pointed towards her canvas, the door. Her array of materials scattered among her, invading the living room, the kitchen. Brushes, paper, clay, the paints. She is amazing. The figures and shapes emerging from the door, her gateway. She looks up and notices me gazing, she touches the door, then touches her heart, her breast, then touches the floor, the walls. It is all tangible, it is all a part of us. I kneel on the floor beside her and touch the same things, finally her breast. Lingering there I bring my lips toward her same beating heart. My kisses gentle and moving up her neck, another hand up her shirt, lingering on the plush skin. We fall, into the mess, into her creation, into each other.

Palm on the doorknob now, a slow creaking in the hinges, yet I linger. Can I bear it? The door, now opened, the doorway becoming more apparent. It is dark, the bare walls, the empty carpet. There is nothing there now. It is a motionless room... and my feet edge over the threshold. I am here.

She is there. On the floor, is she asleep? A late night working, she has forgotten. A shadow against her, the studio light in the corner, facing away from her, bouncing off the back mirror, glaring in my eye. A hand to my face. What a strange position, her legs crumpled under like that. One arm to the back, the other covering the front. I can see the back of her head, her hair tumbling on the floor. I start to feel uncomfortable, my stomach begins to feel queasy, something is very wrong. Very wrong. I turn on the overhead light, the fan beginning to spin, causing the reflection and the shadow of the studio light to pulse. I leap to her side, and brush her hair from her face. A last hope, yes she is asleep. But I know, her skin so white, so green. Pulling up the lids of her eyes for a last sign of life. She is not there, the deep chestnut brown, just like my own, now paled and gray. I can see it now, the pooled vomit cradling her face, like a sickening pillow, her last bed down. And then I notice, the smell of sick, the smell of paint thinner, so strong so overbearing. My Rene. My love.

As I inch my toe backwards I turn to face the living room. My chair is there waiting for me, the ashtray full, the coffee mug empty. Settling gently, the cool leather embracing my feeble frame. I stare into space, into emptiness. I am so cold. I can feel my ribs against my spine, a crunching almost, an uncomfortable conjunction. I open the cigarette box, two lengths rolling to one side. I remove the first, slowly, yet as it slowly exits I can see. The filter separated, the tobacco falling loosely from the front. I can't help but stare for a moment, the strands seemingly motionless as they fall towards my lap. My limbs are so stiff, yet I manage the box one more time. A singular moment. I put the last good cigarette to my lips. The lips which were once full, once full of life and love. Start the cycle over, one more time, just one more day, just one more waking.

I miss her...

...my sister...

...my twin.