The Morning After Alwaysbycheeryorchid©
She lay there thinking for some time after she had awakened. Her mind was ticking with randomness, centering on just one thing while her body still asserted itself to the feel and touch of the bed. How could a man do this to her? How could a man control her emotions without even trying? Never would she be able to understand how she could feel so elated yet miserable at the same time.
Both feelings were pitched to intensity in his presence. She died for his touch and died from it at the same time. Even now, with only memories of him, those intensities were doing battle in her mind. She fed on him with her emotions, making her feel empty most of the time. After all, how can one find fulfillment with something that is not there?
She pressed her head to the mattress; the silk of the sheet soothing her cheek was a poor substitute for the imprint left behind from last night. She could still smell him there. The scent of his hair on the pillow, the smell of sweat and skin on the sheets, the tinge of his essence on her own body; it was enough to drive anyone out of their mind.
Would she see him again? She was sure there would be another time. The torment of the whole mystery was that she could never really tell him goodbye. In his presence she had to be cold-hearted. It was self-preservation. He never took her seriously, he just expected her to always be there.
It was enough to make her feel hollow inside. She needed him so she could breathe, but feared that he poisoned her with each breath. How could a man do this? Did he even know that he was killing her, slowly, a little every time?
Of course he didn't know. He only knew his own feelings. She turned away from his scent and rolled herself to her own side of the bed. Curling into herself for comfort she allowed her emotions to play havoc fully in her mind. She didn't like being this way. She wanted to be herself again. She wanted to be strong and willful, bold and powerful, she wanted to remember what it was to shine and have pride. As she lay there she worried that this was all that was left of her. A balled-up shell of a formerly confident woman who had been exposed to the fact that she was hollow on the inside.
She needed him to fill her, but if she held onto him much longer, she knew with certainty it would be her end at the same time. Misery is the harsh aftermath of unsatisfied passions, and on this score she was quiet familiar. Her thoughts stopped racing, they began to focus. She was undone, empty for the last time.
It's a strange thing to hit rock bottom. And stranger still to know the precise moment when said event occurs. You are going along, business as usual when it creeps in on you like the afternoon tide. Things seem okay, then they get a little dangerous and before you know it, you're out to sea with nowhere to go or hide. The only course of action is to swim hard forever or to smash against the rocks, hoping you are quickly lost.
What does one do when there is nothing left to do? Where do you begin when you have no idea where you are? All that you know is that everything is a failure, every part of you is a loss, and emptiness takes on a whole new meaning. Times like these are beyond depression and the horrid suicide. Rock bottom is when there are no emotions, nothing left, nothing at all. There is no reasoning, and it takes reasoning to die.
You do have choices. You can lay silent with your mind racing, racing to the tune of regrets, doubts, fears, failures, and never agains, never wills. Or you can pick yourself up slowly and pray with desperation. That desperation will turn to passion, a passion to live. A passion to come up from your location on the ground floor and the lie that life has become.
With this comes a brief elation. After all, when you're at your lowest point, any small hope is an advance onward. What they don't tell you, however, is that there is a catch on this road to new revelation. If at once you fall, you find you will find yourself falling all of the time.
So here she is, our heroine, falling for the second time. She needs him for reassurance, for the strength he breathes into her hollow inside. But with the hope of finding strength in him comes the reminder that he is the reason she is hollow. Each time he breathes her back to life, he sucks more away. She's fading a little each time.
In her way she hates him. She hates him because she loves him. She hates him for being selfish, for being elusive, and mostly for knowing her mind. He assumes much of her, and she plays the part well. How can a man do this?
She lifts herself off the bed; she thinks a shower would be nice. As she passes into the bathroom she sees his towel hanging on the door. She will soak in the water and scrub herself red and clean, but it's never enough. That towel will still be there, as he will still be there. It's a haunting relationship that she knows leans more to one side.
Days that start in this way never seem to have a bright side, do they? But getting dressed is a bright side. Clean panties and a bra that fit well are a bright side. Remembering to brush your teeth is - well you get the picture. On days like these staying in bed would be the best course of action. But the bed...no, his scent is still there.