“Justine, do you have any idea what time it is?” The questions spill from my lips in the low, gruff growl that has become my normal speaking voice because I use it so little.At least I’m not grunting one-word responses anymore.
“Yes. Which is why I’ve been calling you over and over all morning. You were supposed to be at work almost forty-five minutes ago.” Her melodic voice rises at the end of her sentence before it drops a few octaves down into stern. “You have one shot at this.One. I know it’s scary, I know it’s hard but if you don’t start taking control of your life and taking things seriously, you are going to stay stagnant in your misery and grief. Both of which are completely self-imposed and could be quickly remedied. You have to start taking care of yourself. You have to start doing everyday things like normal people, you can’t…”
I set the phone back down on the nightstand and scrub my hands over my face.
It is way too early for this shit.
With a sigh, I attempt to pull myself from my coffin-like bed, the mildly comforting warmth and peaceful reprieve created by the cocoon of my pillows and blankets begging me to sink back in, to crawl inside and hide, to never come out again.
Unfortunately, fate—and Justine—have other plans. Ones that start early as hell.
It’s almost eight o’clock.
I know the sun is shining, birds are most likely singing, there may even be a slight summer breeze carrying the smell of fresh baked goods and cut grass right outside my window. The onlyreason I know this is because my iPhone readsThursday August 9th, 7:56 a.m.and nothing more.
I don’t watch TV; I don’t read the paper.
Doom-scrollingthrough any of the bullshit on my phone hasn’t happened in years, and I honestly can’t remember the last time I turned on a radio.
The tomb I’ve created here in my loft apartment prevents any shred of the outside world from breaching my walls, it prevents the so-callednormal thingsfrom creeping in and reminding me that I’m still alive. Something else I’m fully aware of and can’t really stand.
“Leonor! Are you even listening to me? Are you there? Leonor! That’s it, I’m coming over, I’ll be there?—”
I snatch the phone off the heavy wood and quickly bring it to my ear. “I’m here.”I’m still fucking here.
It is getting harder and harder to hide the disappointing truth behind those words.
“I’m getting ready. I’ll be there in a half hour.” I hang up before Justine has time to respond then swing my legs over the edge of the bed and plant my feet on the floor. I pad my way to the bathroom, strip my clothes off in between every painstaking step, grab my tank top and leggings from the lounger, and try to prep myself to fakenormalfor the next eight to ten hours.
The only problem is,thisis now my normal.
Hiding. Faking it. Forcing it.
Pretending I’m not still the fucked up headcase from three years ago.
And the more time that passes, the harder it is to find the energy to try.
Flipping the switch in the bathroom, I turn on the light then the faucet, grab a hair tie to throw my ass-length cherry waves up in a messy knot on top of my head, and continue going through the motions. I start brushing my teeth, scrubbing thedryness out of my mouth, and when I go to spit, I catch a glimpse of my almost unrecognizable reflection.
Even after three years, it’s still hard to believe that the woman staring back at me, is me.
Unblinking, I watch my hand move, watch my body work from muscle memory while I get ready to leave, and begin dissecting the stranger in my mirror.
My once-vibrant cobalt blue eyes, eyes so blue they were almost black, are now a muted and dull color settled against two dark circles underneath. Years of nightmares and lack of sleep taking a toll in a very unattractive and relatively permanent way. My eyes shift to the metal in my face, the multiple piercings shining through the smattering of tiny freckles that dot the bridge of my nose and cheeks, the constellation spreading toward my forehead and jaw before covering the rest of my fair skin.
Wiping my mouth, I note my Cupid’s bow lips have lost most of their color as well, now a pale shade of pink, dry and cracked from the constant gnawing at them.
I splash some water on my face then pat it dry and as I drop my towel on the counter, my eyes skimming over the plethora of tattoos that start at my throat then blanket down to cover most of my body.
A body I hardly recognize.
My lack of appetite is showing something fierce today.
My normal D cups are probably a small C now, my waist is slimmer than it’s ever been, and my wide hips give way to an ass that's smaller than I realized it was. I’m not exactly emaciated but if you look hard enough you can see the faint outlines of my hip bones and my ribs.
Wow.
Slowly and cautiously, I run my fingers over the dips and grooves created by the bones, and I don’t stop when they hit thejagged, ugly cluster of scars—four of them along and under my rib cage at a forty-five-degree angle.
