Characters

A month or slightly more has passed since I had a peculiar dream.  It was like I was watching a movie where I could see the character but the character never spoke, they just narrated over top of the scenes.  Within a few days of receiving this dream, I wrote down the woman's story with as much detail as I could remember.  She is not a character from the novel I'm writing.  In fact, I have never seen this woman in any dream previous, nor does she remind me of someone I know.  This was just a dream.  In years gone by I have experienced dreams wherein a character from my novel tells me about their life.  But this was different.  A friend encouraged me to post the short story here.  Comments are welcomed.  I felt it was difficult to truly express the level of sadness she was experiencing.

EMMALEE

 

​I unlock the apartment door, sighing as I enter.  It’s empty.  No noises, no smells, no kind of activity.  Just deafening silence.  I throw my keys down in the fruit bowl.  Grabbing the last apple I take a bite, and then another.  It doesn’t look as if there is anything wrong, but the apple doesn’t taste right.  Truth be told, it tastes like nothing.  

​I sigh again, setting my purse on the counter, gazing at the dishes in the sink.  But I just walk past them heading to the bedroom. Work was awful today – I don’t know how the day could possibly be worse. Hanging the dress jacket beside your old shirt that’s still right there in the closet, I hear the answering machine beep.  It’s my mother – and my day just got worse.  I kick off my heels and call her back, I shouldn’t but I do it anyway.  She always has that way of making me feel guilty – even when I haven’t done anything wrong.  Mother heard you were seeing someone else.  I already knew that, but I didn’t hear it from you.  I check the cell, but you didn’t text me yet today.  Not shocking, but painful nonetheless.  

​Its time to get out of here. Moping is not allowed today. I change my clothes to go running; putting on that pink tank you always said I looked fantastic wearing.  Grabbing the lanyard of keys out of the fruit bowl I lock the door behind me and head to the streets.

​I run aimlessly – no particular direction, no time restraint.  Just run.  The volume on my iPod gets cranked up the further I run, trying to drown out the voices in my head.  My co-workers, the boss, my mother (ugh), even your voice, haunt the dark places of my mind.  I just keep running, past the corner, past Gianni’s pizza shop, past Brickman’s market.  The apples on Brickman’s sidewalk smelled so fresh.  Remember the time we went to the country and picked our own apples?  I thought the idea was horrible, but you wanted to go and I wanted to be with you.  Turns out I liked picking apples right from the tree.  

The sights look familiar but wherever I am I haven’t been here in a long time.  I stop and look around as I catch my breath.  Things are familiar but different.  That chain link fence doesn’t look right – wait there didn’t used to be a red light here.  Then I see that bench under the dogwood tree – and it’s like someone dropped a piano on me from ten stories high.  I’ve been running away from the apartment, away from work, away from everyone and running straight toward you.  Well, where you used to live anyway.  The old brownstone apartment building just half a block from that dogwood tree looks like a living piece of history.  It is a living piece of my history at least.

 

“Stop.  Take a breath.  Dry your face. Stay calm.”  

 

I run.  Back to the apartment, back to the walls and the doors and anything – everything I can find to be safe.  I don’t even stop to fast forward through that Bruno Mars song playing on my iPod, switching it off is easier.  Running up the stairs I skip every other one, fumble with the keys and finally get them in the lock.  Slamming the door behind me as I enter and twist that deadbolt locking it again, I collapse against the door.  A sweating sobbing mess of emotions I thought were long gone overwhelms me as I fall to the floor.

I should call Lisa.  She always helps, but I know that I won’t. She’s tired of my hurting over you.  She thinks you should be a memory long forgotten, and not one I relive consistently.  My suffering confuses her – it wears her out.  I know it does.  Oh she never says it, Lisa’s too kind and sympathetic that way, but I know it does.  I start to make dinner – just mac and cheese out of the blue box, but I throw it away after two spoonfuls.  Eating is futile at the moment.  

Checking my cell phone for messages, I pull the pony tail out of my hair.  As per usual I have no messages, so I head for the shower.  The water in the shower becomes mixed with my tears as it streams down.  I lose all concept of time scrubbing the dead skin off of my body and trying to regain some sense of composure but the heat and the steam didn’t help.  I prayed it would.  Nothing helps.

I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror.  My eyes are swollen, red, and bloodshot like I’ve been on a 24 hour drinking binge.  They even look hollow and lifeless.  They say the eyes reflect the soul.  It must be true, I am hollow and lifeless.  Every day is empty and silent.

​Opening the closet door reaching for my pjs my hand moves past them and I grab that old shirt hanging there.  Slipping it on, I check the cell again – still nothing.  Somehow this shirt still smells like you.  I pull the covers over my head, thinking that tomorrow is a new day.  And maybe, just maybe you’ll call tomorrow – or text me.  That’d be nice too, having you say that you miss me.  I know it’s just a dream, a last little spark of hope.  Sleep, however, eludes my exhausted body and spirit.  And the dreams…the dreams never come.