Prompt: What’s behind the door? Why is it closed?
I kick the door closed, fuming. For a moment, I debate running out there, giving him one last piece of my mind before shutting the door of my life to him forever, one last attempt to make him understand how much I’m hurting. I slump down the wall and stare numbly at the door.
I don’t know how long I sit there. There should be tears, I think, when a relationship ends. Maybe those come after the numb. After some time, I stand, locking the door and resting my head against it. Damn you, Jason.
The apartment feels cold, the emptiness creeping around me, a chill that follows me through the quiet. I pour a few fingers of scotch, throwing in a splash of water and running a bath. The hot water chases away my imaginary chill while the scotch deadens my mind. I create ripples in the water with my toes, letting the heat thaw the ice in my heart until tears are racing down my cheeks.
When the salinity of the water gets dangerous, I wrap myself in a robe and pour another scotch. My face hurts from the crying, cheeks raw from the torrent. There’s nothing on TV, but I turn it on anyway, flipping endlessly through the channels, scowling at the smiling couples living their comedic, well-timed lives. How dare they be happy.
I wake up there, wrapped in a fleece blanket on the couch, TV throwing bright colors on the walls around me. My phone is blinking in the corner, a little reminder that I’ve been ignoring the world. I debate not checking it, throwing my phone out the window and buying a new one with a new number that I’ll give to my new friends so I don’t have to deal with the secondary fallout of this breakup.
The morbid curiosity of my generation drives me to check my phone. There are messages from our shared friends; Jason must have broken the news. I don’t reply, instead posting a status update to Facebook, an electronic beacon that I’m alive and don’t want to talk to them. It prompts a new wave of messages, messages I won’t discover til the morning.
I curl up in bed, scheduling a morning email to my boss that I’m sick and won’t be coming in. Ice cream counts as medicine, right? The ceiling swirls above me, shadows stretched long from the streetlight out my window. I roll over, instinctively rolling to where Jason would be, looking to be held, forgetting that he isn’t here, that he won’t ever be here again. The realization threatens another wave of tears, but I resist, rolling to face my alarm clock instead.
It’s going to be a long night.