Eight

Isaiah

She's already gone. Of course she is.

That went incredibly well. Wonderful idea, Isaiah.

I don't even know what's worse – watching her walk away or knowing she's gone but having no way of chasing her.

Porcelain rattles and the house shakes when I slam the door behind me. Cool dry wall meets my face because I'm not thinking about the fact that I'm blind and walls don't move, not even for a distressed man who can't see. Instead of just walking away, I lean against it and hit my forehead.

What. Are. You. Doing.” With every hit, my voice gets louder, until I'm shouting into an empty, broken house.

The smell of her perfume still lingers in the air, jasmine and vanilla floating with the dust. The furnace kicks on and it's quiet, aside from my heart pounding in my ears. I hear the cat's claws clicking across the hardwood floor upstairs, and it seems to echo in my head. It's been awhile since the house has felt quite this barren. Mom won't be home for another hour, I'm sure, so I'm stuck. Just stuck. I don't even remember where I placed my damn cane. The only thing my mind can focus on is what just happened and it's the only thing I don't want to focus on.

I feel like a child, having to feel and grope my way up the stairs, bumping my toes and shins in the process. But I make it up all the same, and the rest of the way is fine. I shouldn't have to use a cane to walk around the house I've lived in for seventeen years. And I don't, for the most part. But steps are my worst enemy.

My chest shouldn't hurt, but it does. So does my head. There's some invisible force suffocating me and there's not a thing I can do about it except ride it out.

Sometimes you can't avoid pain. You can try to run, but if you switch a record on and revel in it instead, it's over a lot faster.

The End

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