The Red Light
“Take a breath, reflect on what we been through
Or am I just goin’ crazy ‘cause I miss you?” -Atmosphere
You think about her every night. Lying in bed, away from the chaos of the daytime, your thoughts run free. They twist and they turn, but they return to her time and time again. You thought it’d be different, that maybe it would go away with time. That’s what they all said, everyone who tried to comfort you. They were wrong. But there isn’t much they could say to help anyways, you figure. This is something you have to work out alone. So you lie in bed wishing you had just one more minute with her.
Your gaze shifts to the window, and you watch the tree branches tremble as the wind travels through them on its course in the night. Small asterisks populate the sky, lighting up the world before them. You envy their persistence, their determination to make an appearance every night. You wish you could disappear during the day, like them, and escape the pressure of the world. To give yourself more time to think and to try to be okay. You wish there were some way to make sense of what has happened, but right now you just feel lost and confused.
Maybe if you could explain yourself she would understand. Then again, she never really needed explanations. She isn’t like other women, you think. In your experience, women are complex and delicate, but she’s strong and straightforward. To the point. You always loved that about her. But now you wish you had more time to analyze her complexities. To encounter her delicateness. It’s almost funny how simple things seem now: she’s gone.
You’d say she smells like vanilla, maybe, or lavender. Other times like fresh linen, or the ocean. Sometimes almost earthy. But it goes deeper than that, it’s more than that. It’s a smell you can taste, one you can feel: an undefined memory you can relive and revisit. You vaguely remember learning somewhere that the two are connected. You wonder if you did something wrong, or if somehow you deserve this. Maybe you took her for granted. You could have told her you love her more, or told her how important she is to you. Maybe she would have stayed if you could just get things right; you were always known to mess things up.
“It’s not your fault. You shouldn’t feel guilty and you most certainly shouldn’t blame yourself,” your therapist says.
You think back to your trip to Europe. It was an impromptu decision: you met up with a friend studying abroad and you left everything at home behind—including her. You hadn’t texted her as much as she’d have liked you to, but that didn’t stop her from leaving you small notes saying “I love you” whenever she could. You think about how things would be different now, if only you had asked her to come with you. You could have made your own little vacation out of it. But instead, you left her alone, and by the time you had returned she was already gone.
All of this leaves you feeling almost toxic.
“Time heals all,” they say. But you’re not sure if healing is what you’re looking for. Understanding, maybe. Closure. A resolution. Some reassurance. You don’t know.
You turn over and try to clear your mind. You have to get up early tomorrow, the world still goes on. It’s ruthless really, not waiting for anyone, not caring what they go through. The earth keeps spinning and spinning, and the sun rises again in the morning. But unlike the sun, she won’t return. You flip your pillow over. It seems now that every little thing reminds you of her. You wish you had seen her smile more. You wish you had made her laugh more. If only you could have known before, maybe it would have changed things. But now you’re stuck listening to your therapist.
“Try new things. Get out in the world and immerse yourself in its people, and soon you’ll look back on it as a distant memory in your past.” You pay attention instead to his hair. How it’s perfectly combed back, slick, as though he had nothing to worry about this morning except how much product to use. “Things come and go in life, and so do people.” Your foot twitches. You look out the window, watching the snow dance on the wind as it spirals down. You wonder if it’s a metaphor for life—if it’s just one big illusion until we all inevitably fall to the ground.
“Maybe I’ll pick up a new hobby.”
“That’s good,” he says. You can’t help but notice how crisp his buttoned-down shirt is. You wonder if he ironed it himself. “Really good,” he continues. “Distractions are among one of the best ways to move forward and go on with your life.”
What does he know. He doesn’t know your relationship, or what it’s like. You start to wonder why you even go to meet with him. Nothing he can say will change the facts. You try and calm yourself, so you get up and head downstairs to pour yourself a glass of water. Stumbling in the darkness, more alone than ever, you wonder where along the line things went wrong. At what point could you have changed things, made things better? Part of you—no, all of you—wishes she’d be there when you get to the kitchen, baking cookies to share as a late-night snack. You wish you could run over and hug her, tell her you’re sorry, and that you promise to love her more. When you get there, nothing greets you but an empty stove and a solitary refrigerator.
You open the fridge and are reminded of picking strawberries together in the summertime. The local farm’s sign boasts that it’s “The Best Season Yet!” for harvesting berries, advising you not to miss out. She yells playfully at you across the alternating rows of green and brown for eating too many of the good ones, instead of putting them in the small blue basket to bring home. She laughs and challenges you to finding the biggest and bestest strawberry. To filling up her basket quicker than you can fill yours. And when you get home, you relax and make strawberry shortcakes together. “Just put them in the fridge, honey. Or start cutting them now, are you hungry?” If only this lasted forever.
You sleep through your alarm again. Does it really matter? You get up and skip breakfast. You’re out the door by 9:00. It’s cold outside and your car heater never works, but even the bitter numbing can’t mask the pain. You wish it would. Deep and penetrating, it goes beyond your outer layer of skin. No, it comes from within. Hidden to the rest of the world. A kind of dull, throbbing pain. A constant reminder. The past that won’t pass. You stop at a red light and wish the world would stop too. There’s too much going on for you to think straight. You hit your blinker and pull the car over. How could you let this happen, how could you not realize? If only you had done something—anything—to make things better. You watch the cars go by and you see her in the windows. Your heart leaps up and slumps back down each time, wishing it was her but knowing it can’t be. That’s the thing about windows, you think. They distort the reality. Or maybe they’re meant to protect us from it. You’re not sure. You hit your blinker again and merge back into traffic. You shift gears but it feels like you’re going the same speed. You wish you could have her back so you could tell her you promise, I promise, to appreciate you more, and to tell you I love you, and to cherish the little time we have left together. But I can’t anymore. I missed my chance, and now I can’t go back, because you passed away, Mom.
Realistic Fiction
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This piece was so powerful and gets me really feeling for the main character
Thank you! I have found that the second person point of view can be oddly personal and intimate, and was hoping to play around with it with this piece. I’m glad you liked it!