The Twilight Twenty-Five
thetwilight25 dot com
Pen Name: bebeginja
Word Count: 495
Photo prompts can be found here:
thetwilight25 dot com/round-eight/prompts
White light filters through the blinds as I sit on the bed hugging my knees. I can't wait to wake up to clear blue sky. This constant cover of grey is oppressive.
I can hear the t.v. blaring downstairs. A football game. I yawn, stretch, and throw on a sweatshirt. I make my way down to the living room and flop onto the big comfy chair next to where you are sitting on the couch. You hold a Starbucks cup in one hand, while your thumb scrolls on your phone with the other.
A few minutes pass and you still haven't even acknowledged my presence.
I clear my throat. "You went for coffee?" I ask, glancing around hoping to see an extra one somewhere.
"Yeah, you were asleep," you say, without looking up.
I suppose that should piss me off a bit, but it doesn't. Instead it feels like another part of my spirit just died and is turning to stone. It is heavy inside me.
Without another word from either of us, I trod back upstairs to our bedroom, and sit on the edge of our bed.
This can't go on.
We barely speak, though I try. You don't come to bed at any decent hour, and you don't stick around when you wake. I used to feel your presence. I don't anymore. Loneliness, I've learned, feels like venom in my veins.
When did we become so disconnected? Why haven't you noticed?
That's the thing that gets me. You probably think everything's fine. Or, worse, you know things aren't okay and you choose not to do or say anything about it. Either one of those scenarios leaves me abandoned.
We don't even "fight." Sometimes I wish we would. Sometimes I wish we'd just have it out, have words, throw things. That would hurt so much less than being ignored and pretending not to care. Fighting I know, but this—whatever it is—is acid to my soul.
I inhale deep and wrap my arms around myself. Waiting has exhausted me. Waiting for you to recognize what we are and are not, waiting for you to ask me how I really am because you really are wondering, waiting for you to realize we are not okay has slowly killed parts of me.
You've put out my fire, that's the problem. The fire to fight for anything. I used to be feisty. Passionate.
You used to be thoughtful.
I shake my head at myself. No, I've allowed you to put out my fire. That's the problem.
I feel a spark in the pit of my stomach, and resolve to go pick a fight with you. To lay it all on the line.
Just as I clear the landing at the bottom of the first flight of stairs, I see the front door slam shut. I run over and look out the kitchen window.
I watch as you get into your car . . . and drive away.