Hot coffee is the only thing that can persuade me to drag myself out of bed. Sunday arrives with a yawn, sluggish and lazy. I unwind the sheets from my body, sunlight streaming into the room. “I’m going to bed,” I mutter, striding out of the room without looking back. Carving into the space between us, all the words we leave unsaid bleed crimson. I can’t deal with this split between us anymore. Trembling against it, as my shoulder blades splinter, the remnants poking at my skin. The silence presses down on my shoulders, brittle bones cracking under the weight. Apparently, fibromyalgia is easier to face than me. She’d rather lie here as the pain ravages her body. But now she doesn’t want me anywhere near her. I would’ve bought her ice cream, talked to her and sat with her. Had this been two weeks ago, I would’ve run her a warm bath, done the chores that she wouldn’t be able to do. A trashy reality show neither of us has seen, anything to distract her. For the first time, I pay attention to what she’s watching. She turns the volume up as if the deafening sound can drown out the pain shooting through her muscles. Wishing I could cry for my mother like a child, someone to nurture the migraine away.Īria’s hand snakes out from underneath a blanket, gripping the remote in her pale fist. Cheek pressed against the cold tile, desperately wishing it would be over. I met god under the harsh light of the fridge, on my knees, prayers an utterance between retching. I think I laid there for two days straight. The last time I was in a similar kind of pain, I became well acquainted with the kitchen floor. Tramadol packets litter the floor around her, offerings at an altar. Her breaths are sharp pops in the silence between us. Her lips are apple peel slivers, pressed into thin lines. I wouldn’t have known, if I hadn’t known Aria for so long. Looking at her, you couldn’t tell she was in pain. It’s as if she’s trying to swallow herself. She’s curled up, chin resting on her knees.
We sit together on the couch, bathed in the mellow glow of the t.v.
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