Empty, empty, empty.
The word rolled around the room and echoed in her mind. It slid along her skin until it rested on her stomach. Empty, empty, empty. And she couldn't stop it from beating its chorus, couldn't stop its refrain from repeating.
The television's shadows flickered on the walls, highlighting her furniture in shades of blue. The volume was turned up, a little louder to fight the silence, and the words eased past her. They circled the room, settling in the corners where they remained unheard. The room was gathering words quickly and they were stacking up on top of each other, waiting for her to notice them.
She
curled her fingers around her afghan, threading them through the holes,
and looping the fringes around them, over and under until her fingers
were knitted in the fabric. She studied her hands and tried not to think
about
everything that had slipped between them. How the days and people had
flowed through them like water and she never held on to them.
She didn't actually believe that she was cursed. She knew, rationally, that she wasn't. That she couldn't be held responsible for everything that had happened and everyone that had gone. But the same nasty voice that reminded her of all that she would never have made her wonder if she didn't deserve it.
It occurred to her in one of those moments, half-fuzzy and half-clear, when she realized all she could have done differently, if only she had known the consequences. Scenes piled on top of each other. Moment after moment where she could have said something else or waited a minute longer. She listed each apology that she could make, took back all of her no's, and stopped herself before she retreated.
But
it was all in her imagination and it changed nothing. She was still sitting
on her couch, still listening to the television too loudly, while people
walked by her building and cars drove around the block. She sighed and
leaned
back against her couch, letting the talk show banter ebb and flow around
her. Her eyelids slid shut slowly and drifted open again, blinking against
the glare of the television screen.
This wasn't what she wanted. It wasn't what she had wished for as a child. She knew that some people were happy living alone. That being successful and surrounded by friends was enough. But she wasn't one of them. She wanted to hear someone in the kitchen. Her ears strained for the sound of the refrigerator opening and closing again. For the sounds of feet in the hallway, or soft voices in other rooms.
She knew, now, that she would never be happy alone. She knew that she had settled in her choices. And she knew, now, that it didn't matter. The places that she had wanted filled were still empty. It was hard to admit, harder to accept as true. Empty, empty, empty, the word hissed again.
She traced the colors in the afghan, running her fingers over them from edge to edge. She braced herself against the onslaught of voices. The mean whispers that told her she would never be enough, would never have what she wanted most. After so many years of shouting at them only to have them resurface, she wasn't sure she had the strength to fight them this time around. Clay was gone, her children would never come, and Harm was better off without her. The self-pity was a wave that she couldn't stop and it annoyed her to hear the words whisper out. Empty, empty, empty.
A police car drove past her apartment. Its siren pulsed against the closed windows and seeped between the cracks in the sills. Someone shrieked and a half-laugh followed. Voices shouted to each other. She sighed again and shook her head, trying to clear it. She should probably just go to bed. Close her door against the sounds and hope for something better tomorrow.
Her hand reached for the remote and someone knocked on her door.