UNTITLED

I'm not sure how long I've been standing in the shower, staring at the water swirling down the drain. The water, which had been a rusty red color when I starting rinsing the dye out of my hair, was clear. A better tell of how long it had been was that the water was now approaching cold, which is what I assume broke me out of my drain-watching. That's been happening to me a lot lately, zoning out. I reach out and turn off the shower, opening the curtain and stepping out onto the bathmat. The mirror is slightly foggy, but I can already see my hazy reflection and my heart does double time. There is a short black mass where my once long blonde locks rested. I'm not an idiot; I knew when I picked out the hair dye what color it was, but the shock of actually seeing the color on me, not the perfect model on the box was...well, a shock. I step daintily on my tip-toes, the tiled floor is cold, to stand close enough to the mirror to wipe at it. There I am. My skin looks strange next to my hair. I close my eyes, wait and open them again. Still there. For a moment, my heart sinks and I feel like crying. What in the hell possessed me to do this? I look down at the chunks of blonde hair lying in the sink. All of a sudden, I feel horribly sick and I drop to the floor in front of the toilet, getting the lid up so fast it bangs loudly against the tank. I cough and gag into the toilet but I haven't had anything to eat since lunch. I mostly bring up phlegm, spitting it into the toilet. Once my stomach stops cramping, I lie down on the floor in a fetal position, resting my cheek on the tiles. I feel like writing to L'Oreal and telling them they should put an additional warning on their box. Warning: Do not get product into eyes. Warning: Some users will vomit upon seeing themselves in the mirror. I lie on the floor, breathing shallowly and I get the thought that I must resemble a fish lying on it's side, gasping, waiting for death. Eventually the feelings subside and I realize I'm shivering, lying naked and wet. I sit up, wrap my towel around myself. I keep my eyes on the door as I open it, lest I catch sight of myself in the mirror and have to return to the toilet. I step into my bedroom, walk the short distance to my bed and drop myself on it, lying motionless and observing my surroundings. My bedroom is cold and relatively dark; light comes in the window from the street lamps but is overshadowed by the light from my bathroom. After pulling my comforter up to my chin, I focus on the red electronic light of my clock. It glows 2:15 at me. Next to it is the picture I have cried over for the past two months, usually while pouring my soul out into my journal. Look at the picture, stifle a sob, write an emotion. His name was Paul and near as I can tell, he was the love of my life. I wish I had walked in to find him cheating on me. I wish he had hit me so I could have left him. I wish he had been hit by a car and died in my arms, something terribly tragic. Something people would whisper about. 'Do you see that woman? Her fiancé died in her arms, so tragic.' I wish I had been hit by the car. I would be happy to die in Paul's arms, thinking he still loved me and would miss me. I would be happy to reach a bloodied hand up to stroke his cheek one last time and gargle, "I want you to be happy. Live, my darling. Live and be happy." But no. I'm not allowed that fantasy. I'm not allowed to be angry he cheated or angry he abused me. I'm allowed to remember being taken out to dinner, remember Paul's hand as he took mine, looked at the middle of my forehead to avoid eye contact and said "This isn't working for me." Why? Why not? Is it something I did or said? Tell me what, I can change. But no. There's nothing to be done. It's not me, it's him. He's just not happy. This just isn't what he wants anymore. He can't explain it and I can't explain to him what I need to know. I had no idea, everything seemed so normal. We had made love just a few days before. Maybe I can be angry about that, angry for pretending with me for as long as he pretended before he had the guts to say he was unhappy. I stare at the picture. It's not the best picture of us, or I should say of me. Paul is incapable of looking bad. From the morning when he wakes up to the moment he rolls over and goes to sleep at night, Paul is beautiful. I used to be beautiful. Now what's left of it is lying in the bathroom sink. I haven't felt right since we broke up. How long does it take to get over a relationship? I don't understand why I feel worse with each passing day. I have no appetite and I've lost weight. I feel nauseous all the time. Maybe I was so in love it makes me physically ill to be apart from him. Maybe I have cancer. I'm staring at the ceiling. The combination of the bathroom light and the streetlights meeting make odd shadows. Occasionally, a car passes by and contributes its headlights. Its tires make odd noises on the wet roads, accompanied by the sound of soft rain. I realize it's so cold in my apartment because I have left the window open. My curtains blow softly away from it to illustrate my realization. Maybe I do have cancer and one day Paul will come back to find me, to tell me he made a mistake and not only did he never stop loving me, his love for me grew more each day we were apart. But all he'll find is my mother, who always liked him. She'll bring him in for a cup of coffee and a muffin and tell him I passed away. He'll cry, he'll regret ever leaving me. He'll regret not being by my side as I breathed my last. He'll visit my grave. Maybe he'll become the next Joe DiMaggio and order a fresh rose placed by my grave everyday. I used to look like Marilyn, before L'Oreal happened. I turn my head to the left, look at the clock. It tells me it's 2:34. I turn my head to the right, look at the empty side of my full-size bed. I prefer the view to my left and I turn to my left side. My hair has soaked my pillow. I'm still wearing just my towel beneath my comforter. I feel sick again. I breathe through the waves of nausea. The clock turns to 2:36. I stare at it, until I fall asleep. I wake up sometime around seven. I feel sick, but I realize it's from hunger. My pillow is still cold and wet, one side of my hair is drier than the other and my towel became unwound sometime during the night. I get up, stumbling and searching for my center of balance. On my way to the kitchen, I reach my hand into the bathroom and flip the light switch down. I'm not prepared to meet my dark haired self again just yet. It's not until I'm standing in the middle of my kitchen, perusing my breakfast choices do I realize I'm naked. I stand a moment, debating whether to get dressed. Why should I bother? It's my apartment and I'm the only one here. I pour out some Cheerios, pour on the milk and drop in a spoon. I lean against the counter. Gather Cheerios on spoon. Raise arm. Open mouth. Insert spoon with Cheerios. Chew Cheerios. Swallow Cheerios. Repeat. The sound of chewing is all I can hear as I stare at my toaster. I chew slower. A wave of emotions is crashing into me and I begin to sob. My half-chewed Cheerios spill out of my mouth onto the floor. Milk dribbles down my chin and lands on my chest. I place the bowl of Cheerios weakly on the counter as I sit myself on the kitchen floor. Imagine if Paul were to come back now, maybe he forgot something when he packed his things up. Imagine if he were to find me, sitting naked in Cheerios, covered in milk and crying. I go from body-shaking sobs to inhaling my tears to curse myself out for being so weak. I was never so emotional. I don't do this. I go to work and I carry on and I get better. I don't fall apart. I didn't cry when we broke up. It wasn't until a week or so after. The wave retreats, leaving me to deal with the aftermath. I take deep shaky intakes of breath, surveying the scene. The skin of my chest feels tight and sticky from the drying milk. I can feel a Cheerio digging into my butt cheek. The thought that I'm sitting on a Cheerio makes me smile and I laugh a little. I stand up, feeling weak from my break down session. I've got no choice but to head for the bathroom. I don't feel sick this time as I face myself. My hair is still a stark contrast to my skin. I look sickly and pale. I feel like a zombie physically, now I look like one. If not for the raging emotions, I would be a complete zombie. Walking amongst the living and feeding off their life energy, as I have none of my own. I scoop up my hair from the sink and drop it into the waste basket. I guess my hands have milk on them, because some hairs have stuck to me. I turn on the tap and run my hands underneath the water. My hairs slide off and down the drain. I grab a hand towel, get it wet and wipe off my chest. My nose is stuffy and red, as are my eyes and I sniffle. Splashing cold water on my face, I stare at myself in the mirror. I see a few wrinkles and oddly enough some pimples. Maybe Paul stopped desiring me physically. Maybe he wasn't attracted to me anymore. I look at my chest. My breasts have moved. Not all the way down-town, they've just taken an apartment the floor below. I cup them and move them upwards where they belong. They feel tender. Nothing on me works right lately. Maybe I have breast cancer. I could get them both cut off and not have to deal with tender breasts again. No man would look at me or want to touch me again so I wouldn't have to worry about getting my heart broken again. Sure, unrequited love isn't the best, but I'd prefer looking at men from afar then having another one tell me there's nothing wrong with me, He just doesn't want me anymore. Cancer may be a good thing. I could get chemotherapy and all my hair would fall out and I could start anew. Staring at myself, I suddenly feel some bladder pressure. Constant urination is something I've become accustomed to the past few weeks. I sit down on the toilet. Maybe I have Diabetes and I'll go into a diabetic coma and wake up in thirty years. By then, they'll have made the Happy Pill, a nice non-prescription drug that magically really makes everything okay. I finish, unroll the last of the toilet paper and wipe myself. This is my life lately. Sleep. Wake up. Cry. Eat. Shit. Piss. Wipe. Repeat until death. My job is dead. I haven't been in for a week. Who cares, I have vacation time saved up. I have no aspirations anymore. I have no goals. I was quite happy to go to a work that I neither liked or disliked, interact with clients and co-workers that I neither liked or disliked and come home to a man that I liked quite a lot and fall asleep in his arms. Call my mother on Monday, my sister on Tuesday. Take my nephew to the movies, go to dinner with Paul. Go out with my small but close group of friends to a club. Now I've barely spoken to any of them. Then I didn't need anything else. I was happy. I didn't need to be famous or rich. I don't need to be famous, I don't need to be rich. I'd just like to go to sleep at 10pm again. I'd like to sleep through the night without waking to pee. I'd like to feel like eating and beyond that, actually be able to keep it down. I'd like to not be so tired. I'd like to look at a picture of Paul and not feel every emotion available to me in the span of five seconds. I'd just like to not feel anything at all but more than that I'd like to feel happy again. I'd like my daily life to not be an emotional roller coaster. It's killing my body. I haven't had my period since I broke up with Paul. I wonder if I have ovarian cancer. I stand up and flush, throwing away the toilet paper roll. I open the closet door to retrieve another roll. Sitting as prettily as the day it attracted me in the supermarket is a home pregnancy test. I stare. I remember when my period was late, not so long ago. Paul and I stayed up to discuss what we would do if I were pregnant. I always wanted children, I just hadn't planned on it being then. He was so relieved when I discovered my period had arrived the next afternoon. I was relieved too, but a little disappointed. Now that I think back on it, he was probably thinking of leaving me even then. I pick up the pregnancy test and toss it in the wastebasket. It lies at the bottom, resting on the toilet roll. I lean down and pick it back up. It feels light in my hand. I look at it. I put it on the counter and look at it some more. It sits, staring back at me. Wheels are turning in my head. I walk to the kitchen and pour myself a glass of water. I drink it down, pour another and wander back to the bathroom. I sip it as I stare. I feel very quiet and calm right now as I regard the little pink box innocently sitting on the counter. I tell myself it's either this or ovarian cancer. I take another sip.