Reflections: the long night

written by Mia G.
graphics by Nicole M.
creative by Zahra I. and Hitha G.

Today is a Saturday. Today is her day. I am but a witness, mute and forced to play along. I try to find peace on these days in the midst of her chaos– but what defines peace when I am left to the fallout of her actions come dawn on Sunday?

She locked me out of the house again so I crawl in through the kitchen window; she’s sitting, drinking a bottle of wine in her bra and underwear. I say she shouldn’t be drinking, she says she knows. Bottle to her lips again.

What happened this week?

It was long. She takes another sip.

Would you like to hear about my week?

She’s staring out over my shoulder, eyes slightly crossed and fixed on a point, but says nothing. It’s like talking to a shadow. I tell her anyway.

It’s been getting cooler outside and the sun is setting earlier and earlier. I know I will be seeing more of her now as the months grow colder and she’s not always the best company, but part of me always misses her in the spring when she doesn’t come around as much.

A silence grows and I say one more thing, not sure if I should bring it up. I saw him this week. Ran into him at the store, between the fruits and the pharmacy.

Oh? And what did you do?

Well, we’re talking again, and I have missed him.

I’m happy for you. She takes another sip of wine but reaches out and grabs my hand this time, squeezing it as she stands. She kisses me on the forehead as she circles the table, taking a sweater from the hook by the door.

The intimacy of being understood is a comfort beyond words. And who understands you best but yourself? She’s simply the best thing to happen to me and the worst to leave behind.

Dawn is encroaching on the horizon, a dark blue hue covering everything outside the window– stone wall, creek, woods– and there she stands, her reflection still visible in the glass by the candlelight.

I’m growing impatient, her ever-present gloom more troubling than usual. Do you want to tell me about your week now?

It was just the same as yours. As always. Her nose is suddenly bleeding and her eyes have sunken deep, dark circles on her face making her akin to a corpse.

I do not understand.

The first rays of sunlight break across the sky, welcoming the morning. Sunday morning and she’s still here no matter how many times I close my eyes, nose still bleeding and wine bottle in hand.

Why are you still here?

I told you it was a long week. She moves from the window, through the puddle of blood at her feet, and sits back at the table, grasping at my hands again, hers now cold and bony.

Mourning is a wound that heals but scars. She’d said it so many times before, but I never paid mind.

I had buried the hatchet but there was no lavender. It was going to be a long winter.