Trembling. Waiting for clearer thoughts to come in.
Here comes one:
“How is it that I’m shivering in a 110-degree heat?”
That’ll do, for now.
Gently! You must handle yourself — gently.
Standing on a street that to a bystander’s eye would appear idillic and “homey”, she wonders about the horrors that could be happening behind the closed doors of these same “homey” homes, with pretty white doors: the quiet, muffled horrors of domestic violence.
“Beware — of pretty,” another thought comes in.
There is a reason why she has always loathed the sight of the white picket fence: They reek of false advertisement and broken promises — of broken hearts. And the heart that break due to the broken promise — takes longer to heal. She is now cradling her heart, in her heaving chest; but it would take her years to learn just how long the healing would take.
Her thinking is fragmented. If only she could get a grip on this shivering: If only she could catch her breath. But the body takes its time.
There is a violence that lives in every body: A violence that strikes at another — or at itself. It always comes from the darkest corners of one’s soul and it prefers no audience. But those whom we love the most often fall victim to it.
So, she is catching herself wonder about the suffering that others endure when love betrays its goodness. It is much better to be thinking of others, in moments of extreme pain. Because the end to her own pain — she cannot possibly see from here: In the “homey” neighborhood that has broken its promise to her and found her homeless, in 110-degree heat.
Besides, the suffering of others should remind her that someone is always having it worse.
“How can it possibly be worse?!” another thought flings itself inside her throbbing head.
The chest is heaving. The heart is beating fast: It is not broken yet.
“Do people die — of broken hearts?” she thinks and sits down on the curb to catch her breath. Is that what happens — in heart attacks?
A Heart: Attacked. That would be the name of her cause, if she were to stop breathing right now.
She stares at her feet. The pedicure on her toes is of her own manufacturing. She’s had a hand in that. The chosen color is pink: They have just passed Easter, on the calendar. The pair of shoes, that she’s had very little time to peel on before leaping out of the house, are multicolored: Each strap bears a neon shade. When she first laid her eyes on them, on a shelf at Payless, she thought.
“When in the world would I wear those?!”
Now. She is wearing them now. And in a juxtaposition with her black tank top and blue bicycle shorts, they fail to make any sense at all. She chuckles to herself: Yes, she actually chuckles — while shivering — because she is thinking that she must look like a burnt house victim, right now.
And isn’t that what happened, anyway: Her “homey” home has burnt down on its promise? It has collapsed on itself, and no matter its false appearance from the outside, behind those pretty white doors and the white picket fence — one can only find ruins.
She shivers and looks over her shoulder at the sight of the house:
The perfectly groomed, neon green lawn — FAKE!
The deceivingly white and pink exterior — FALSE!
The beautiful rotunda window of its office space — LIARS!
A distorted face of a man has been watching her through that window. She has just realized that. He is puffy and unshaven, bewildered behind his thick-rimmed glasses. His mouth begins opening once he notices her looking back. He is that bug-eyed bottom-feeding fish that outlives the smaller bastards in a shared tank. The existence of his type is necessary, in nature. She knows that. Symbi-fuckin’-osis! But again, it would years before she sees his purpose in her life.
“GET THE FUCK OUT!” she can lipread on his gaping, bottom-feeding mouth.
“I hope I took my glasses with me,” another thought happens.
That’s when she realizes she’s actually not seeing the man: She is remembering him, at this very moment. The brain is taking in the memories: The bits that it will then try so very hard to forget.
The shivering hasn’t subsided, but it has transformed into an all-over warmth that happens to the survivors of car wrecks. This is:
The Body: Coping.
That is the name of her current disease.
No, she wouldn’t die of A Heart: Attacked. Not on this day. Her body has chosen to persevere, to survive the violence.
The shivering is violent. The body is confronting brutality with its reserve of sudden energy.
This is what it takes — to survive: To outlive the broken heart.
She wants to go to sleep but then realizes that it’ll be a while; for she has just leapt out of a burning home: a “homey” home. The thought of anything too far ahead refuses to happen; and strangely calm, she is grateful for that. She thinks no more than five minutes ahead.
Not feeling her own body, she picks herself up off the curb and reaches for the giant black bag packed in the middle of the night.
And: She. Starts. Walking.
It should be hard, in theory, to not know where she’s going. She’s got no home. She knows no shelter.
But she is only thinking of one step at a time — and only five minutes ahead.
Gently! You must handle yourself — gently! — when you survive.
She’s chosen to survive. It would begin when she starts walking.