9-6

I wake up calm, serene. I gag into the sink, but it's been three days since a meal hit my stomach and there's nothing to empty. I close my mind off, but his words continue to roll through. Love words for another. I remember when he loved me. Or was it only words? I am beginning to think it was. The thought roils my empty stomach again and I fill it with dark coffee.

There's wide pink clouds in the sky in the evening, and the dog soars over the grass, thankful that I've managed to stir and move my tepid stiff body outdoors. We take the path through the trees as another comes up.

He's youngish, his dog is golden and silky like the inside of corn. He sits with me where I rest on the bench on the hill, gentle silence until he works up the courage to ask why I'm so unhappy.

I tell him about you and how you deceived me. False words, pretty words, earnest eyes, exasperation at my seeming madness. It all drove me mad in the end, I think. My sanity broke down into crumbled sand. I became the woman in the attic. I became the monster.

He is sympathetic, kind. He has been hurt before; he knows. His eyes go warm and sad for me, and his thigh touches mine, hot through his jeans. He leans close.

I ask him what's going through his mind. A sad girl in the woods, Manic Pixie hair and glasses and a dog she leaves untethered. Gin on her breath. It's a fucking fantasy, isn't it? Every man's a fucking hero until they're the villain. Do I strike him as weak, vulnerable? Will he sweep me up from my sadness? I stare through him, reading his intentions. Men have been trying to save me for years and somehow I only end up more and more broken by their clumsy efforts.

I rise and continue through the woods. The boy, or man, he's too far to tell, and his yellow dog carry on their way across the hill. I wonder what he would have said, if he had truly come my way.

Probably hello. That is real life. Nice night. Have a good walk.

Lies and deception are real life. This is how it is, for people. Injustice, thoughtless cruelty. Dishonesty. This is the norm. I don't know how I continue to be surprised.

There's feathers on the path again, and I collect them to add to the vase growing soft with those I have gathered. It feels like an apology lain for me in the dirt.

I have asked the sky why, but it responds only with beautiful feathers and pink fat clouds. I have tried to live a good life and be kind, but I think I carry with me the shackles of the past. They call me silly or superstitious, but at night I lie awake and wonder what, in another body, evil I did to deserve what I have been given.

No matter how I fight I can never seem to fully rise.

But I will keep fighting.

I twist the feather around my chin and admire the sky, brilliant and bright. In the trees birds are settling for sleep, a long journey to warmer climates tugging at the edge of their brains.

The dog chases a flock of turkeys, and there are more wide feathers for me to collect.