by Leesha Procopio
Walking into the kitchen was entering a different world. Reality was so distorted. A few weeks ago, a clean kitchen had been normal. Expected. Pursued. With ritualistic fervor, she’d never let the dishes sit, even overnight. Unreal, she thought, seeing the cupboards devoid, the sink unreachable from the piles of dirty dishes.
She detested chaos. But life had become chaotic, cluttered with emotions: love, hate, denial, grief, shock, anger. Each had taken the opportunity to beat her, confuse her; driving her to the rim of insanity. Voices in her head begging her to let go completely.
Wailing, on her knees, she watched a line of ants marching along the edge of her countertop, dutifully gathering each crumb. Gripping her shirt, wanting to pull off her skin, she stumbled to the sink. Throwing the first plate, then again and again, shattering around her like explosions in a minefield. Hurling them at the floor, the wall, the window, never feeling the cuts on her hands, the shards digging into her bared feet, she couldn’t stop. Until they were all broken. Like her. Like her life.
Gasping, heaving, she collapsed on the glass strewn linoleum. Closing her burning eyes, she sobbed, realizing there’d never be resolution, only endless heartache and horrifying memories. The semi-truck lights bearing down, the wind rushing around her frozen face, the vibrating rumble of its engine, the squelching crush of metal, and then the screaming silence of being alone. She hadn’t even told him it was coming.