Six Years

It’s been six years. Six years since I heard your voice echoing through these halls.

I wake up alone, always alone. Eyes still closed, I slide my foot to your side of the bed; It is cold. And yet, it shocks me. Almost as if you snuck away in the night while I slept and the absence of you hasn’t been hanging in the air like a thick mist for over half a decade.

I finally open my eyes. My sight lingers momentarily on the empty space where you slept and I quickly divert my eyes.

The sheets shimmer in the muted light of the lamp, spun from metallic threads somehow soft to the touch. The floor, brushed silver is cold to my feet as I pull the blankets off of me and trudge to the bathroom. The silver toilet bowl. The silver counter and silver towels. I wash my face and brush my teeth. The frowning man over the sink watches me dry me face. I can sense his boredom. He thinks my routine to be monotonous. I study him a bit longer. The corners of his mouth tugged down, wrinkles at the corners of his eyes. He needs to shave too. He squints at me and I turn to leave the bathroom.

I get dressed silently, pulling on a silver shirt and jeans. I haven’t seen color in so long. I remember your eyes were green. I study the fabric of my pants, scratching at a loose metallic thread. This feels green.

Making my way through the house, the frowning man has rejoined me. He slumps depressingly by my side, distorted by the brushed silver walls. This place used to feel like paradise. The King and Queen of Hearts in a shining palace. With you gone, it feels like a desolate, grey prison. I wonder if you ever remember that I am locked away here. I wonder what you’re having for breakfast.

In the kitchen, a bowl of shining apples sit patiently on the counter. Running a finger over them, I see that the metal has began collecting dust. I rinse them hurriedly and then catch myself, reminding myself to slow down. Where have I to go? I dry the apples and place them back on the table. If they were real, could I eat them? I tap them with my nail. Tink tink. No need to eat here anyway. I’ve been here for eight years. Nine years? It is hard to remember how long you were here with me. The house was warm, almost humming with your presence. The gentle thumping of your heart as I dozed off peacefully every night. But I know exactly how long you’ve been gone. I count every day. Six years. Six years and thirty-four days.

I begin to hear a rumbling sound. The floor beneath me starts to shake and roll. The bowl of apples tumbling off the table as I stagger to the front door, the frowning man tripping pathetically next to me. The gleaming chandelier in the foyer swings on the ceiling threateningly. I swing the front door wide open, my toes hanging off the threshold. I scan the abyss before me, the absolute black nothingness that awaits behind the door. I try to listen over the shuttering of the house, the clanging of metal on metal like a symphony of cymbals. And… Your voice! Was that your voice? You sound so far away. I pleadingly shout your name and the words are immediately returned to me, echoing off the dark shell encasing me. Can you hear me at all? The shaking climaxes, and abruptly stops. After a final thump, everything goes quiet again.

I close the door, resigned. The frowning man stares back at me in the door. He looks so defeated. I hate him.

I begin the lonely walk through the house, cleaning up debris and fallen belongings. Your books, your easel. In the kitchen the apples are still rolling on the floor. I stare at them briefly before turning away and making my way back to our room. The frowning man accompanies me. We share a couple quick glances, eyeing each other. I wonder if he is as tired of me as I am of him.

I crawl into bed and pull the sheets over my head. The bed feels so cold. I think of your voice. So muffled. I replay it over and over in my head, trying frantically to decipher each tone and making up words to fit them. Hope is the most dangerous thing. Stop. Rewind. Play. Stop. Rewind. Play. And finally, I feel myself being pulled into sleep.

I gave you a locket for your twenty-sixth birthday and I tucked a piece of me inside. There I stayed, resting against your bosom, kept warm by your touch, rocked to sleep by the pumping of your heart. Where did you go? Where did I go? Perhaps tucked in some drawer or in some box in your closet? It is so cold without you. It’s been six years. This place is so unloving, unyielding. I gave myself to you and the cold interior of a heart shaped locket.