Torn

Sunlight spills across patches of tall clover, gilding purple blossoms and the green of stems and leaves in a warm golden glow. It seeps through the tall Bermuda grass, glinting on morning dew and aphids suckling on the tips of bluegrass. Across the lawn, dragonfly wings flicker like candleflame as one takes flight from the overgrown weeds of what was once a flowerbed. June-bugs dance mid-flight across what, to them, has become a wild glen – an untamed meadow to call home.

The view is warm, and welcoming, and a perfect summer day. Muggy, and hot, and resounding with the hum of June-bugs and the shrill of cicada in the treetops. Like the summer days of childhood, chasing those June-bugs and butterflies, through freshly mowed grass.

But something distances the hues of golds and greens and summer sky blue; it’s blocked between the slats of faux-wood blinds and shrouded in the muted greys of her eyes.

Rosalyn looked away from the window, letting herself fall back to the couch absently. The house was quiet, only the drone of the air conditioning dulling the balmy summer heat seemed to resonate around her, and even the sound of the cicada outside didn’t reach her.

‘Maybe today I can do something productive,’ she thought. She looked around at her unvacuumed carpet and at the mess of dirty dishes peering at her from the kitchen counter. She really should do something productive today: the house was a mess; the yard was unkempt…

‘What’s the point?’

She sighed to herself; no, she wouldn’t give into to that voice today – she’d had enough of giving in.

‘You give in because you’re weak…’ it rasped hoarsely, ‘because you’re pathetic…because you’re useless…’

Eyes clenched as she felt the all-too-familiar burn nipped at her eyelashes, like rising tides against the back of her eyelids, and she shook her head. No, she wouldn’t listen… But deep down, she knew the voice wasn’t wrong – not that it was entirely right, but that it wasn’t wrong. She was weak. She was pathetic.

‘That’s right,’ it hummed to her, quiet and menacing like the hum of wasps’ wings, and she felt the gentle caress of slender fingers across her cheek as she heaved a deep breath.

“What’s the point?” Rosalyn echoed to herself, allowing herself to curl deeper into the corduroy fabric of the cushions. Heat streaked down her cheek, and she sniffled quietly to herself.

‘Stop!’ she could hear another voice trying to break through and it came to her like a shrill howl of wind. ‘You’re better than this! You’re not worthless!’

‘Worthless!’ the voice mocked arrogantly. Fingers left Rosalyn’s cheek and she could make out the dull footsteps on carpet. ‘Go on and disappear this time…who would miss one as worthless, as pathetic as you?’

The tears came steadier now, and sobs wracked her body uncontrollably. Rosalyn fought for breaths, but they were shallow and ragged, and she couldn’t seem to catch them. Her cries tore from her throat and fingers wrenched at the fabric of her shirt.

The voice was right, who would care if she didn’t exist?

She didn’t want to exist!

‘That’s not true!’ the other voice came to her like the blunt musical notes of the wind chime on her porch. ‘Think of your sister, of your friends – there are people who care about you!’

Their lives would move on, Rosalyn thought. If she didn’t exist…they would move on.

‘That’s right,’ the voice purred with approval; Rosalyn felt the cool fingers stroke her cheek again, long fingernails brushing skin. ‘They don’t need you.’

“I don’t want to exist anymore!” she cried aloud, and she wailed into the void of her home. They wouldn’t care – no one cared now. No one noticed the suffering she’d seen; no one could see what she was suffering through now. No…she hid it just perfectly – so that they wouldn’t hurt because of her.

‘Let go…just choose to fade away,’ it told her softly; the words were soft and enticing and inviting. They sang to her, trickled like a gentle summer rain.

‘They’d be devastated!’ The other voice was sharper now, more frantic, and though it was much weaker than its counterpart, she could hear the desperation as it clawed and pried for her attention. Was…was it right…would they truly miss her presence that much?

‘You’re broken…’ the voice cooed, but there was a waspishness to the words.

The voice was right…she was broken. She had been for longer than she cared to recount. It would be so much simpler to just…let go…to choose to fade…

‘You can’t!’ The words brought Rosalyn back to the world like thunder in the storm.

The voice was right…so was the other voice – the one inside her. She couldn’t let go; she couldn’t let the voice win. If she did…

“I…can’t…” Rosalyn said softly through breathy pants. She scrubbed tears away with the back of her hand, smearing salty wetness across her face. Suddenly she opened her eyes.

The room was as she had seen it last, though as the sun had risen a little and the lines of the blinds were less sharply defined along gray walls. The room had grown brighter as the sun had moved higher into the sky, and she could now make out the sound of the wind chime tinkling outside the door, the drone of the air conditioning as it spat cool air into the house.

She shuddered deeply as she drew in a deep breath.

With trembling fingers, Rosalyn pushed herself from the couch, staggering slightly as she found her footing. She crossed the room, and walked down the hall, rough feet snagging on carpet as she dragged her feet along.

As Rosalyn stumbled into the bathroom, drunken feet floundering on from the change from carpet to tile, she made her way to the mirror. She almost had to laugh at her appearance: her hair was unkempt and wild, like the tuffets of unmowed grass out her living room window, and her eyes were bloodshot and swollen. Remnants of tears and mucus streaked her face in shimmering lines like slug paths across the concrete of the porch and she wiped her shirt across her face.

She sighed to herself, eyes lingering over the face that gazed back at her – the reflection she assumed was her own.

“I’m just…exhausted…” she said and closed her eyes against her reflection.