Out of the abyss

I couldn’t feel my hands, or my feet for that matter. Even my brain felt numb. I would pinch myself if I could move.

“Unfortunately the hospital fees took most of what she had, but she was still able to leave you $20,000.” His hands twisted in his lap. Lawyers should never have to deal with emotional people. “That should be enough to get yourself going.” I could feel him stare, waiting for my response.

At this point my eyes were numb as well, so any form of eye contact was physically impossible. I could feel myself drown, become more and more surrounded by darkness, with just a pinhole of light where I could see his hands twisting and writhing around each other.

“Well, if you have any questions, here’s my card.” He held out an off white card with a little coffee stain on it. After a few moments of waiting he laid it on my lap, abruptly stood up and walked out the door.

I couldn’t seem to decide whether I wanted to stay in the darkness or find my way back to the pinhole of light that was reality. The emptiness down there felt so good. Even if I were to find my way back, how would I? It’s not like there’s any gravity in here, no way to swim. I guess I would just have to will it.

The feeling rushed back into my fingers and eyes as I found the surface of my own mind. With my sanity came the emotions. There were too many to handle.

In the distance you could hear the traffic on the freeway. There’s no place scarier than the one where everyone snaps, intentionally tries to put each other in danger or piss each other off. The reason people ever choose to leave their home astounds me.

I’m not sure how it happened but I found myself splayed out on the floor of Mom’s room. Reality and time seems to have a mind of their own right now. This room and I are both the same now. Purposeless and useless. Without her here, I have absolutely nothing to my name. Except for $20,000.

I’m still not sure what pulled me to do this, but I turned my head to look under her bed, stuck my hand blindly into the darkness and felt around. My fingers danced around the dusty floor until it met with cool smooth leather. I picked up Mom’s little black book and opened it to a random page.

There she was, laughing. I hadn’t seen her do that in years. She was dressed in a brightly colored smock with what looked like mashed potatoes covering her hands. A little girl sat next to her pointing at the clay vase in front of her, instructing her on what to do next. Mom didn’t look like she was listening and was much more focused on how funny the mess she made was.

I flipped to another page further down in the book. There she sat on the train, somewhere in Europe, with me in her arms. I was only a few months old then. She looked so peaceful as she stared out the window, letting the sunlight hit her face between tree gaps.

I turned to the last image. She stood with a sad smile in front of the Eiffel Tower. The sunset was a beautiful purple and orange. The light danced off her skin like she herself was the moon. Behind her, in a fetal position underneath a bench was me, crying, begging to go home.

As I turned the page, two little notebooks peeked out from the back cover. Her passport and mine. She always kept one active for me in case I finally one day had the courage to leave the house again. Dust covered my face as I slammed the book and I sputtered.

How were we ever from the same genes? How could she live so carefree, no fear of the conflict and consequences that even normal day activities seem to bring?

I opened her closet and pulled out her old suitcase and threw it on the ground. There was no need to let her stuff sit and rot in the closet like this, it’s not like she’s going to be traveling again anyway.

It suddenly felt hard to breathe. I grabbed at her old favorite raincoat and threw it in the case. I can’t live here anymore with all her things just lying around reminding me of what I kept her from being. Her spanish boots hit the suitcase so hard that I wondered for a second if I damaged them. What does it matter anyway?

I snagged the binoculars from her nightstand and stuffed them in the case. In a moment I was on auto-pilot, ripping the room apart, packing up her identity.

In one hand the suitcase and in the other, the little black book, I weaved for the front door.

We meet again. This nemesis of mine, the front door. I could never easily find my way out of it. On one side of the door was comfort and security. The other side lay uncertainty, conflict, fear. She was always so good at dealing with that. I belong on this side of the door.

I slammed the door open and threw the suitcase onto the doorstep outside and rushed in the other direction. Into the basement, under the stairs, into the cupboard. As far from the open door as I could possibly get. Her camera left an imprint in the dust that had settled as I snatched it from its place, tore back up the stairs and walked out the front door.

Somehow every step I took got both easier and harder, the tears flowed more and more urgently as my pace quickened. If I was fast enough maybe I wouldn’t realize what happened.

“TAXI” I croaked, my voice roughened from isolation.

He stopped in front of me and eyed me up and down before stepping out and approaching me. I froze in my place and felt the darkness begin to take hold again.

“Which terminal, dear?” He requested as he reached for my mother’s suitcase from my hand. My knuckles went white as I gripped tighter and I stopped breathing. He took a step back questioningly.

“I’m not sure” the sound of my own voice snapped me back to reality. I threw the case in the back seat with me and sat down, “whichever one will take me to a different country.”