Page 15 of The Wrong Heart

I’m not exactly a wordsmith either, and I’m certainly no expert on grief.

But I do know a thing about wilting.

I feel like it might be a fate worse than death, you know? It’s a slow, soul-sucking process, where you’re stuck in this limbo between fading away for good and making a comeback, but you can’t quite obtain either. So, you just wilt.

I’ve been wilting for a long time, and it fucking sucks.

Anyway, I hope you found some sunlight and have been watered properly.

Zephyr

My eyes scan over the e-mail a dozen times, soaking up the words, feeling my heart sputter and short-circuit as trails of blood trickle down my arm and saturate the rug beneath me.

A ghastly reminder of my near-fatal choice.

I try to process it, I try to process the letters and sentences and what it all means, but I’m fading, captured by a sky full of stars in the veil of night.

Before I’m fully possessed by darkness, I find the strength to dial those three numbers, to call for help, to save myself from…myself.

And when I finally come to, I’m lying in a new bed in a strange place, blinded by the bright lights overhead.

They singe my eyes.

Harsh and artificial.

But I find myself smiling as I drift away once more, and this time it’s a real smile, a sincere smile, because the ceiling lights manifest into something else, and all I feel is warmth dancing across my face as the clouds scatter.

The sun is looking for me.

—FIVE—

The sole of my shoetaps the linoleum in perfect time with Ms. Katherine’s ballpoint pen.

Ms. Katherine.

Like we’re fucking kindergarteners gathered around the area rug for a riveting rendition ofGoodnight Moon.

I wish I could say goodnight.

Goodnight, room. Goodnight to the old lady who smells like mothballs.

Unfortunately, I’m stuck here because the only person in the world I give a shit about wants me to get better.

Yeah.Better.

As if I have an affliction I can cure in a matter of a few months by attending kumbaya classes with a merry band of idiots. Classes that reek of drivel and falsities, packaged neatly in a big ass box of bullshit, tied with glitter-infused ribbon.

As if I’ll suddenly care enough to…care.

The old bat blinks through a thin smile that appears drawn on with a plum-colored pencil. Her pen continues to tap against a leather-bound journal, intensifying my feet to drown it out.

Tap, tap, tap.

It grates me. My jaw tenses, teeth gnashing together until the enamel nearly chips. Eyes narrowed, focused and razor-sharp, I almost miss the sound of my name penetrating the vanilla-scented air.

Vanilla and honeysuckles, to be exact. I saw the empty package of wax melts in the garbage can when I was grabbing a cup of stale, shitty coffee, and I had to scoff.

The fragrance is designed to be calming. Soft and sweet.

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