“I’m trying, I really am fucking trying, can’t you see that?”
I didn’t look up. The cracks in the floorboards felt sharp against my socks. I had never noticed the edges before.
“Barbara, will you look at me? Don’t just stare off like that when I’m trying to have a conversation with you.”
I could hear the ever-so-gentle shushing sound as my toes traced the edge of the floorboards. It felt like winter, cold tickling at the windows, spiced apple cider filling the air, and the shushing of stockinged feet rushing to the Christmas tree in the dark of the morning.
“Barbara!”
I loved winter. Most people liked summer—the heat, the sun, brightness and light—but I didn’t. I loved the warmth of a real fire, logs cracking and spluttering. I loved the embrace of blankets, hot chocolate on the lips, and rain in the ears. I loved the darkness, the cosiness, and the comfort.
“Barbara, for fuck’s sake, talk to me!”
Give me a good book to curl up with, and I’d be happily lost. There’s so much not to like about this world, and so much to love about the worlds in my head.
“One last chance, babe. If I go, I’m gone.”
Connection. I think that’s it. I feel so connected to my worlds and the worlds on the page. I don’t have to guess what anyone is feeling; I know it. I feel it too. I am it. I hear it all, and taste it all; it surrounds me. Every fibre of me connects to every fibre of it. But then I come back. And then everything is so dull, so quiet, so distant. And I don’t feel like me, or sound like me, or even look like me, not the real me, oh no, not the real me.
“Barbara? Barbara, please. Don’t do this to me. Don’t shut me out. Barbara…. Barb. Please.”
Like a child who needs a hug. Like a potted plant starved of water and light. Like a lovely meal without seasoning. Like a chained puppy. Like a dried-up marker.
“Please, Barb. Come back to me, love.”
Like a fisherman casting a net. Like a dying man, parched and grasping. Like an outcast, shunned but pleading. Like a child.
“Love. I hope… I don’t know what I hope anymore. Just look after yourself, okay?”
Like a line drawn in the sand. Like the quietening of a melody. Like the closing of a curtain. Like the fading of a half-remembered smell. Like the setting of the sun. Like the crack in a floorboard. Like a punctuation mark. Like the end.
I blinked a few times, and the fog descended. My foot traced the outline of the floorboard, pushing hard against the edge.
“Sorry, love, what was that?” I looked up from the floorboards to an empty room. Colm’s words were a distant echo. His cup of half-drunk tea was on the counter, cold and mouldy. “Oh, yes! I’d love to go to the opera. We never did get to go last year, did we?” My voice drifted in the stillness. “We should go to that fancy restaurant near the theatre. I’ll wear that dress you got me.” Flies buzzed around the dirty dishes piled beside the sink. “Don’t be silly, Colm! You can’t wear jeans to the opera!” The dusty, dirty floorboards gave way to a stained carpet as I danced and twirled in the empty room. “I think you’d look dapper in a suit. Maybe a top hat and tails? What do you think, Mr. Darcy?”
Header image created with AI assistance.
