until breathing feels all right
Title: until breathing feels all right
Character: Helen Magnus
Rating: PG-13
Summary: “Out of the Blue” character study. None of it feels right. Except, oddly, the loneliness.
It occurs to her on an unassuming Tuesday. She’s sitting on the couch, curled into the corner, reading by the late afternoon sunlight, allowing herself a brief respite from painting. With John gone, moved into some swanky downtown apartment overlooking the river, the house is empty.
She’s lonely. She’s been lonely for a long time.
She tries to ignore the feeling. Stays up later, choosing the nighttime hours to work on her own paintings, not ones commissioned by rich, East coast Americans and certainly not those her agent will ever know about to sell. Plays her music louder, drowning out the sounds even the most silent and sturdily-built home makes, switches from calming jazz and soft rock to trance and house, losing herself in the beats and repetition.
She doesn’t leave the house for days, except to get the mail lest the postman grow annoyed by her and ring the doorbell to drop it all off.
None of it feels right. Except, oddly, the loneliness.
In a fit of frustration and confusion, she puts her fist through the canvas she’s been working on for a week. Kicks the easel, too, watches the wood collapse in on itself and fall to the ground. She stands amidst the mess, chest heaving with quickened breathing, and clenches her fists hard enough to wonder if her nails can break skin. Closing her eyes, she counts to ten, drawing herself partly out of the mood she’s worked herself into.
She writes a note to call her agent in the morning, tell him there will be a slight delay in delivery, and reaches up above the refrigerator, finding the prescription bottle hidden there. It’s an emergency stash, carefully built up over a year’s worth of calling for refills as soon as insurance allows and squirreling away last month’s leftovers. She’d rather not take anything but she recognizes terrifying signs in herself and knows that if she doesn’t get some sleep tonight, she’s liable to fall off the deep end for good.
She stares at the prescription label. Lorazepam - 500mg - as needed for anxiety.
That doesn’t seem right, either. The 500mg jumps out at her and she frowns; she’d always thought it was a large number, but her therapist (whom she’s since left, having had a falling out with the woman over the basis for her decision to ask John for a divorce) merely shrugged and began talking about dose availability. She palms the top of the bottle and presses and turns - what does she know about medicine anyway - and fishes out a tiny white pill. Swallows it with the remnants of a glass of water and goes to bed.
She wakes in the morning feeling somewhat refreshed. She cleans up last night’s destruction and leaves a message on her agent’s voicemail and manages some toast for breakfast. Her world looks a little brighter, but she knows it’s not as easy as a good night’s sleep.
The loneliness presses on the edges of her vision all morning while she works. It’s louder now, intruding upon her senses, and she wonders where the hell the brightness of breakfast went. She finishes the tree, washes her brushes, and goes upstairs for a shower.
Standing naked in front of her closet - wet hair clinging to her back, pale skin bright red from the nearly-scalding water - she exhales sharply. Water droplets fall to the carpet under her feet and she reaches in, mindlessly grabbing jeans and a shirt. She buttons the jeans over her flat stomach, skin calming to pink now, and twists her arms behind her to clasp her bra. The underwire digs into her ribs. She forgoes the shirt temporarily while she wrestles with the blow-dryer. Gives up halfway through, decides to pull the damp locks up into a reasonable approximation of a ponytail, messy and appropriate for an artist.
Unruly, half-finished, with too-long bangs threatening to annoy her all day. Messy and appropriate for her nothing-feels-right life.
She glares at the mirror for half a moment before tugging the shirt over her head and adding some mascara, a modest attempt at looking awake and interested. Zippered boots slide easily over her jeans; a scarf and light sweater complete things. She sits on the edge of the bed, temporarily exhausted by the effort.
“For heaven’s sake,” she whispers, scolding herself. It seems to echo.
The clock in the hallway loudly ticks away the seconds. She doesn’t count them, but stands before the time spent sitting borders on the ridiculous. She takes inventory of her kitchen, making note of items that are missing, aware that even if the kitchen doesn’t feel right, she still needs to eat.
There’s an emergency emergency stash in a zippered inside pocket of her purse. A few pills in a plastic bag, placed there nine months prior after an incident at a formal function she was forced to attend by virtue of being John’s wife. She’d learned her lesson, and he his; he hadn’t asked her to accompany him again even though she knew there were others. She parks her car and feels a familiar and unwelcome rush bubbling inside of her and her fingers reach for the bag. Cracks a pill in half, dry swallows it, closes her eyes and takes a deep breath.
Shopping is quick. She’d organized the list by category and is out of the store with everything she needs and nothing more in under fifteen minutes. She even manages a smile at the checkout clerk and her hand doesn’t shake when she signs the receipt.
She takes the long way home, rolling down the windows and allowing the breeze to whip through the strands of hair falling about her face. After the third turn detouring her further away from her house, she realizes she doesn’t want to go home. Out here, she feels okay alone. But there, the loneliness is terrifying.
Overwhelmed with the revelation, she turns into a parking lot so she can wrestle back control of her emotions and not risk her life or that of strangers on the road. She knows she’s not that destructive, not yet. She parks neatly in a corner spot and focuses on breathing. Good air in, bad air out, but it all feels like bad air and suddenly she’s opening the door and unbuckling her seat belt, turning so she can brace her elbows on her thighs and drop her head down between her knees. She grits her teeth and squeezes her eyes shut so tightly she sees sparks of colors and patterns, but a few tears make their way past her barricade and fall to the asphalt below.
She doesn’t, however, throw up.
She takes that as a good sign and minutes pass as she breathes deeply, finally feeling her heart calm. She reaches with shaky hands and brushes at her eyes, wiping away mascara smudged by the rebellious tears.
There’s a half-empty bottle of water on the floor by the passenger seat. The water tastes of plastic and being left in the car too long, but it’s wet and the bottle crinkles as she finishes the last of it. She exhales carefully, comforted by her ability to soothe herself, but unsettled by her need to do so.
She looks up at the building she’s parked behind and squints against the sun to read the sign. It’s a cat shelter. She isn’t quite ready to drive yet - though she should leave soon, her ice cream is probably getting soupy - and figures that it can’t hurt and if anyone will understand the need to be left alone, it’s people working at a cat shelter late on a Friday afternoon. She collects her keys and purse and locks her car.
A bell jingles when she opens the door. It startles her, but she covers the jump as merely being surprised by the old orange cat that greets her by butting his head against her leg. She tells the woman working the front desk that she’s only looking and the woman leads her down the hallway to the room with the kittens.
She falls in love instantly. He’s white and fluffy and even though his meows are drowned out by the others that crowd around her, interested in her legs and boots and the strings of her scarf, he’s the only one she hears. Careful not to step on any tiny tails or paws, she makes her way to the back of the room where he’s sitting in a basket, seemingly waiting for her.
She smiles and lets him sniff her hand before reaching forward to scratch behind his ears. His eyes close and he begins to purr happily and her smile grows wider. She gently lifts him up to cuddle in her arms, ignoring the woman behind her sharing the story of how they found him. Amazed at how calm he makes her, even on a day that was bordering on irredeemably bad, she makes a decision.
She can’t take him home today - the shelter won’t allow him to leave until he’s been neutered and he has a few more ounces to gain before that can happen - but she happily gives the woman her contact information and signs a few pieces of paper. Her hand is steady again. She’s never had a cat before, or any pet really, and thankfully takes all the pamphlets the woman thrusts at her.
The bell tinkles again as she leaves. She feels steadier now, on firmer ground, less like she’s going to crack into tiny pieces at any moment. It doesn’t bother her as much that everything about her life feels wrong.
“Henry,” she whispers, key in the ignition. She nods to herself and smiles. There’s white cat hair on her black shirt and she doesn’t care. “Henry,” she says again, smiling wider, confident in the name.
She turns the key and heads home. She’s driving into the sun, but doesn’t search for her sunglasses. The brightness is comforting against her skin.
Character: Helen Magnus
Rating: PG-13
Summary: “Out of the Blue” character study. None of it feels right. Except, oddly, the loneliness.
It occurs to her on an unassuming Tuesday. She’s sitting on the couch, curled into the corner, reading by the late afternoon sunlight, allowing herself a brief respite from painting. With John gone, moved into some swanky downtown apartment overlooking the river, the house is empty.
She’s lonely. She’s been lonely for a long time.
She tries to ignore the feeling. Stays up later, choosing the nighttime hours to work on her own paintings, not ones commissioned by rich, East coast Americans and certainly not those her agent will ever know about to sell. Plays her music louder, drowning out the sounds even the most silent and sturdily-built home makes, switches from calming jazz and soft rock to trance and house, losing herself in the beats and repetition.
She doesn’t leave the house for days, except to get the mail lest the postman grow annoyed by her and ring the doorbell to drop it all off.
None of it feels right. Except, oddly, the loneliness.
In a fit of frustration and confusion, she puts her fist through the canvas she’s been working on for a week. Kicks the easel, too, watches the wood collapse in on itself and fall to the ground. She stands amidst the mess, chest heaving with quickened breathing, and clenches her fists hard enough to wonder if her nails can break skin. Closing her eyes, she counts to ten, drawing herself partly out of the mood she’s worked herself into.
She writes a note to call her agent in the morning, tell him there will be a slight delay in delivery, and reaches up above the refrigerator, finding the prescription bottle hidden there. It’s an emergency stash, carefully built up over a year’s worth of calling for refills as soon as insurance allows and squirreling away last month’s leftovers. She’d rather not take anything but she recognizes terrifying signs in herself and knows that if she doesn’t get some sleep tonight, she’s liable to fall off the deep end for good.
She stares at the prescription label. Lorazepam - 500mg - as needed for anxiety.
That doesn’t seem right, either. The 500mg jumps out at her and she frowns; she’d always thought it was a large number, but her therapist (whom she’s since left, having had a falling out with the woman over the basis for her decision to ask John for a divorce) merely shrugged and began talking about dose availability. She palms the top of the bottle and presses and turns - what does she know about medicine anyway - and fishes out a tiny white pill. Swallows it with the remnants of a glass of water and goes to bed.
She wakes in the morning feeling somewhat refreshed. She cleans up last night’s destruction and leaves a message on her agent’s voicemail and manages some toast for breakfast. Her world looks a little brighter, but she knows it’s not as easy as a good night’s sleep.
The loneliness presses on the edges of her vision all morning while she works. It’s louder now, intruding upon her senses, and she wonders where the hell the brightness of breakfast went. She finishes the tree, washes her brushes, and goes upstairs for a shower.
Standing naked in front of her closet - wet hair clinging to her back, pale skin bright red from the nearly-scalding water - she exhales sharply. Water droplets fall to the carpet under her feet and she reaches in, mindlessly grabbing jeans and a shirt. She buttons the jeans over her flat stomach, skin calming to pink now, and twists her arms behind her to clasp her bra. The underwire digs into her ribs. She forgoes the shirt temporarily while she wrestles with the blow-dryer. Gives up halfway through, decides to pull the damp locks up into a reasonable approximation of a ponytail, messy and appropriate for an artist.
Unruly, half-finished, with too-long bangs threatening to annoy her all day. Messy and appropriate for her nothing-feels-right life.
She glares at the mirror for half a moment before tugging the shirt over her head and adding some mascara, a modest attempt at looking awake and interested. Zippered boots slide easily over her jeans; a scarf and light sweater complete things. She sits on the edge of the bed, temporarily exhausted by the effort.
“For heaven’s sake,” she whispers, scolding herself. It seems to echo.
The clock in the hallway loudly ticks away the seconds. She doesn’t count them, but stands before the time spent sitting borders on the ridiculous. She takes inventory of her kitchen, making note of items that are missing, aware that even if the kitchen doesn’t feel right, she still needs to eat.
There’s an emergency emergency stash in a zippered inside pocket of her purse. A few pills in a plastic bag, placed there nine months prior after an incident at a formal function she was forced to attend by virtue of being John’s wife. She’d learned her lesson, and he his; he hadn’t asked her to accompany him again even though she knew there were others. She parks her car and feels a familiar and unwelcome rush bubbling inside of her and her fingers reach for the bag. Cracks a pill in half, dry swallows it, closes her eyes and takes a deep breath.
Shopping is quick. She’d organized the list by category and is out of the store with everything she needs and nothing more in under fifteen minutes. She even manages a smile at the checkout clerk and her hand doesn’t shake when she signs the receipt.
She takes the long way home, rolling down the windows and allowing the breeze to whip through the strands of hair falling about her face. After the third turn detouring her further away from her house, she realizes she doesn’t want to go home. Out here, she feels okay alone. But there, the loneliness is terrifying.
Overwhelmed with the revelation, she turns into a parking lot so she can wrestle back control of her emotions and not risk her life or that of strangers on the road. She knows she’s not that destructive, not yet. She parks neatly in a corner spot and focuses on breathing. Good air in, bad air out, but it all feels like bad air and suddenly she’s opening the door and unbuckling her seat belt, turning so she can brace her elbows on her thighs and drop her head down between her knees. She grits her teeth and squeezes her eyes shut so tightly she sees sparks of colors and patterns, but a few tears make their way past her barricade and fall to the asphalt below.
She doesn’t, however, throw up.
She takes that as a good sign and minutes pass as she breathes deeply, finally feeling her heart calm. She reaches with shaky hands and brushes at her eyes, wiping away mascara smudged by the rebellious tears.
There’s a half-empty bottle of water on the floor by the passenger seat. The water tastes of plastic and being left in the car too long, but it’s wet and the bottle crinkles as she finishes the last of it. She exhales carefully, comforted by her ability to soothe herself, but unsettled by her need to do so.
She looks up at the building she’s parked behind and squints against the sun to read the sign. It’s a cat shelter. She isn’t quite ready to drive yet - though she should leave soon, her ice cream is probably getting soupy - and figures that it can’t hurt and if anyone will understand the need to be left alone, it’s people working at a cat shelter late on a Friday afternoon. She collects her keys and purse and locks her car.
A bell jingles when she opens the door. It startles her, but she covers the jump as merely being surprised by the old orange cat that greets her by butting his head against her leg. She tells the woman working the front desk that she’s only looking and the woman leads her down the hallway to the room with the kittens.
She falls in love instantly. He’s white and fluffy and even though his meows are drowned out by the others that crowd around her, interested in her legs and boots and the strings of her scarf, he’s the only one she hears. Careful not to step on any tiny tails or paws, she makes her way to the back of the room where he’s sitting in a basket, seemingly waiting for her.
She smiles and lets him sniff her hand before reaching forward to scratch behind his ears. His eyes close and he begins to purr happily and her smile grows wider. She gently lifts him up to cuddle in her arms, ignoring the woman behind her sharing the story of how they found him. Amazed at how calm he makes her, even on a day that was bordering on irredeemably bad, she makes a decision.
She can’t take him home today - the shelter won’t allow him to leave until he’s been neutered and he has a few more ounces to gain before that can happen - but she happily gives the woman her contact information and signs a few pieces of paper. Her hand is steady again. She’s never had a cat before, or any pet really, and thankfully takes all the pamphlets the woman thrusts at her.
The bell tinkles again as she leaves. She feels steadier now, on firmer ground, less like she’s going to crack into tiny pieces at any moment. It doesn’t bother her as much that everything about her life feels wrong.
“Henry,” she whispers, key in the ignition. She nods to herself and smiles. There’s white cat hair on her black shirt and she doesn’t care. “Henry,” she says again, smiling wider, confident in the name.
She turns the key and heads home. She’s driving into the sun, but doesn’t search for her sunglasses. The brightness is comforting against her skin.