brigits flame week 1
She hoped they knew it wasn't their fault.
She stood, pressed against the wall, listening to her little boys laughing and running on the other side of the door. Their shrieks of laughter and sneakered steps in the halls were muted and seemed far from where she was. The wall was cool against her sticky, damp forehead. Her stomach pinched and squirmed, filled with tiny paper cuts. She fought the urge to scream and blow her cover. Her brain began to reel, firing off random memories as it shut down. The zoo when Zach was just learning to walk. Andrew's second birthday when Peter stuck his whole head in the cake. Tom holding her close as they made love, the pleading in his eyes for her to come back to him. As soon as the memories came, they were gone.
The convulsions were coming, now. This is where she'd given up last time, where she'd vomited on their new bedspread and fallen to the floor with a heavy smack, loud enough to bring Tom from the study, just in time to ruin it. She couldn't go back to the hospital, she wouldn't. Now, with new resolve, she swallowed the bile, blood and pills as they crept up her throat, trying to keep it down as the room started to blacken around her. She saw her long, bony fingers against the pale blue paint of the wall, against the translucent, orange bottle gripped in her left hand. Somewhere far away, she heard it fall from her grasp, skittering the remaining few pills across the tile floor. If she fell in here, no one would hear. Not with the shower running. She would hit her head, for sure, on the sink, the tub, the toilet: something porcelain and unforgiving. It would be too late by then.
Her heart felt like it was pumping concrete through her veins; breathing was harder now. She instinctively fought to keep her lungs open, her mouth sucking in ragged gulps and her hands grasping at the steamy air. The mirror was fogged, but she could still make out her face. Her bloodshot eyes stared back at her. In them now were only shadows of who she'd been and who she thought she'd be some day. A beautiful wife. A successful writer. A capable mother. The shadows hovered there, just behind her watering eyes, taunting her as she finally gave in.
The footsteps and laughter were even more muffled and distant now as she doubled over in pain, instinctively grabbing her stomach. She could no longer feel the tears as they ran; her face had gone numb. She may have thrown up on herself, but it was all too black to tell.
Just before she fell, she caught her own eyes in the mirror again. The shadows flickered and dissolved, like ghosts into a wall.
She stood, pressed against the wall, listening to her little boys laughing and running on the other side of the door. Their shrieks of laughter and sneakered steps in the halls were muted and seemed far from where she was. The wall was cool against her sticky, damp forehead. Her stomach pinched and squirmed, filled with tiny paper cuts. She fought the urge to scream and blow her cover. Her brain began to reel, firing off random memories as it shut down. The zoo when Zach was just learning to walk. Andrew's second birthday when Peter stuck his whole head in the cake. Tom holding her close as they made love, the pleading in his eyes for her to come back to him. As soon as the memories came, they were gone.
The convulsions were coming, now. This is where she'd given up last time, where she'd vomited on their new bedspread and fallen to the floor with a heavy smack, loud enough to bring Tom from the study, just in time to ruin it. She couldn't go back to the hospital, she wouldn't. Now, with new resolve, she swallowed the bile, blood and pills as they crept up her throat, trying to keep it down as the room started to blacken around her. She saw her long, bony fingers against the pale blue paint of the wall, against the translucent, orange bottle gripped in her left hand. Somewhere far away, she heard it fall from her grasp, skittering the remaining few pills across the tile floor. If she fell in here, no one would hear. Not with the shower running. She would hit her head, for sure, on the sink, the tub, the toilet: something porcelain and unforgiving. It would be too late by then.
Her heart felt like it was pumping concrete through her veins; breathing was harder now. She instinctively fought to keep her lungs open, her mouth sucking in ragged gulps and her hands grasping at the steamy air. The mirror was fogged, but she could still make out her face. Her bloodshot eyes stared back at her. In them now were only shadows of who she'd been and who she thought she'd be some day. A beautiful wife. A successful writer. A capable mother. The shadows hovered there, just behind her watering eyes, taunting her as she finally gave in.
The footsteps and laughter were even more muffled and distant now as she doubled over in pain, instinctively grabbing her stomach. She could no longer feel the tears as they ran; her face had gone numb. She may have thrown up on herself, but it was all too black to tell.
Just before she fell, she caught her own eyes in the mirror again. The shadows flickered and dissolved, like ghosts into a wall.