Money to Rest

November 1, 2017

Daybreak. Chilly early-morning light streamed in through the window, playing across the woman’s withered face, causing her eyelids to flicker. She didn’t want to be awake, she hated to be awake; she tried to will herself back into the blissful oblivion in which she knew nothing. She opened her eyes slowly, and the familiar hopeless feeling spread through her as she became painfully aware of her surroundings. The room, how she hated this god forsaken room; the ceiling fan above her that she was so sick of looking at, the very bed in which she lay- a chenille blanket that hadn’t been washed in over a decade, the mattress which had formed a groove the exact size and shape of her body after years of continual use, the dresser across the room with a dusty mirror, and a jar labeled “money to rest.” The jar was nowhere near full; a mere 22 dollars and 67 cents lay ambitiously on the bottom. She wanted nothing more than to rest. She wanted out of this world, this existence was unbearable.
Her stomach grumbled, shattering the silence, causing her to grimace as she was overcome by a sudden pang of hunger. How long had it been since she had eaten? Six, seven days? How long had it been since she had left her bed? Four days? She had even given up on trips to the bathroom, and now favored a coffee can which sat on her bedside table atop a dingy doily.
The level of discomfort grew in her stomach as she became more awake. She decided there was no use putting it off anymore. Starving herself would not work, she had already tried that a long, long time ago. She gathered momentum, and sat up, her head spinning. She peeled back the covers revealing her legs, frail and veiny. Her yellow-nailed toes touched the floor for the first time in what felt like an eternity. The wood was cold and unforgiving as her knees buckled and she collapsed, her head hitting the ground with a hollow sounding thunk.
Noon. She awoke once again, a pounding in her skull joining the growing pain in her stomach, creating a sickly harmony.  She groaned and rolled to face the door a thousand feet away. She looked around,looking for something she could use to pull herself up. The bedpost. She reached up to the wooden pole and hoisted herself into a sitting position. Her head felt like it could split in half any second and she struggled to keep herself upright as a wave of nausea coursed through her feeble body. She took a deep breath and pulled herself to her feet. She wobbled slightly and then began to make her way to the kitchen, using the walls for support.
The kitchen was in squalid conditions. Layers of grime coated the linoleum floor, the trashcan was overflowing and garbage lay strewn about, the sink was full of dirty dishes, every pot and pan she owned was rusted beyond use. Her cupboards were barren, as every cent went towards rest. She pulled out a jar of peanut butter with a peeling label. This will do nicely, she thought to herself, unscrewing the lid and delving in with her fingers. It had an odd earthy taste about it, most likely mold, but she didn’t care. A little mold won’t kill me, she thought sardonically.
Nothing could kill her. She had tried; oh how hard she had tried, but it was futile. They had made her invincible; her only hope was to save up enough to be put to rest, but it was so hopelessly out of reach.
She headed back to her room taking the peanut butter with her so she wouldn’t have to get out of bed for another while. She crawled back under the covers, settling herself into her usual position once again. She saw her reflection in the mirror across the room. I don’t want  this anymore, she thought, and tears began to sting her eyes. She didn’t know the woman who looked back at her with sunken eyes, so defeated. Her hair was one big rat’s nest; god knows how many years it has been since she has brushed it. And her face, the lines, the deep wrinkles, how could they be hers? How was this her face? How did this clunker of a body belong to her? She shuddered to think what was hidden under her fleece nightgown. She hadn’t taken that thing off in at least eight weeks. She hadn’t showered in… She pulled herself away from these thoughts looking out at the waning afternoon light. Her eyes began  to grow heavy again and she welcomed sleep with open arms. If only it could be forever, she thought as she drifted off.
This was her existence, day after day like some horrible tune played on repeat. The jar on her dresser will never be filled. She will never truly rest. You see, she has already ended her own life and she is now spending an eternity paying for her sin.






Post a Comment

Be the first to comment on this article!

bRealTime banner ad on the left side
Site Feedback