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Loneliness And Prada Sunglasses

“And how are we feeling today?”                                                   

She asks.                                                                                        

Fake,                                                                                                

fake smile.                                                                                        

     

So fake,                                                                                        

it makes me                                                                                

cringe.                                                                                         

                                                                                                      

But,

at least                                                                                           

she’s trying…                                                                                                                                                                     

                                                                                                         

Right?                                                                                             


Wrong.                                                                                           

That’s when I spot them.                                                         

                                                                                                        

Those Prada sunglasses,                                                             

placed                                                                                           

fashionably, deliberately,                                                                

on her head.                                                                                  


Hair                                                                                                

pulled back.                                                                                 

A statement.                                                                                   

                                                                                                        

They wink at me,                                                                            

those                                                                                                

Prada sunglasses.                                                                         

                                                                                                         

I am tempted,

strangely

tempted,                                                                                 

to wink back.                                                                                   

                                                                                                        

I do not.                                                                                       

                                                                                                       


Instead, I stare

silently

mutely

at my hand.


Raw cuticles.

Fingernails bitten down

to the

quick.


Remnants

of plum-colored

nail polish.


Ugly.


My own eyes

desert me,

seeking

a more

appealing picture.


Her hands.

Long,

slender fingers.

Manicured, white-tipped

nails

tap

on the desk-

tap…

tap…

tap.


A picture

of

perfection.


Something

is whispered.


Silence.

A sigh. Then-


“I’m sorry,”

she says.

Empty words.

Hollow

sounds.


I

blink.

Look away.

Blink again.


It comes

once more,

that voice.

Draped

with plastic,

hiding the

cold, cold reality.


“What was that?”

She asks.

Innocent eyes.

Innocent face.


She wants to help,

I know.


But

she can’t.

No one can.


“I feel,”

I say.

Voice trails.

Tears glisten.


The red clock,

in the

corner.

It ticks once,

loudly.


A fly buzzes,

lands on

my

woolen sweater.


I do not bother

to brush it

away.


They stare back

at me.

Innocent eyes.

Murky brown,

like

melting chocolate.


I close

my

eyes.


“Help me,”

I think.

I struggle…

remembering

recalling.


Then,

surrender comes,

like fog

rolling

into the valley below.


“Lonely,”

I whisper.

There.

It’s out now.


The fly

is still perched

on my

woolen sweater.


The one I got

for Christmas.

The one

she gave me.

Right before

she

left.


Gone, now.

Gone

forever.

She says

nothing.


I sit there

in my own

filth,

in my own

silence.


“Self pity,”

I think scornfully,

but do nothing

to stop

myself.


Still,

she says nothing.

I do not

bother

to look up.


My eyes, still

glued

to the fly

perched

on my woolen sweater.


It is mesmerizing.

Comforting.


I stare

and stare….

and stare….

seeing nothing.

Remembering

the pain.

Recalling

the memories.


How had it felt?

The day she

left…

The day she

died.


Gone, now.

Gone
forever.

Still,

she says nothing.


Still,

I do not look up,

but

stare instead at the fly

perched

on my

ugly,

ugly

woolen sweater.


Sitting before her,

her with those

manicured nails and

Prada sunglasses,

I am

at once

painfully aware

of my appearance.


The shoes,

splattered

with paint.

The saggy black pants.


And, of course,

that

fuzzy maroon woolen sweater.


The one

she gave me

for

Christmas.


Tears fall

freely, now.

Not

pretty tears.


I am

ashamed,

but cannot stop.


Burying my sorrow

in a

tissue,

I sob and sob,

pouring my heart out

to

this lady,

this lady

with Prada sunglasses

placed

deliberately

on her gleaming head.


I

mumble things.

Things

I had been hiding

inside,

promising that

I would not show them

to anyone.


Yet

here I am.


“Gone, now…”

I sob.

Broken hearted.

Starved and beaten.

“Gone forever,”

I say

and scream, a quiet scream,

a scream that

terrifies

me.


Yet

it is enlightening,

somehow.

Remarkable.


I am

finished now.


I can already

feel myself

beginning to

heal.
My heart-

it is warmer.

It will take time,

I know.


I sniff once.

Sniff again.

The red clock,

in the corner-

it sniffs

with me,

loudly.


The fly.

It is absent from

the

sleeve of my

woolen sweater.


I notice

that it is pretty now,

that sweater.

Beautiful,

even.


My eyes flutter,

searching…

searching…

searching....


Then-

I spot it.

That treacherous little fly.


There it perches,

basking

on the rim

of those Prada sunglasses

placed crookedly

on her tilted

head.


Her eyes

are

closed,

mouth slightly open,

and a snore

fills

the quiet room.

It is just

another needle

in my dead,

dying

heart.




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