I have nightmares. Or at least, I call them nightmares. They don’t necessarily happen at night, or even when I am asleep. But they keep happening.
She’s at my dinner table. She’s washing dishes at my sink.
There was a point where I didn’t recognise her anymore. And rather than watch her drift away, I chose to leave. I believe some people are capable of holding onto something until it turns to dust in front of them. I cannot imagine ever holding her in my arms and seeing nothing in her eyes.
She’s behind the counter at the supermarket. She’s a nurse on the cancer ward.
At first, she would hold onto me so tightly that when they prized her away, she’d take my sleeve with her. My hair. One time, my skin.
She’s wiping down the table next to me. She’s giggling into a phone.
When she came back, she tore at the scar. Punishment for letting her go. Her rage was just as intense as her sadness, and though she was making my suffer, I knew that she was suffering too.
She’s pushing a child in a pram. She’s ringing the bell on her bike.
To have that go away. To disappear completely. To see that bright spark turn to a dim flicker, a shadow of itself-
She’s pouring over my hand. She’s slamming the door in my face.
I packed a bag and left. She didn’t come after me. I thought it would be easy. Easier.
But I keep having these nightmares.
I’m driving back to my house. She’s in the middle of the street. I know she’s not real so I keep driving. But she doesn’t move. Just looks at me. Looks so sad. So I stop the car. I get out. She’s covered in flowers. As I approach her, she falls back. Lies prone, flowered arms crossed over her chest. I kneel over her. I see that she’s not sad. She’s dead. Her black eyes are grey. Staring.
The flowers are wreathes around her naked, decomposing body. Her stomach is bloating, bloating- the skin splits.
Fingers reach out. An arm. I recognise a scar that stretches from the elbow to the wrist.
I’m climbing out of her. A version of me that I do not want, cannot meet right now.
I run back to car. It won’t start. He’s ambling towards me, damp. Naked.
I slam my head against the window. Over and over until my surroundings fragment, fall apart. When I am back in this time, this world, blood drips from a cut on my forehead.
I wonder if she still suffers like I suffer.