Traitorous

Trai · tor · ous

/ˈtrādərəs/

adjective

1. relating to or characteristic of a traitor; treacherous.

. . . . .

It was such a quiet and peaceful night and I was alone in my apartment. I usually enjoyed being alone but, tonight was different. The dull throbbing in my chest made it obvious; it would be one of those nights for me.

I whispered a goodnight to my dog who was lightly snoring beside me, asleep. Heaving a sigh, I got up from my spot on the couch and turned the television off. My eyes felt heavy and I wasn’t really watching in the first place, I was paying no attention to the blur of color and the mixture of sounds.

Noise. That’s all it was to me.

– didn’t I always love silence? The quiet? No, a voice in my head whispered, not always.

I went to the bathroom and straight to the sink. As I turned the faucet on and bent down to wash my face I couldn’t help but feel like the sound of the running water echoing all throughout my small apartment was a traitor. It was the only sound that accompanied me other than my own breathing and the low hum of my refrigerator, yet it intensified the feeling of loneliness that hung in the air. I pushed the thought down and pretended that the stinging I felt in my eyes was from soap, not from tears threatening to spill.

After washing up, I stood there drying myself with a towel longer than necessary, bitterly smiling to myself. My own thoughts, so traitorous for giving meaning to the smallest thing like the sound of running water.

– didn’t I hate this part of myself so much? Oh, but he loved it. “It’s part of what makes you so lovely,” he’d say.

‘Lovely’… The word was stuck in my head like a taunting echo as I stared at my reflection in the small, cracked mirror that hung on the wall just above the bathroom sink.

He said he loved my eyes, always muttering about how warm they looked. He’d stare at my lips and smile, telling me they were the softest pair he had ever touched with his own. He would fumble with my hair at times, in a clumsy and futile effort to tie it up and I’d laugh as he gave up.

I clenched my jaw at the onslaught of those traitorous memories and tucked a few strands of stray hair behind my ear. Now, my eyes were ringed with dark circles, the flat brown color looked like nothing but stale cups of coffee; they looked nothing but tired. My lips were pale and chapped and my hair was cut boyishly short.

“Would he still love me now?”

I took the mirror off its hook and dropped it in the trash.

The silence was ringing in my ears as I changed my clothes and padded to my bedroom, not bothering to turn the lights on in the hallway that seemed to stretch on longer than it actually is as I walked. I was desperate for the calming lull of sleep to slowly creep in and take me so I immediately burrowed under the sheets as I reached my bed.

With my eyes closed and my breathing shallow and controlled, I laid there waiting.

And waiting.

Seconds ticked by, then minutes.

Has waiting ever felt this excruciating?

Was being awake ever this painful before?

I closed my eyes tighter.

With each passing moment, I gripped the sheets tighter in my balled-up fists, my frustration building to a crescendo until the next traitor bubbled up, breaking my crazed meditation; it was a quiet and pained laugh. It was the most pathetic thing I had ever heard and I was probably going insane.

What’s the next goddamn traitor this time?

The thrumming of the rain or the rain itself for reminding me of how he’d kiss me as we shared an umbrella, his shoulder always getting a little wet as we squeezed in that small space together?

The small elephant-shaped watering can that stood on my desk illuminated by a crooked lamp? The small, plastic thing came into my life when he heard me mutter about wanting a garden. It was just a passing thought, yet there he was the next morning with the stupid elephant and potted daisies.

His old shirt that still hung on the knob of my bedroom door? It was the warmest thing I had ever worn despite the fabric being so thin. I’ve lost count how many times I’ve told myself that I would throw it away.

Was it the faint smell of sunflowers that hung in the room? We had knocked over a bottle of sunflower oil as we danced in the bedroom one night, drunk on beer and laughter. The smell never quite left and it clung to the carpet like a parasite slowly sipping away at my sanity.

Was it just the bed for suddenly feeling too big for me alone?

A sob escaped my lips as I curled onto my side, clawing at my chest. It stung and throbbed, my nails dug into my skin and my shoulders shook with sobs and whimpers as I tried silencing the real traitor and muffling its cries.

In all its utter disloyalty to me, my heart kept whispering his name until those whispers started feeling like guttural screams that tore at me from the inside out. My brain was no better, drowning me in thoughts of him without my consent, thoughts of how he was always enough for me and how I never was for him. My body ached and whined, murmuring that I was still his. I knew I wasn’t. It felt like he was there and yet, he wasn’t.

It continued to churn deep inside, nestled in all the crevices of my very existence, the constant, raging internal war. He started it all with that smile on the first day we met, the same smile on the first day he met her and now he’s not even there to watch me burn.

I wiped my damp cheeks and despised how my weeping started to sound foreign to my own ears as I waited and begged for the mercy of sleep. It certainly was one of those traitorous nights.

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