Bottled October

(Triggers: Mental Health, Physical Health, mentions of alcohol.)

I wake to the smell of overcooked eggs and the certainty that I do not belong in this body.

The curtains dance around the open window by my bed, a poor attempt at ventilating the breakfast burning in the kitchen. But the rustle of leaves in the crisp autumn breeze is soothing, and almost distracts me from the pressure building behind my eyes.

How is it autumn already? I swear it was early spring last week, though the fiery red and orange canopy of the woods around the house would suggest otherwise. The last few months have been a haze. I've been running on autopilot, like an actor reading someone else's lines.

A knock at my door jolts me back into this pseudo-reality. My roommate stands in the doorway, a plate in one hand and prescription bottles in the other. Yesterday's messy bun clings to the top of her head, and smudges of mascara highlight the puffiness of her glassy, copper eyes. Who cries over eggs? Whatever she's dealing with must be tragic. Even so, her forced grin feels like a warm hug.

"Laur... uh... Lorna, I'm a grown man. I can char my own eggs." I take the plate and give a playful elbow to the ribs. I think I've heard her laugh once since I moved in, maybe. More laughter in this place would do us both good.

"I know, I know." Lorna's shoulders drop a bit as she offers me the plate. "But it's the first of October and... and I made them the way you used to... um... Well, I tried anyway. Maybe they're not too overdone. You need to eat before you take your meds." Her fingers brush mine as she passes me the bottles. A brief spark of connection... but to her or to my own hand that barely looks familiar? I can't shake this brain fog.

"You got it, boss." October? Already? Where did September go? I fumble with the bottles, trying to make out prescription names. Do they have to use 6 pt font on these labels?

"Boss. Right." Lorna lets out a soft sigh. "B... Bedside table, top left drawer."

"What?"

"Your glasses. Bedside table, top left drawer. The round white ones are for the migraines. The little orange ones are for the brain fog. The tiny white ones are for mem... uh, mood? Do you need anything from town? I was thinking about getting a pumpkin pie while I'm out."

How does she kn— pumpkin pie. Rich, creamy, sweet. My mouth begins to water. The taste of a hypothetical pie is the most corporeal thing I've experienced in weeks. I need a taste of reality, literal or otherwise. I've got to get out of this funk. And if that means a lunch date with the embodiment of melancholy, so be it. Besides, how can you be depressed on a picnic with pie?

"That would be incredible, actually. With some of that spiced rum you refuse to share with me. I think we could both use a breakfast shot today. Ya know, to celebrate... whatever today is." Another playful jab. I study her lips, hoping for a hint of a grin.

"Oh... uh... yeah," her voice cracks a bit, narrowed eyes locking with mine. And for a heartbeat, there it is. A smirk curling up the corner of trembling lips. "Do you... You could come with me. I know a spot that would be perfect for pie and rum. I just need a quick shower." She gestures vaguely at her general dishevelment and stumbles off into our shared bathroom.

Progress, I suppose. We haven't actually spent much time together in all the months I've lived here. She spends most of her time locked in her room. I don't think I've ever been in there. Depression? Grief? I'm man enough to admit my weaknesses, and "emotional availability" is not my forte. Using dark humor to handwave uncomfortable feelings? I'm your guy.

Nonetheless, Lorna's charming in her own way, and she deserves at least a glimmer of joy once in a while. But how do you comfort someone you barely know? She'll be in the shower for a little bit... I'm sure there's clues to what makes her happy in there. Not to dig, just gather data.

I rummage through my drawer looking for cleaner for my glasses. There's a sticky note on the case in handwriting I barely recognize.

'Wes, breathe. Seasons change, but they always return.'

It's dated Oct 1st, last year.

More questions, fewer answers.

Curiosity gets the best of me, and I head to Lorna's room.

The room across the hall from mine mourns a life once savored. A dusty bookcase displays more trinkets than books. A corkboard overflowing with ticket stubs and postcards hangs off-kilter above the bed. The nightstand is the only clutter-free surface in the room, with nothing more than a ring dish and a picture frame. Yet again, more questions than answers. In the ring dish rests a set of wedding bands. The ornate burnt orange frame holds a sizeable photo, with the back facing outward. A date is stamped on the bottom, October 1st - Three years ago. Lorna's never mentioned a partner, much less being married. And why would you flip the photo? Just toss it out.

3 years ago... wait. When did I move in? October of... last year? Some time before Thanksgiving. Imagine a Thanksgiving wedding. I'd serve pies instead of cake... Pumpkin pie. God, my head... Shit. Did I take my meds?

"Um... Wes? You ...you okay?"

Who? Oh. Shit. Shit. SHIT. What am I doing? Fuck, my head...

"My uh... my... migraine medicine... did I take it? Damn headaches are making this brain fog unbearable." I should never have come in here.

"If it gets any worse, I'll forget you, too," I chuckle nervously.

Her bewildered blank stare at my invasion of her space breaks. Fear, grief, something foreign and profound sets in.

"Don't. You... you can't just say shit like that." She clutches the oversized bath towel close to her chest.

The frail quiver in her voice hits me like a punch to the gut. Her pain feels like a personal failure, like I've broken a promise I don't remember making. I can't remember shit nowadays. For all I know, I'm the reason she's so miserable. The pressure in my head builds, as if my frustrations might split my skull.

"I'm sorry, okay? I can't work. I can't drive. I can't think straight. Can I at least crack a joke now and then?"

Lorna stands in the doorway, hair dripping onto the hardwood floor, tears streaming down her cheeks. Shame coils tightly underneath my ribs. Old, terrifying, but uniquely familiar.

My chest tightens. How did I get here? Why is everything in this house so damn depressing? Why am I arguing with a person that I barely even know about a fucking stupid joke? My cheeks flush with heat. My head throbs with every heartbeat. The midday sun beams through her bedroom window, all-encompassing and oppressive. I clench my eyes shut. The brain "fog" feels more like an ocean, and I'm drowning.

I hear the murmur of her voice. Soft, distant, dreamlike. My eyes relax as the pressure behind them subsides. I blink a few times and try to focus. I don't remember sitting down, but now I find myself on the edge of Lorna's bed, elbows on my knees, palms pressed to my eyes. My breath is shaking like I've borrowed someone else's lungs.

Have I been crying? I try to orient myself. How long have I been sitting here? Lorna stands in the doorway, dressed, hair braided, boots on. A bottle of spiced rum peeks out from the pocket of her oversized, pumpkin orange hoodie.

"Wes?"

I flinch at my own name. It stings like an insult.

"How long have... what time is it?"

"Not too long," she whispers, as if soothing a frightened child. "It's just after noon. Still time for pie, if you're okay now."

Now?

As opposed to... when?

When we were arguing about... some stupid joke?

When the migraines started getting worse?

When I moved in? I still can't exactly place when that was. The haze is relentless.

"I'm okay. It's just the migraines. And my memor..." I can feel the frustration bubbling up again. I try to shake it off. She already handles my pills; surely I can handle my own emotions. I don't know her well enough for that.

"Pumpkin pie. And breakfast shots... well, brunch shots now, I guess." I drop my head and cough out a chuckle.

"Oh, Wes." She kneels in front of me and takes my hand. The tenderness of her touch is familiar and compassionate. We've been here before, haven't we?

"Sometimes... memories are the worst form of torture."

She scans my face, as if looking for the man I'm supposed to be. A part of me wishes I could be that man for her.

"I'm sorry about earlier. Nobody could forget you, not even that prick that left you," I gesture to her nightstand, the photo, the rings. An assumption, sure. But if I'm wrong, maybe she'll correct me.

Lorna snorts.

Then a ...giggle?

She crumples to the floor.

Unrestrained laughter bellows from the saddest person I know.

Perhaps my delirium is contagious?

"I'm... sorry? What's happening?"

Trying to compose herself and wiping tears from her eyes, she pulls the bottle from her hoodie. She holds this old bottle of cheap rum as if it were her infant.

"I haven't had rum since my wedding day. That prick? I think you would have liked him. Want me to tell you about him?" She takes a heavy swig from the bottle.

"Why not? I don't know much about you, but your terrible taste in men is a fine place to start."

Another snort and giggle.

"He loved autumn. 'It shows us how beautiful it is to let things go,' he would say... usually while pointing at my knick-knacks. He wasn't a sentimental guy. He loved going on adventures, hated being stuck in the house. The only thing he hated more than being inside was cake. We had a pie bar at our wedding instead of cake... can you believe it? We had planned to backpack up north for our... our honeymoon."

She takes a deep breath, tears welling up in her eyes. Her voice trembles as she clutches my hand.

"We never made it. Some... A man tried to steal my backpack at a rest stop. He had a gun... I froze. There was so much... so much blood. I held him... begging him not to leave me until the ambulance arrived. I swore I'd never forget what he did for me. We'd been married for barely a day... and that ...prick... jumped in front of a bullet for me."

Weeping, she takes another sip from the bottle and passes it to me. It's smooth, with hints of cinnamon, vanilla, and clove. Pumpkin pie spice.

I get a headrush and my vision blurs. Pressure sets in. I try to focus on Lorna. This is not the time for a migraine; I have to push through. I have to be here for her, for once. Focus. Focus.

She has a scar on her upper lip.

The bridge of her nose is dappled with sun-kissed freckles.

I run my fingers along the back of my neck, scars long healed.

Her warm gaze holds mine, pools of autumn copper... my favorite color.

My chest tightens, an agony I can't swallow... We sit in silence, holding each other for a temporary eternity. The weight of reality sets in as the haze slowly dissipates.

It was unseasonably cool that October day. She packed my favorite orange hoodie with her wedding dress. She looked ridiculous roasting marshmallows over a campfire in a ball gown, hoodie, and boots. But she was happy, we were happy. It was perfect.

"Bottled October." I pass the bottle back. "How could I forget?"

Lorna chokes out a broken chuckle. I would do anything just to hear her laugh. How I wish I could preserve her smile, bathe in her joy forever. I try to replay every snort and giggle... But they feel just out of reach.

"This won't last... will it?"

But I know the answer, I know this moment. Her hands in mine, this is where it always breaks. Sometimes... memories are the worst form of torture.

"Wesley... my love." Lorna softly kisses my forehead.

"You return like autumn, and I fall every time."