FRAGMENTS OF GABRIELLE Notes from a Dying Town

FRAGMENTS OF GABRIELLE

Notes from a Dying Town

By Faith Rose

PART I — THE RED COAT SEASON

FRAGMENT I — RED COAT, GRAY MORNING

Trigger Warning: This story explores themes of loneliness, isolation, and mental health struggles.

I left the house today wearing a red coat like I was daring the world to look alive. The sky was gray, and the air felt tired.

When I walked out, two people walked in—tourists, maybe, speaking something that wasn’t English. They didn’t hold the door. Not because they were rude, but because everyone here is asleep. That’s the thing about spiritually dead places… people walk, but their souls stay behind.

I crossed the street slow. Not because I’m reckless, but because there is nothing in this town worth rushing for. Cars speed like they have somewhere important to be—but they don’t. Not here. Not today. Not ever.

FRAGMENT II — THE SPIRITUALLY DEAD RESTAURANT

The moment I stepped inside that restaurant, my spirit dropped. You know that feeling when the air itself feels tired? That was the whole room. A heaviness you can’t see, but you can feel pressing on your chest.

The workers weren’t friendly, but they weren’t alive either. Eyes dull. Voices flat. Movements automatic. It wasn’t customer service—it was survival on autopilot. I stood there waiting for my food, listening to the hollow quiet. The kind that makes you wonder if everyone here just accepted a life they never wanted.

God whispered, “Do not become one of them.” And I knew what He meant. In a dead place, it’s easy to let your hope die, too.

FRAGMENT III — THE CROSSWALK

Crossing the street today felt like moving through a dream I didn’t ask to be in. The town is empty, yet the cars act like they are late to something urgent.

I stepped off the curb slow. Not careless—just calm. A car came around the corner too fast, like it was trying to outrun its own boredom. I didn’t panic. I just walked fast enough so it wouldn’t hit me. People love to act like you have to run across a street like your life depends on their schedule.

When I reached the other side, I realized: these people move fast, but their lives don’t. They speed through empty days and empty routines. I’m the one walking slow, yet I’m the only one who actually knows where she’s going. God whispered, “Don’t rush for people who have no direction.”

FRAGMENT IV — THE HOUSE THAT ALWAYS HURRIES

My phone buzzed all evening like it was being chased. First, it was her father: “Hurry get ready. Hurry leave at 7. Hurry both of you go now.” Everything was hurry in that house. Not because anything was truly urgent, but because control always pretends to be timing.

Then her older sister—thirty-one going on eternity—jumped in. “Are you coming? Confirm. We’re waiting.” A whole group chat full of Christians who knew Scripture but didn’t know peace. They didn’t ask how she felt. They didn’t ask if she was safe.

But Gabrielle stayed exactly where she was—sitting beside her grandmother, hand resting on the blanket, breathing like the world wasn’t ending. And God whispered so gently, “Stay. Here. With Me.”

FRAGMENT V — TALKING TO GOD IN MY CAR

I sit in my car before I walk into any store. Not to stall—but to process my thoughts with God. I don’t have many friends. I don’t have reliable family. So He’s the only One I call on.

Sometimes I think He must be tired of hearing me complain, but then He lets the sun fall right onto my face like a little reminder: “I’m still here.” He lets me notice small things—a bird on the curb, a breeze that feels like a hug.

I poured my heart out to Him in that car, telling Him how drained I feel in the DMV, how heartless people are. I felt too broken to talk, so I talked to Him through voice memos. My own little psalms recorded on a cracked phone screen. God calls me to the wilderness—the secret place. Because nowadays, churches perform more than they pray. God doesn’t mix with pretense. He meets me in my car instead.

FRAGMENT VI — THE BLACK CHERRY SANCTUARY

Standing before my bathroom mirror, I adjusted my bruised black cherry wig. The dark plum waves caught the light, shifting like silk against my skin. “Time for a photoshoot,” I whispered.

I set my phone into the tripod and gripped the clicker. I had swapped my everyday clothes for a gown of liquid silver—a shimmering, sequined armor that pooled around my feet. I applied a layer of red velvet lipstick and a soft, rosy blush. The dress was stunning.

Looking at the glass, I saw three pink, waxy lipstick marks—mirror kisses I had left there earlier. They were a quiet promise: a reminder that even if this house was empty of affection, I could provide it for myself.

“You’re no longer just a survivor, Gabrielle,” I told my reflection. “You’re thriving.” I queued up “Break of Dawn” by Michael Jackson. As the music took over, my hips moved slowly to the rhythm. I twirled a plum-colored lock of hair and felt my inner child finally start to breathe.

FRAGMENT VII — CHERRY CHILI BOMB

I decided to head into D.C. today. I was wearing my favorite new sundress—a delicate white pattern of tiny red chili peppers and roses, edged with a scalloped red lace trim. My plum waves caught the breeze, my Gucci sunglasses tucked behind my head.

I stopped at a cafe for a matcha and a chocolate pastry. A woman in line smiled. “You look like a walking summer day!”

As I looked for a table, a man stopped me. He spoke in low, smooth Italian. “Sei bellissima.” He looked to be in his thirties, with black hair and piercing blue eyes. He actually stopped pouring cream into his coffee just to stare.

“Grazie,” I said. “Can I be your company?” he asked, his accent thick and warm. I laughed a little. “You mean, can you sit with me?” “Yeah... if you don’t mind.” I didn’t let him finish. I was done waiting for permission to exist. “Grab your coffee and let’s chat.” I walked past him, blowing a playful kiss over my shoulder.

FRAGMENT VIII — THE SANCTUARY OF WHISPERED NAMES

When I finally turned the key in my lock back home, the hollow quiet was waiting. But it didn't feel like a weight. I heard the soft thud of paws, and HeartAngel appeared, her eyes glowing in the low light. She didn't care about the blue eyes in D.C.; she only cared that I was home.

I sat on the bed and let her jump into my lap, her purr vibrating like a steady pulse. I opened my burgundy notebook to a fresh page. “I remember,” I whispered to the empty room, “when I used to think the silence would swallow me whole.”

But tonight, the silence felt like the secret place. I looked at the photos on my phone of the girl in the liquid silver dress. She wasn't a ghost. I picked up my pen and wrote a single line at the top of the page:

Property of Faith Rose Bennett.

Outside, the town was still asleep. But inside, with my cat’s warmth and the scent of Cherry Babe on my wrists, I wasn't grappling with loneliness anymore. I was embracing the peace. I looked out the window and saw the moon catching a single plum-colored strand of hair caught on my collar. It was the most beautiful thing I had seen all day.