October's night

It was too hot for October. The room was cast in a low, dim glow, yet a harsh desk lamp burned nearby, drying out her eyes. The portraits she had drawn from photographs hung all over the walls above her. The desk she leaned on was dirty, rocking every time she had to bear down to erase a mistake. She left the window open so the night’s thin breeze could trail across her skin.

The pencil scraped against the paper, making her skin crawl. Her hands shook the harder she tried, the graphite breaking under her pressure. I just want to get his face right. If I do, maybe I can finally let him go.

I need to break this cycle, she thought, staring at the grain of the floorboards. Why do I sentence myself with these thoughts?

Clatter. The mug on her desk tipped over, spilling dark dregs across the wood. Another mess to clean up.

She reached for her phone and put on music, hoping to drown the interior noise. Yes! She shook her head violently back and forth as heavy metal filled her senses. Somewhere between the steady pulse of the drums and the scratch of guitar riffs, she wanted to get lost. I just need to get out of this place. This place is too small to contain me.

Everyone went through heartbreak. People survived it somehow; with enough time and patience, the ache had to dissipate. Her parents had been together for years longer than she had even known this man before they finally divorced.

Then she remembered his words: I want to fuck you. That was all he had said. Nothing more. Not what she wanted to hear. No, I need you here. Not, Be my forever and never leave me again.

Let me just go to bed. No more drinking. I don’t want to be sick in the morning. There was too much to do, too many bills piling up on the edge of the counter.

She took one last sip from the bottle. It went down hard, burning the back of her throat—hot compared to the night's cold air. The bottle was half-empty before she shoved it back into the fridge. She liked her whiskey chilled.

The bedsheets were wrinkled, smelling faintly of old socks left unwashed for weeks. Already dressed in the same clothes from the night before, she dragged herself back to the mattress and laid her head down. The moment her cheek hit the pillow, the sheer weight of the day caught up to her, dragging her down into a tumble of unfulfilled wishes—hopes she never should have fed.

Boom! Her eyes snapped wide.

It sounded like thunder, but it hadn’t been raining. Strange weather. She pushed herself up and walked to the window, only to find the trees completely still. Not even a leaf whistled. It was as if someone had hit pause on the entire world.

The unnatural quiet left an itch under her skin. She almost wished it was a real storm, though she hated thunderstorms; they always frightened her.

Once, when she was a little girl, she had waited up all night for her grandmother. Where the old woman had gone didn't matter now; what stood out was the storm—loud, angry, and violent. Standing by the window like a small, stubborn lighthouse, she stared into the flash of lightning, certain no one could survive it, praying over and over for the door to open.

But it hadn't opened. She awoke the next morning only to learn her grandmother did make it home—after two men had assaulted her in the dark. They took the little money she kept hidden in her undergarment and ruined her knee. She had cried to the officers the next day, but they found no one matching the description.

As the night air drifted in, a chill bit through her skin. She should go back to bed.

Instead, her thoughts crowded in again, fighting for space. He doesn’t love me. If he did, I would be worth staying for. If I were him, I’d make sure everyone knew!

How lucky. Did he realize what it was like to be loved? To love and be loved in return—what more could anyone ask for?

The silence inside her head was loud with her own accusations. How could I be so stupid?

The mind raced like wild stallions—free, reckless, and destructive.

Please, she thought, wishing she could hand the weight of it to anyone else who could make the ache stop. If only she could quiet the noise. It was loud, keeping her awake, uneasy, and drowning in anxiety.

She reached into the dark of the nightstand and pulled out the bottle the doctor had prescribed. She had made sure to emphasize the truth: I haven’t slept in three days. At least three days. That’s a long time for anyone. People started hallucinating after three days. At that point, it would feel like forever for anyone.

She took the prescribed dose, washing it down with the warm whiskey of glass beside her bed. This will help. No one can judge me for this. Their lives aren't any better; they just wear better masks. How could anyone think she was foolish, expecting so much from her when they barely expected anything of themselves?

It wasn’t a solution. It didn’t fix the emptiness. But it acted like a heavy curtain, dragging the sorrow far and away, finally drifting out of reach.

She lay flat on her back, staring at the ceiling, unmoving for what felt like hours. Will I survive this? Why can’t I just turn it off? The thoughts still clouded her mind, but slower now, coming in single beats.

Then, suddenly, all the promises she had bought into rushed back at once.

The first tear slipped, followed by the rest, breaking loose like an old dam giving way. There was nothing left to guard. She let go and surrendered.

The final weight hit her all at once. It was heavier, and sharper, than she expected. The last sliver of light at the edge of her vision flickered, narrowed, and went dark.