12 Mar

Ever painstakingly, she opened one of her stunningly beautiful green eyes. The world around her was nothing but a foggy haze. Across the room, she could make out the faint flicker of a nightlight plugged into a wall socket. Instantly, she could feel the pulsating pain that seemed to circle her entire skull. As she laid on the floor, the cool sensation from the ceramic tiles was almost soothing and eerily familiar.  Without warning, the night’s libations came storming up from the lowest point of her stomach. This time, however, she didn’t make it to the toilet. At that point, she didn’t care. After a futile attempt to clean up the mess, she rested her heavy, wobbly head. Within minutes, she was fast asleep.

A few hours had passed. The rising sun glared through the eastern bathroom window. Its rays beamed through the pane glass and illuminated the small space with a ferocious nature. As the minutes ticked by, the sunlight crept ever so slowly across the floor until it reached her pale,  porcelain skin. The warmth was comforting and a welcomed change from the cold, unforgiving bathroom floor she used as an impromptu pillow. Every single metal object seemed to reflect the sun’s harsh glimmer directly into her eyes. Annoyed and ultimately nauseous, she reached up, placed her hands on the marble counter top, and clumsily pulled herself to her feet. There, staring back at her in the oval-shaped mirror, was a woman she barely recognized.

She wasn’t what you would call a traditional beauty. Her look was more unique in nature. She stood about five foot ten with red, shoulder length hair that appeared to glow when the light hit it just right. Her facial features were petite and very feminine. A few freckles scattered her high cheekbones, the kind of cheekbones that most women would kill for. She was long, lean, and fit. This type of shape came totally naturally for her. So much so, you would rarely find her at the gym or jogging down the street. Her allure was appealing to men and women alike. Her smile could brighten the darkest of rooms. Her laugh could silence the staunchest of critics.

As she glanced in the mirror that morning, she could tell that things had changed. At the young age of 27, her wild lifestyle had finally started to catch up to her. Her green eyes were stained a bloodshot red. Her face was painted with last nights make up, flecks of glitter, and dried vomit. She felt rough. She felt used. Lost in her thoughts, she began the all too familiar task of washing the previous night off and away from her. Gingerly, she pulled open the shower door and in a defeated tone, mumbled to herself  “Today is going to be different”.

As the water ran down her skin, all she could do is stand. The gentle droplets stung every square inch of her body. She ached from head to toe. The sensation was typical, the direct result from the previous evening’s debauchery. This had become an all too repetitive process for her. Over and over she chanted her daily mantra, “Today is going to be different” until the tears were too frequent to hold back.

As she made her way back to her room, she could feel the crumbs from the cold, creaky wooden floor accumulate underneath her wet feet. Her naked body quivered from the drafty windows in her pre-war apartment. Sitting at the corner of her bed, she began to plan the day’s wardrobe. Six minutes had passed, but she was no closer to getting dressed than when she sat down. The goosebumps that covered every inch of her body were the only motivation to finally stand. With a methodical precision, she rummaged through the endless piles of both clean and dirty laundry. One by one, each designer garment slid onto her soft, cool skin.

It was ten minutes until nine. By her calculations, this was the fourteenth day she had been late to work this year. Each act of tardiness was immediately followed with a lame and apathetic excuse.  As usual, she would spend the ride on the A-Train racking her brain for one more clever and deceptively imaginative alibi.

A quick layer of make up and a dousing of perfume was all she needed to complete her transformation. Her black, four-inch Louboutins scuffed the distressed oak floor as she made her way to the front door. As she grabbed the tarnished brass knob and twisted the deadbolt, she noticed the calendar that hung by a sliver of duct tape on the back of the door. Immediately, her eyes were drawn to the date. In her fragile emotional state, all she could do was cry. It was March 13th. An ordinary date to most, but to her it was day she was trying to forget. That day was the reason she had been spiraling towards an emotional hell. She couldn’t believe it was actually making her sob. It had been a full year since he left. Right there in front of her face, the date on the calendar was a harsh and cruel reminder. With mascara filled tears spilling down her face, she took a death breath, steadied her trembling hands, and opened the door.


7 Responses to “Broken”

  1. suzanneme March 12, 2010 at 9:50 am #

    beautifully written.

    • studioeightonesix March 12, 2010 at 9:51 am #

      Thank you! Much appreciated.

  2. Tracey March 14, 2010 at 7:45 pm #

    You are so talented. What a great use of description. Totally rockin the tone and the mood…

    • studioeightonesix March 15, 2010 at 6:48 am #

      Thanks, Tracey!

  3. jules July 3, 2010 at 10:24 am #

    Love it!!!!! It had me entranced!


  1. Broken: Part Two « StudioEightOneSix - July 16, 2010

    […] (You can read part one of Broken HERE) […]

  2. Broken: Part Three « StudioEightOneSix - September 15, 2010

    […] (Part One of Broken) […]

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