She supposed it was a bit silly to feel guilty over not feeling guilty over what was currently happening to her. The fact of the matter was, though, that about two months ago--or maybe two and half months, actually, come to think of it--she had stopped feeling things. Even physically, after a while. Hunger didn't even matter.
It was just as if some great big, emptiness had bloomed into the world, radiating from her like the spokes of a wheel. She moved up and down repeatedly.
There would definitely be bruising tomorrow. And abrasions. On the cheek, there, where her face was rubbing against the brick wall.
She wondered in an abstract way if she would ever respond to this, if there was ever a way she could bring herself to feel about it, even in hindsight. Would she, twenty years down the line, feel very strongly about this?
A flush overcame her, which was, she guessed, somewhat natural. It wasn't as if she'd never... thought about it.
When she started walking yesterday, as the sun had started to finally set, she'd felt for the first time a sort of elation. She had had a revelation. She had begun to cut the last ties to her experience, had begun fully pulling away. For the first time, she found her week entirely free. No obligation, no bond to those left living. And so she walked.
For thirty-seven hours.
And then she was here. And so were they. And then it was happening.
But really. It didn't feel like anything.
And they were done.
The best that could happen was going to happen, she knew.
But then it didn't.
And there, lying in the subsequent silence, she began to think to herself: oh yes, yes here it comes, and, in a sad way, she was happy for it.
No comments:
Post a Comment