The incessant buzzing of the brightly lit grocery store lights makes it difficult to choose the packet of avocados that I’ll need for tonight. A dinner party. Why do I do this to myself? No, I need to see my friends. It’s been weeks. Months probably. I grab the closest bag, gently set it atop the other items in my cart and make my way to a cashier.
I breathe a sigh of relief. The sunlight outside is a welcome sight and the slight breeze makes the regret of being alive fade just a little bit. The walk to my apartment is brisk and I barely notice the weight of the groceries. Once inside I begin to methodically set out the ingredients that I’ve bought in order of which I’ll need first. I fill in the gaps with glass bottles filled with spices and condiments from shelves around the kitchen. Seasoned grilled tomatoes. Mashed avocado. Homemade hummus. Fried mushrooms. Butter and jam. Peanut butter. Sourdough. Milk bread. Wholewheat. The menu isn’t elaborate but it’s familiar and familiar is good. Or at least that’s what I keep telling myself as I try to soothe away my anxiety. Toast days used to be a regular occurrence when we were in university. Brought on by student budgets and odds and ends that somehow never left the fridge.
A steady chatter fills the room as we catch up on old and new stories alike and gasp over gossip. Maybe this isn’t so bad. My sweaty palms and tapping leg beg to differ. It’s a perfectly normal night. With perfectly normal people. A sudden knock at the door cuts through my train of thought and the chatter around me dims. The door flies open and a familiar face gleams at me. “Didn’t think I’d show?”
Cheerful hellos and how’ve you beens are exchanged with the familiar stranger. My anxiety barely whispers now as I stand there, a single thought on a loop. The last time we’d seen each other I held a bloody knife and was shaking uncontrollably. The knife was gently removed from my hands, promises uttered to never speak of this again, and a bittersweet smile before we parted ways. So no, I didn’t think I’d see you again. Much less at my door. The invite was a courtesy, a polite nothing.
The night ends with the two of us shoving leftovers into the fridge, a dangerous game of Tetris that’s going to be lost the minute the appliance is opened again. The fairy lights twinkle brightly, illuminating the spines of the books it’s dangled across. The words stick in my throat. I want to say thank you. To ask how you’ve been. Really been. But all I can manage is a measly comment on how the weather sure has been devastatingly hot.
Somehow you know. The answers you give are laced with smaller details of everything I’d hoped to ask. It stays like that for a long time. Honestly, it’s likely only been twenty minutes. When it’s time for goodbyes you reach into your bag and pull out a weather-beaten envelope. It’s got my name on it. “Must’ve been sent before you changed addresses,” you say, nervously folding the edges of the crumpled envelope, “But I guess now is as good a time as any to make sure it reached you.”
I’m taunted by the envelope. It sits on my dresser, next to strewn jewelry and empty perfume bottles. I need to clean up. It’s been days. Weeks probably. The handwriting that proudly displays my name is oddly familiar. I glance up at the clock on my bedside table. It’s stopped. It could’ve happened hours ago. Days probably. I muster up the courage to open the envelope. A necklace falls out. Dainty. Gold. A flower. A daffodil. “What the hell,” I croak out, my own voice unfamiliar to my ears. My head throbs with an intensity that causes my stomach to clench. I can feel the bile rising in my chest.
I make it to the bathroom. The once-haphazard memories all come crashing together. The weather. The necklace. The knife. The blood. The aftermath. I puke. And then everything goes black.