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In a way, I’m relieved. It’s a foolish, distant relief. It’s unmanageable now. I have to take action. There is no other choice. The city is too wide in front of me. The moon too wide, too bright. It’s not only the open space that seems threatening. Uncertainty crowds into my bones until I can’t feel the boundary between skin and air. I can’t hold myself together. I can’t keep myself away from the danger. There are no paintings. No frames.
No air.
My lungs refuse to draw breath.
I press my palms harder into the window and override the urge to punch through it. To fall. To leap. I can’t do that to Will. I swore it was a cold. So I won’t. But if I’m going to survive, I need a smaller space.
I need it now.
No walk-in closet in Will’s guest room. I hit the doorframe on the way into the bathroom. No depth perception. My brain is trying to flatten everything. An emergency response. A small miracle that I make it to the shower.
I step in fully clothed, clenching my teeth to keep from making any sound. It hurts enough to scream. It’s awful enough to cry. It’s pressing enough to run. I won’t do any of those things. They’re too difficult. Too inefficient for the limited energy I have. Instead, I pull the shower door shut behind me.
It closes with a solid thud.
Better.
Not small enough.
I should have asked Will to stay.
And then what? Admit that it hasn’t stopped? That I haven’t slept? That I’m beginning to wonder if I’ll ever sleep again?
No.
I turn on the water.
Sitting down with my back against the wall isn’t enough pressure, but it’s something. It gives the world a hard limit. The water droplets are distracting enough to let some air into my lungs. It’s hot, then hotter. Perhaps I’ll survive this.
If I do, I could see Daphne again.
Even if I can’t touch her, I could see her. With my own eyes. Happy and safe.
Happy.
Safe.
I left the lights off, and the images that come to mind are bright. Daphne on the shore. Daphne smiling. Daphne curled next to me in bed. The dark fall of her hair on the pillow. Daphne scrunching her nose at her breakfast, getting ready to argue some minor point with me. Daphne dancing with her canvas, with her brush.
These images are not painted.
They’re clear, like photographs. Like she’s here now.
The hot water reaches my skin and boils into me, but it doesn’t take the cold from my bones. It’s like that night in the cave. My body shakes toward a ledge that isn’t there. Tries, again and again, to escape the sensation of being under imminent threat. My heart pounds with such force that I worry it might break my ribs.
It takes several lifetimes for the panic to recede. It goes out like the tide. Frustratingly slow. Tiny, cutting increments. It won’t end completely. I know better than to think it will. Better than to hope.
All the same, I can’t help hoping to see Daphne.
I can’t stop her from taking up residence in my mind, her body moving around the canvas.
Hummingbird.
The water against the tile is white noise. It competes with the shrill whine of the panic. It creates spaces, however small, for thoughts. For a while, it’s nothing but her name. Daphne. Daphne. Daphne.
But as the water goes cold, the thoughts resolve.
Clarify.
I have to get home, even if it kills me.
But I have to let her go.
