It doesn’t look like she’s going to make it out of bed today. The part of me that once loved the woman whispers she just needs some words of encouragement. She just needs a reason to give a damn about what’s going on around here. Maybe tomorrow I’ll give her one, but for now disgust is outweighing compassion in my mind. I should be ashamed of that, I suppose, but my ability to feel shame has limits…as does my capacity for compassion. Those limits have been reached.
Irrational fears were as much a part of her as the green of her eyes or the brittle quality of her laugh. Whether it was unexpected darkness or excessive sunlight, too little precipitation or the potential for spring floods, yin or yang, she was fully prepared to feel angst, unrest and depression over what it might portend.
So, it should have come as no surprise to me the so-called “Mayan Meltdown” was the final straw that broke the weak camel’s back of her hold on reality. Nothing philosophical, analytical, cajoling or comforting I can offer up to her offers any hope she will rise above this setback and re-establish any sort of sane life.
So, tomorrow I will give her that reason she so desperately needs. I shall either give her that or a steel-jacketed slug to the brain. But for now, it’s late, I’m tired and, at the moment, I’m savoring the delicious irony of not knowing what exactly tomorrow may bring.
This story was written for the weekly Thursday Threads flash fiction challenge prompt: "Maybe tomorrow I'll give her one."