The Last Time

So this is a painful realization that all has gone wrong . . .

            Mirrors lie. They show only what things appear to be. But nothing is as it appears. That is something she has learned. She stands in front of her vanity, examining the face reflected in the glass. But who she sees is someone else, someone who died long ago.

But nobody cares at all, nobody cares at all . . .

            She takes a sip of vodka from the glass in her hand. It burns as it slides down her throat. She

delights in that feeling. Fire is pure. Maybe it will cleanse her wounds. Maybe it will fill some of the aching emptiness inside her. Maybe she will burn and be reborn from the ashes. Like a Phoenix. She smiles to herself. He loved phoenixes. Her smile fades as tears sting her eyes.

So you buried all your lovers clothes  

And burned the letters lover wrote . . .

            She pushes her fiery hair away from her face, thinking of all the times he did the same. He

would stare into her eyes, and she would lose herself in him. In the deep pools of brilliant green in which her face was reflected. Stop thinking of him, she orders herself, gulping down the rest of her glass. Her eyes catches the clock, and she blinks to focus the numbers. It reads nine forty-five. She knows she is expected at the party by ten thirty. Great, she thinks to herself. I can make small talk for an hour and then fake a headache. No one will be the wiser.

But it doesn't make it any better, doesn't make it any better . . .

 

She forces herself to face her reflection, pulling open her drawer of cosmetics. She applies

foundation. She knows she doesn't need it, but to her it is like armor. Just another way to keep them from seeing the pain she tries so desperately to hide. Every swipe of eyeshadow, every coat of lipstick. It makes the armor thicker. They can't see him, can't see his fingerprints on her. They don't see what she knows is there.

And the plaster dented from your fist

In the hall where you had your first kiss . . .

            When she arrives at the party, she feels eyes on her. They are watching her as she walks across the room, to where her best friend is standing beside her brother. Their faces light up when they see her.

"I'm so glad you came," Hermione says.

"Hey, Gin," Ron says. "How have you been?"

 Reminds you that the memories will fade . . .

"Fine," she says.

 One word that carries a lot of weight. She puts on her best smile. She knows that they didn't believe she would be here. She knows that they wish she wasn't. She looks around the room. It is full of people she used to know. Old friends from school. But so many are missing.

So this is strange, a side-stepping has come to be a brilliant dance,

            Being here is already painful. She glances back at Ron and Hermione. She catches the pain in their expressions before they paste their smiles on. She is bringing back painful memories for them. The room is suddenly too small. They are watching. Whispering.

Where nobody leads at all, nobody leads at all . . .

            She can't take it. She crosses the room and is out the door. Ron doesn't say a word. She knows he must feel like doing the same thing. She runs as far from the building as she can. When she stops, her side is aching. She can barely catch her breath. She is only a few blocks from home. >From the liquid comfort that awaits her.

And the picture frames are facing down

 And the ringing from this empty sound . . .

            She stumbles into the house ten minutes later. She kicks off her high heels, shrugs out of her coat, and retreats to the bathroom. She scrubs her face clean, watching the swirls of color as they disappear into the drain. No need for armor here. The house is silent, yet another reminder that he is gone. She feels the pain return immediately. She succumbs to it, letting it take her over. She is too weak to fight.

Is deafening and keeping you from sleep . . .

            She takes out the flask from under the kitchen sink. He hadn't though she had known about

it. He rarely drank. But sometimes he needed something to numb the pain. Part of her knows that he wouldn't want her to live like this. Then why did you leave me? She tips her head back and takes a drink. Another. And another. She drinks until the pain begins to fade.

And breathing is a foreign task

 And thinking's just too much to ask . . .

            She opens her eyes. Her head is throbbing. She feels empty. She shifts her weight, feels

something digging into her side. She pushes it away, hears glass crash to the floor. The sound seems to echo inside her head. Tears spring to her eyes. The emptiness grows. She had dreamed of him again. It had all been so real. Waking up to a world without him in it was a cruel trick. It wasn't the way it was supposed to be.

And you're measuring your minutes by a clock that's blinking eight . . .

            The tears escaped her eyes, making salty trails on her skin. She knows tears well. Their feel. Their taste. She thinks it to be incredible that she hasn't run out of them. Is it really possible to cry this much? Is there a point when you run dry? If so, she feels that she should have reached it by now. Seven Months. Seven months of the same routine. Every day she wakes up hoping that today is different. That the fates have realized their mistake and given him back to her. And every day she is disappointed.

This is incredible, starving, insatiable . . .

            The tears quickly turn into sobs. She stumbles into the kitchen. She rummages through the medicine cabinet blindly, looking for aspirin. She can barely read the labels through the tears. When she thinks she has found it, she pulls her hand out and examines the bottle. It isn't aspirin, but the sleeping pills prescribed to her after his death. When she didn't want to sleep, knowing she would wake up without him.

Yes, this is love for the first time . . .

            She pushes back the thought now forming in her mind. Put it back, she orders herself. But her hands won't obey. Her fingers are wrapped tightly around the canister. She knows how easy it would be. How simple it would be to fall into an enchanted sleep. Only her prince wouldn't wake her up. He'd wait for her on the other side. She can imagine him. His unruly jet black hair. His grin. His eyes. She remembers exactly how his lips had felt on hers. How his hands had laced together with hers. They had fit together perfectly. Why shouldn't she be with him?

You'd like to think you were invincible . . .

            She removes the cap, her hands shaking violently. The white capsules fall into her palm. She tilts her head back and lets them drop into her open mouth. They scratch against her throat. She ignores it and downs another handful. She can still feel the tears streaming down her face. But she feels calm. She will be with him soon. That is all that matters.

Yeah, weren't we all once . . .

            She takes a gulp of water to wash them down. Then she settles herself onto the couch. She

takes a last look around the house. Her gaze falls upon a picture of her with Ron and Hermione. He had taken it. Ron had his arm around both girls, looking between them every so often. Hermione smiled and laid her head on Ron's shoulder. She winked and twirled her red hair around her finger. She remembers how he had grinned from behind the camera. She can't tear her eyes from the

photo. They were all so happy. It had been less than a year ago. How had things changed so fast? How could they stand life without him? They had loved him as much as her. But, she realizes, they had each other. His death had left her alone. A shadow of what she once had been. But they could lean on each other.

 

Before we felt loss for the first time . . .

 

            Her eyes grow heavy. Her mind gets cloudy. She is finding it hard to focus on anything. She is crying again. It is the last time she will feel tears. The pills are taking over. She feels her stomach turn, begging her to get rid of them. But she doesn't. She won't. She surrenders to them. She sobs as they whisk her away. Into the darkness.

 

This is the last time . . .