Trying to sleep was just painting her pain onto a black canvas, bright slashes of excruciation across the back of her eyelids. It filtered through the air around her, breathed into her lungs, traveled through her veins to come out of every orifice.
So long traveled, so many spouses and lovers, the many cigarettes and margaritas, had all been replaced. Uncountable pills and syringes now supplanted those, obscuring the pleasure of their memory behind the same fog that shielded her from the worst of the pain. She cursed that necessary shroud as often as she sank into its numbing embrace.
Beyond all that, in the corner, stood a man she couldn’t quite see the face of, a final lover or last husband, a man whose embrace could take her away from all of this. But she denied him, would deny him with every bit she could. To give in would remove the last remains of who she was, the adventures and the loves that she had never found the time to write about.
See the author’s published work here.
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