She wasn’t hurrying; she knew it was useless.
Her movements were calculated. In rhythm, like the usual. Step, step, step, step were the sounds of her feet as she trudged up the stairs. Flick, flick, flick, flick were the sounds of her thumb’s cuticle against the index’s; her eyes went blink, blink, blink, blink as she tried to see through the dark. Her ears strained to hear the sound of her heart.
It wasn’t the usual thump, thump, thump, thump.
She reached her destination–her room, her solace–which was currently in a state of mess. It was chaos in a state of chaos–dirty clothes, mismatched slippers, unmade bed, scattered papers. She reached for the switch to turn on the lights. Tick-Tick. Tick-Tick.
F*ck, the bulb’s out, she hissed as she flopped down her bed. Maybe it was a good thing, she thought. I don’t need to see something tangible to reflect my emotional rigoudon.
She hugged a pillow and clenched her eyes shut. “Lord, what’s happening?” she muttered in a desperate plea. She wanted answers. She wanted to choke out the growing lump on her throat. She wanted to cry.
She opened her eyes to look at herself at the mirror near the bed. She saw the infinite blackness that enveloped her room instead.
