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Something
(The Hurricane)
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She opens the window, taking in a sharp breath at the breeze that rushes into her room. She is leaning out at an angle so
harsh that she can feel the windowsill pressing hard into her stomach and she feels the blood rushing to her head.
She vomits there in the bushes, and then takes a few strong deep breaths, inhaling the mostly clean scent. She sits back
down onto her bed, pleased that the wind is quickly carrying away his scent, and eventually the memory of him. She imagines
him again, standing in her doorway, and she imagines the wind carrying him away piece by piece. She smiles, even though she
wants to vomit again.
She wants to stop imagining him, but she doesn't. She doesn't stop. Self-torture, it seems, is a kind of entertainment if
she wants it to be.
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She was looking at herself in the mirror from where she slouched on the bed. She pulled her hair back into a ponytail. The
novelty of long hair had worn off long ago, so she was just trying to get it out of her face. Staring into her own eyes,
hating her long hair. She hated her eyed, too big, too revealing. Revealing everything and nothing at the same time. She
hated that. She hated her big nose, her too-large lips, her too-small breasts, and those two bottom ribs that she could make
out through the ghostly tight and slightly transparent skin. She hated the way her skin was tight. She hated that if she
looked hard enough, she could see bluish veins through it.
Self-torture was a great way to pass the time.
There was a knock on the door. Then, silence. Another knock... "I'm busy, Mom," she was lying, but no one really cared.
Truly, she was nude, too lazy, too tired or something to make the effort of finding something clean to wear, too lazy, tired
or something to put the clothes on.
Another knock. "Go away, Sean!" Her voice raised a notch, nearing hysterical. Why couldn't they all just leave her alone:
alone with her naked, hateful, awful self. Alone with her self-torture. It was better that way... Couldn't they see?
There were no more knocks, just the door handle turning, moving slowly. She didn't try to cover herself. She was too lazy,
too tired, or something.
It's him. Wonderful. Just whom she wanted to see. She turned to the window, liking the darkness outside better than his
face, his deep, black, tar pit eyes.
"M'ria." She hated how he said her name. "I needed to see you." His voice turned quiet; his tongue was thick, and he might
have been sincere.
She turned to him for a moment, feeling that tired rumble in her stomach when she saw him there.
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The phone is ringing somewhere. It's not her cordless; she threw is across the room a week ago and hasn't even tried to look
for it since. The wind is still blowing, carrying something here, and taking something away. Nothing ever stays in this
dead-end desert town... Not really.
She has been gone for a long time now. If only that wind would carry her body away to join her distant spirit. But something
holds her back. She imagines that it would take a hurricane to rip her away from here, even though everything within her
wants, craves the outside of this little town.
She hasn't gone to work in a month. If her boss has called, she hasn't noticed. She thinks if something drastic or important
happened, then someone would tell her. She's not so sure anymore, though. Who is she so anyone or anything now?
The phone stops ringing. Either someone answered it, or the person on the other line gave up. The answering machine has
been broken for three months. No one really cares enough to get it fixed. No one ever calls except sales people or bill
collectors anyway.
She needs a hurricane to rip her free from all of her strings attached to air. To nothing. Or, something like that.
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She felt him walk closer to her, sit down next to her. He put his hand on her shoulder; his fingertips brushed the ends of
her hair. She shuddered, but the feeling of his eyes on her only grew stronger. The darkness and the knowledge that they
were alone only made it worse. They can't help her. Not this time.
She sensed the words before they left his mouth. Her stomach lurched. It's not fair. It's not fair. It's not fair.
"We are leaving. Tomorrow morning."
This is not happening. This is not happening. This is not happening.
"I thought. I could say good bye." And he touched her then, shutting and locking the door with his powers as the tears
ran down her face.
She was scared, so scared of him... of this...
She was scared she'd lose the one constant she'd had in her life (however unwelcome).
She was scared. Or something.
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The hurricane is coming closer now, She closes her eyes and hopes it will take her away. Liz and Kyle tell her something,
drag her to the Jetta. She drives fast, to the current eye of the storm. The wind whips her hair around. She's praying.
There is some mistake. This is a one-person hurricane, and she cries as it carries away the wrong one. She wants to wave
it down and scream at it. You got the wrong blonde! Take me instead! But she knows it doesn't work that way. Humans can't
control hurricanes.
Her shoulders slump down, she is defeated. Stuck here.
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The ocean of sand was calm and quiet that night. No sound except the desperate sobs of a girl who wanted to be lifted away.
Or something.
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