A Tearful Goodbye
Not a tear had fallen, nor a lip quivered at the discovery of my untimely passing.
One heavy heartbeat after another thumped inside my sunken chest on that January evening, going from 80, to 75, slowly down to 50 beats, until at last, it ceased. My body slowly drowned into a pool of sheets as I lost my consciousness and slipped into a permanent slumber. Despite this, the sheets still clung to my frame, emaciated and pale, and the lamplight still shone upon my face like the sun on the earth; a single tear reflecting the incandescent shine. But not a caring hand to dab it from my cheek.
I was found lying atop my bed; the one I’ve nestled my head on since my childhood. Years of smiles, sobs, screams, and snores are documented here. And now, another entry has been cataloged, but this will be my last.
Mary, the lady’s maid, was the one to alert the others of my condition. Her brows crinkled in intense worry as she paced the upstairs hallway. Rambling incessantly to herself, she pondered my fate, hers, and her family’s. How did this happen? Where would I work? Will my family be able to eat? The ordinary, and reasonable, concerns of a woman whose life was dedicated to another.
The other maids filed in one-by-one, gazing upon my lifeless frame. Eyes wide, mouths agape, and hands thrown asunder from all-around the room.
One woman—the petite brunette I know to be Emma—hurried to my bedside opposite the door and knelt beside my pillow. Reaching timidly toward my face, she softly moved my hair from my eye with a melancholic look.
“How did this happen?” she asked as she looked around the room with panic. Everyone surrounding my bed looked upon each other with confusion—no one had any idea. “We should call for a medic, or someone to at least look at her before we rule anything out” proclaimed a voice in the back. Silence hung thick in the air after the statement was mde before Mary finally spoke up: “I’ll call Tom.” She quickly exited the room leaving the other two women to stand, side-by-side, yet existing in different places.
It’s astounding, that even after my soul had been cheated from me at an inopportune moment, my eyes never deceived me. The glassy haze that shielded my brown, lifeless gaze was a mere ruse, disguising my stare. I had been so blind before, but it’s as if I’ve awoken for the first time.
Before me, were remnants of a life I’m no longer sure I knew. A window overlooking a garden of which I did not maintain, a mirror reflecting the face of a girl I did not know, and a door inviting guests with intentions I did not recognize. Who knew that a place you could live in your whole life could morph into something so foreign?
Sadness had wracked my nerves for a long time. Isolation had been a well-acquainted friend of mine for a while prior to this. I’m unsure whether it was self-imposed or thrust upon me, but either way, it weighed down on me heavily. I couldn’t comprehend the reasoning for these emotions: was it my fault? Am I being punished? Is my feeling this way a form of punishment to my family? What had we done? I hurled these queries into the universe with rage, but to no avail. It felt as if the universe had forsaken me, so I fell into a ravine of self-pity and sorrow. Why this happened, I’ll never know, but one thing’s for certain, pity only sustains you for so long.
With the onslaught of negativity my mind procured for me came a wave of darkness over the sunshine that once clouded my peaceful memories. It was as if these recollections were altered into nightmares and all of my happy history had just been trashed. It began to rear its head in my friendly and familial interactions. I would snip at people, make bitter remarks, and roll my eyes at things I wouldn’t ordinarily have done that to. My personality made a 180, and I was not the same, and never would be. Until one day, I found the beauty I had been missing.
Gripping a pen, I began to scribble nonsense onto the pages of my notebook. Words that didn’t exist, ones that did, and ones that sounded good to me despite me not knowing their meaning. GRUMPY. YUCK. FINAL. BORING. ANGRY. UGH. Up and down, up and down from corner to corner and edge to edge. As my hand moved gracefully across the page, the darkness felt as if it were leaving me. Almost like I was being purged of a parasite. This bliss lasted for hours after my writing spree until day broke and the cycle of torment began again. I fought tirelessly hour after agonizing hour to break it, but it could not be done without writing. Every evening, I sat at the dining table ready to glide my hand along the page and create something new. It became a regularly scheduled time for me and I cherished it deeply. I dreamt of publishing my work for the masses, letting them gander at my inner thoughts as they were splattered across a page, but then I concluded that these doodles would be just for me and no one else. A diary of the hurt I felt and the time I took to erase them.
When I wrote, it felt like the sun had begun to rise again over my thoughts. My memories returned in a blaze of light and my mood elevated exponentially. I loved it and desired to do it forever, until tragedy struck.
“She went into cardiac arrest,” Tom stated after his examination of me. Shock still displayed itself around the room. Still, not a tear was shed. The only one being the one still laying upon my cheek. Condolences were given passively all-around and the room quickly emptied until my body could be retrieved.
Upon reflection, it could be noted that my depression held me in a stranglehold for too long a time. All the tears, all the moans, all the groans exhaled to no avail, at least, not until my writing had begun. I realized when my mood began to shift for the better that I am not powerless against this formidable enemy; I was initially just unprepared. My weapon became my pen and my ammunition became my words, and I conquered with pride, even if for a short time. It was never my fault. It was never a punishment. I’ll never know what it was, but at least I know what it wasn’t.
My moments of clarity were sparse, but they never went unrecognized. I realize now, even though I’m gone, that the good times were all I needed to continue. It’s like swimming through an ocean. There are times when the currents are so strong they jostle you, throw you around, and beat you into a watery submission. But eventually, they settle, and you can breathe to prepare to swim again. I lived for those moments; the moments where I could breathe. No matter how scarce they came, I was willing to swim through the raging torrents of hellish water just to find that peace, and I’m glad I did.
Footsteps approached the door leading to my room. The light still shining, the window still letting in rays of sunlight, and my singular tear still sitting alone on my cheek. It was Tom. We never conversed much, he barely knew me, but he stared at my face as if he did. He knelt next to me, a furrow resting in his brow. He sat for what felt like ages until he reached for my eyes and slowly guided them shut. His hand then traveled to my chin where he held me and quietly sighed. I could feel his gaze, until finally it rested upon my cheek. It glistened with its wet shine. I think he felt my sorrow, he acknowledged my pain. He stood to leave and turned to exit, but he stopped. He slowly turned back towards me, and that’s when I felt it. A cold, dry hand wipes the wetness from my face. My tear had been removed, and so had the remnants of the pain I once held. He smiled, and from some place, so did I.
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