text: I would sigh if I could get myself to move. I have been sitting here for 45 minutes, maybe more? As soon as I read his letter, that old familiar feeling in my bones returned. Each limb was heavy, too heavy to move. As if I had been dipped in cement and set out to dry. A permanent gargoyle of some sort, never to move again. I like to imagine that onlookers could see my sad gargoyle face and think to themselves, “Oh my! Now there is the epitome of pain and suffering! It is palpable that this creature has suffered the most out of anyone! It makes one cry to even bear witness to this creature’s eternal misery!” Yes, that would be something. As I turn to stone, my eyes water and burn from not blinking enough. The walls are so bright, they burn those imaginary colors in my retinas that dance around my peripherals of my vision. “Can’t I get myself to move? Even just a little finger?" My thoughts race as I panic over whether or not I have control over my own body. "Surely I could move if I wanted to? Right? How long has it really been? No way of knowing except by looking at a clock. C’mon. Just look at a clock.” My inner monologue spiraling out of control is interrupted by a brash, unpleasant meow and I remember that I forgot to feed my cat, Albert. He jumps onto the bed and headbutts my leg to remind me that his dinner is late. I reach over to pat him and I realize that the spell is broken. I can move again. Like a new-born deer, my legs wobble as I take my first few steps. I stumble my way into the kitchen, where I grab the wrinkled, smelly bag of dried cat food and I pour him his dinner. “Not too much now, Albert. You’re getting fat,” I say to him as he scarfs down the kibble I have put in his bowl. Now that I am up, I shouldn’t return to the bed, but it has a siren’s call. I walk back into the bedroom and pick up the letter back up. I’m going to reread it to make sure that all of the words are still the same. Maybe they will have rearranged themselves to tell me that he’s decided to stay, or he has gone to the grocery store? I pick the letter back up. The paper was surprisingly thick, like card stock, and a rich, creamy shade of off-white. I always kept high-quality paper in the house. Never to use. But only to fantasize about using when there is something important enough to use it. I guess this was important. I read the first sentence and there is a sharpness in my chest so painful, I audibly wince. The words haven’t changed. They are still the same. This time, instead of being heavy, I am hollow. My bones are made of glass and the slightest movement might cause them to shatter. There is a void inside me. The thought of food provides no comfort, sleep is temporary relief; I know that the emptiness is waiting for me when I awake. Suddenly, my phone buzzes. I nearly sprint off of the bed to check if it’s him. No. It is my phone carrier. Letting me know that an update is required. The heaviness returns. Even that fleeting moment was bliss compared to now. I will call him instead. I dial the number frantically, there is the sound of ringing and the sound of his voicemail. They blur into one quick moment. I leave no voicemail. I call again. And again. And again. No luck. Defeated, I walk over to the liquor cabinet. I grab a bottle of vodka and take a swig. It burns so much that I reflexively start coughing, but I drink it anyway. A tingling warmth courses through my veins and for a moment I feel alive, full of fire and vigor, ready to have another go at life. I laugh to myself and chuckle, “Fucking jerk”, to myself, which stirs something inside me. Playful giggles turn into heaving sobs within a quick moment as I try to sputter out, “Fucking asshole!” between loud, exasperated breaths. Then I don’t quite remember what happens next. It was as if a banshee took over me, I shrieked until my voice was hoarse. Tears cascaded towards the ground. I slammed doors and punched walls, leaving my knuckles bloodied, purple-ish blue and swollen. The walls and doors bore no marks of my fury. I thought I was stronger. I paused to look in the mirror once the fire and liquor in my veins diminished. My face was a reddish-pink, with eyelids so swollen, you could barely see my eyes. I had somehow cut my eyebrow in all my thrashing and it left streams of rust colored blood all over the left-half of my face. How long ago did I cut myself? I inhaled through my teeth sharply as I patted the wound with a damp washcloth. I cleaned myself up and the puffiness of my face started to reside. Sniffling and limping back to bed, I felt the pain rising in my chest that demanded it be attended to. I neatly folded the letter and put it inside my dresser drawer. Albert lay asleep on the bed. I crawled underneath the covers. I wrapped my arm around him and cried a little bit more. “I just have to make it to tomorrow,” I whispered to myself. “To tomorrow...” I don’t remember when I fell asleep. But when I woke, Albert was there and the letter was still in the drawer. It was a new day. I got out of bed.