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antzywew · 4 months

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anhedonia (an-he-do-nia)

noun. a psychological condition characterized by inability to experience pleasure in normally pleasurable acts

(photo cred: João Cabral)

I. eleutheromania

She wakes up in an empty bed. The sheets are all crumpled at this point, and the pillows have been tossed haphazardly across the mattress. There’s clothes from the night before draped over a nearby chair, and a half-drunk water bottle on the nightstand. Blink — she blinks again. The face of an exasperated woman stares back from the painting in front of her, as if the inks from a bygone era feel the need to speak. She remembers buying that piece at an old antique shop back in Toledo, having cost her half a month’s wages. The man at the counter had convinced her though, that it was worth the purchase, and she had agreed — momentarily enamored by the man’s presence.

She sighs, propping herself up with the bed’s backboard. Her eyes catch the glimpse of the framed photograph on the bedside table, and it is a mistake. There, time is stopped in a moment — her arms are wrapped around a younger boy, and the other child holds up a peace sign to the camera. The two are situated in front of a Redwood tree on a windy day, evident in the unruly strands of hair. With shaking hands, the woman pushes the photograph face-down, careful not to scratch the image. While she is turned away, there is a sentence etched in the back casing of the picture — containing nothing more than the musings of a younger woman and family.

As she makes her way into the kitchen, white walls peer back, and a silence persists. Dirty dishes from yesterday are piled in the sink while the Chinese takeout has grumpily settled in the trashcan. There is a bowl of plastic apples and bananas on the counter, and the edges have already begun to fray. She remembers this bowl: handed down by her mother the second weekend she had made this place a home, the final touch to make it all seem real. It never did feel right after her mother left. The silence was too loud.

She is interrupted by the whirling of the coffee machine on the far side of the kitchen countertop. Lights blare at her, the repetitive glaring of a blue button haunts her sight. She presses it, watching as her mug fills with the murky tea. There is something oddly familiar — as if she can feel her sister’s hands guiding her own, moving the mug aside, adding a splash of lemonade — as if there was noise in this plain apartment. As if she was not alone, kept company by the thrifted painting, the frame of earlier memories, and a beaten fruit bowl.

The tea burns as she takes a sip. It is hot; it is bitter. She has to set the mug down to avoid hurting her hands. The top of her mouth is raw, yet she does not mind. It hurts, sure, but it does not beat the rawness of her throat, the pain in her chest. The tea distracts her now, pushing away the thoughts from then. So she leans against the marble counter, elbows folded in, and takes another sip. It burns again.

II. retrouvaille

The streets are crowded with hollering shop owners and desperate patrons. A motorcycle swerves through the narrow crevices of city life. A man tips his baseball cap forward at a penniless boy handing out newspapers. There is a woman shaking her head violently, turning away from a friend in front of her. He watches, almost omniscient, at the scene in front of him. This is normal. He motions for a waitress to come over, to bring his check with her. She does hurriedly, her head bowed as another customer requests her in the moment. He pays, and with that, he exits the little restaurant. The waitress will find an extra Jackson tucked away with the receipt, and he does not know what she will do with it. Perhaps pay for a new set of loafers, given the current state of her shoes. He does not know, and with that, he exits the little corner of life.

The city is alive, no doubt, at half past twelve. He sees it within a young mother, bobbing her child repeatedly in her arms, whispering hushes in the small one’s ears. He sees it within the hands of a couple, held tightly as they navigate the mob of passerby’s. He observes their small moments, the way the girl’s eyes gravitate towards a flower shop, and how the boy’s lips quirk into an amused smile. He sees it within an old woman working a cart along the street, desperately searching for potential shoppers. He sees, and that is all he does.

It does not take him long to find the city’s garden center. It is not quite full, but it is still not quite empty. Instead of a young boy urging for a couple of cents from his mother, there is a family of squirrels situated by the overgrown roots of a tree. He sees their cedar coat, and is reminded of the businessmen who frequent the coffee shop next to the old woman’s cart. Instead of a mother holding her baby firmly, there is a small bunny hopping behind the path of a larger hare, with ears larger than the body of the young thing. They occasionally obscure the sight of the little creature, yet it is unheeded. With the older hare it follows, and the two leave the clearing. He sees a place full of life, yet it is different from what he has known. He sees, and he tries, to imagine where he fits into this harmonious sequence.

His thoughts are impeded by the chirping of a robin, with fur akin to the wine his wife used to open at family parties. The voice of the songbird stirs something within him — but he is not sure what. It could be its eyes, a pleasant aquamarine, akin to those of his firstborn, a hardy baby, of which he yearns to see again. It could be the tiny bops of the bird’s head, as if the creature is eager for his attention, but what was it, if not a motion akin to his sister, a woman independent of any challenges thrown her way, a ferocious and determined girl. He is tired on his autumn day, and he sees what he no longer has.

He wishes to turn away from the songbird — a plain robin — but cannot, seemingly captivated by the presence of the lone thing. The man is bemused, yet is unable to escape its gaze. It feels almost disappointing to do so, as if it would prove something, of what he is not certain. So he stays, and though he does not speak, the man watches, an action that has become too natural. He stays, and soon he knows. The man understands, and the roaring life of the city glazes by his ears once again. Yes, he is certain. The robin, which has remained for far too long, he fathoms, flies away from its spot on the branch. Perhaps it is time to do the same.

III. lacuna

The first thing the young girl saw as she opened her eyes was the concerned face of a paramedic, peering down as he checked her vitals. He is adjusting the height of her bed, and there is a large blanket pressed against her abdomen. Her father is seated in the corner of the van, his head in his hands, yet able to spare a moment to lock eyes with his daughter. She sees the remnants of dried tears along his worn face, fitting neatly in the wrinkles she created many years ago. She is curious, but she does not open her mouth. Rather, she finds that it is not a case of not wanting to, but in fact a case of impossibility. The words do not come out, and then, she realizes that they may never. There is a sharp pain underneath where the blanket lies, and her face squishes uncomfortably. With a few reassuring nudges from the paramedic, her eyes close once more.

The second thing the young girl saw as she opened her eyes was the white checkered lights above her bed. The room is empty, but there is a vase of yellow peonies by her bed. A baby’s blanket is draped over her frail form, a blanket she is well acquainted with. Her fingers graze over the patterns, feeling each granny square in her palm. The pressure on her heart rescinds, just barely, and she feels as if she can breathe again. She is afraid, that much was for certain. There is a chart on the edge of her bed, but it is out of reach. She yearns to pick it up, to turn it over, and see what has happened to her. But she does not, for there is now fear that has welled up in her tiny chest and it does not escape. She is worried that as soon as she sees what the doctors have declared, it will be too late. She will know, and that much is just too much. The tiredness takes over, and she decides that perhaps it is better to rest once again.

The third thing the young girl saw as she opened her eyes was a ceiling full of stars, these tiny, gel-like things that shone the most beautiful blue. These walls are different, she notices, they are ones she knows. There is a lilac beanbag in the leftmost corner of her room with a couple of stuffed animals — the giraffe’s name was Kevin, and the elephant was Henry — and another, modest bouquet of yellow peonies sitting on top of her nightstand. However, this time she is not alone. Her father, the man beaten down by worry, stood solemnly by the door to her room. She tries here, to form some words, to urge her father to come closer, but all that comes out is a croak. His head shoots up, and he is by her side. The words do not form any better, but it is alright. His hands are familiarly calloused, and she feels safe. He brushes a few loose strands of hair to the side and softly kisses her forehead. The eyes shut for the third time, she recalls.

The fourth thing the young girl saw as she opened her eyes was her body in a school chair, surrounded by a crowd of girls. They nudge her shoulder, slide wrapped pieces of gum into her pocket, and hand her a couple of reassuring stickers. A few boys watch the encounter, and they smile for reasons unknown to the girl before turning away. Even the teacher is gentle with her, waiting till after class to speak quietly to her, patting her on the head as they help her exit the building. She sees her father greet her outside, and he does not wait to run up to her teacher, grabbing her and holding her tightly in his arms. There is a light in his eyes she has not seen before, but she cannot dwell on it. She enjoys the feeling of his presence more. For the fourth time, her eyes close.

It is the fifth time that the young girl loses count. She is seated at the kitchen table, a bowl of cereal situated before here. Her father is around the kitchen island, a plaid apron draped across his body. He is preparing her lunch — that she understands — and so she continues to take a few, almost precarious, bites of her breakfast. She watches as the clock above the oven races against time. The minutes spiral, and soon enough, the bowl in front of her is empty and her father is settling her into the car. A backpack is her seat mate, a kind that is purple and pink with hints of white stars like from her bedroom. A water bottle keeps her company as well, with this one being a kind of blue, like that of the roaring ocean waves, and it is almost as if she can imagine a dolphin swimming across the bottle’s surface. It is hard for her to keep count, she muses, she is distracted by her father’s worries and distracted by the way her teacher walks her to class, distracted by the friends who continue to crowd around her desk, leaving small erasers after they do. She is distracted by the ringing of the bell, distracted by the hands that guide her out of the room, distracted by the way that they are all careful to touch, but never too much, the way that they may sometimes leave her alone, but never too long. She could count, that she could, but at the same time, no she couldn’t. She closes her eyes for a moment, and when she opens them once again, it is almost as if she had never left. Almost as if everything was the same. Even when it wasn’t.

#original fiction #please enjoy #writing #fiction #original short story #trauma #recovery #realistic fiction #sadness #short stories #they are all unconnected but centered around one theme #rare words

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