I sat in my room, alone. As I usually did. Teetering on the edge of the bed. Was I going to fall backwards or get up and do something to distract my mind? I could never decide, as usual. So I sat and brushed my hair with my mother's old brush. I brushed and brushed and brushed until my hair was silky smooth and my arm was shaking with fatigue. Even then I kept brushing. My nose was scrunched up, my eyes squinted, my mouth a thin line. I waited patiently for the tears to come, to drip down my face and let all the sadness inside me out. I waited to deflate like a taut balloon. Instead, I felt anger building inside of me. The hard shell around my heart growing thicker and more impenetrable. I squeezed my eyes shut, willing the tears to come, willing the dam to crack and the gallons of water behind it to surge forth. I brushed and brushed. Nothing happened. The tears failed me again. And once again I sunk into exhaustion, my eyes still dry and my heart still hardened with a fury that would never leave me alone no matter how hard I tried to cry.
by elisabeth
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