Shivering.

Rolla lay on the floor, her body trembling slightly, ceaselessly. Bones pressed against the thin cloth, sending out a dull ache, yet no strength to rise. Only curled upon herself, like a forsaken object, a mechanism stuck mid-motion, sobbing, sobbing. Curtains sealed tight, a sealed casket of darkness, the air congealed like a chamber for film, where every trace of light was turned away. She bit at the skin on the back of her hand unconsciously, leaving shallow red marks. 

Nosebleed, tears pressed out by pain, mingled together and slid to her lips, like developer.

The strange yet familiar metallic saltiness made Rolla drift, as if she were a strip of film being exposed to light. Memories flickering frame by frame, so unbearably dense that suffocation rose from the heart, up through the throat and into the nasal cavity, nearly crushing her breath. Every sense was overloaded, breath, the faint rustle of eyelashes, all amplified until her brow locked tight. Even the brush of fabric against her ankles pierced into awareness like needles. Within her body, a wind seemed to roar; she reels, almost falling.

Rolla struggled to lift her head and, gasping in great, heaving breaths. Wanna scream out loud like those suffering characters in films, only to realize no sound emerged when she opened her mouth wide; her throat felt blocked.

She could only imagine herself as a sea cucumber expelling its innards, the organs pushed out through the crown of her head, then drifting slowly in the sea, weightless, rising to the surface... As if her blood had no longer flowed, as if her breath had been drawn away.

The air pressed every sound down onto Rolla. From the garage came reversing beeps. She seemed to feel the taillights cast against her skin. Instinctively, she drew herself inward, as if truly being seared. By sound alone, Rolla could imagine the details of the person: the motion of exiting the car, the lock’s click, the stairway steps. The footsteps grew sharper, louder, clearer, hard to ignore. Through countless nights of tossing and turning, she had heard such footsteps.  Rolla wished—so desperately—that those steps would stop at her door, lift her from the floor back onto the bed, wipe away her tears with a tissue, and pat her gently to sleep, just like when she was a child. 

But it never happened. Only after confirming the door next door was shut could she slap herself hard, telling herself not to fantasize, swallowing more pills, letting the pain—and the swelling and numbness still lingering on her cheeks, push her into sleep. Let the heaviness. The dizziness. Carry her away.

"No… no, don’t come."

She prayed this in her mind. But the knock fell like the toll of a judgment bell.

"Are you there? Could you open the door?"

The sound struck her like an executioner’s alarm. Her whole body shuddered, a breathless husk, feeling herself sink rapidly toward the ocean floor. She struggled to steady her breathing, forcing herself to answer.

Why now, of all times, did this have to happen? She told herself she had to stand up, had to respond, to stop making others worry, to stop doing things that made her disliked.

"Wait."

She slowly climbed from the floor. White washed over her vision, her legs felt frozen, numb. Though she stretched them, it felt as if she were a crippled soldier. Pain radiated from her ankles, dragging her toward the sink. She did not turn on the light—she could not bear any more brightness, after washing her face by touch alone, painfully made her way to the door, wrapping herself in an oversized black parka. She opened it, feigning the appearance of someone just awake, for she knew the person on the other side would not care about her trembling moments. No one wanted to see her tears flowing.

If Rolla could function normally now, all was well. She had to do this, to hide the changes within herself. Time and again, she struggled in the fog of SSRIs, dulling herself, becoming like dried clay, leaving only an empty shell. The more she thought this, the sharper her heart ached. She did not want to live this way, sincerely. She did not know when she had become like this, taking pills, forcing herself to stop, hollowing out of Rolla. Her reactions to the drugs intensifying, gradually tipping into madness, tipping toward madness, helplessness. And so, like today, she swallowed all the accidentally spilled pills, an act of foolish defiance.

The door was pushed open, and light fought its way in, almost toppling her. The comer paid no attention to her, or perhaps was simply accustomed. Yes, Rolla’s breakdown had long since become as ordinary as breathing.

She remembered a moment at the dinner table, fixed on the crossing of blue-green veins on her left inner wrist, imagining them being cut open, blood surging. She can't help but imagine the reactions of those around her, imagine the admiration for her epitaph. Her brow unconsciously relaxed, sinking into a whirlpool of hallucinations. 

When she came back to herself, her hand gripped a knife in the kitchen. She dropped it in fright, startled. And realizing that no one was there to stop her from walking toward her own death. In that instant, she felt not relief, but endless disappointment, fear, and then guilt. Death’s door did not bar her; it offered no one to halt her steps. She believed that living itself was atonement. She could not end her life so carelessly. It would be too...

SELFISH.

“You can eat by yourself tonight. Your sister wanna going out.”

"You can come along if you want," she added, sensing my silence.

"There's no need to specially come for this kind of thing." A demon seemed to seize Rolla's mind, make her speak against her heart, leaving endless regret. 

“I was afraid you hadn’t seen the message.”

“You always carry too much malice toward her.” She continued.

Rolla only said, “I’m going to sleep.”

“She hasn’t owed anything to you.”

"I have wronged you both."

Then, she sat on the bed, her left hand tightly wrapping her right, against her chest, feeling the rise and fall, confirming her heart was still beating. Then she lowered her head, pressing the second joint of her left index finger to her nostrils, inhaling slowly, like in prayer, so earnest.

She gazed at the profile picture on the other end of the phone—three people in the photo, just without herself.

A short, mocking sigh left her, she seized the water and drank in hurried gulps before wrapping herself in the thick quilt. She imagined lying on the tracks, awaiting death’s judgment, rinsing unseen sins with her blood. But in truth, the next train would never come; this platform had long been abandoned. So she climbed up, crossed to another platform, and went on being a “compliant” passenger. No future. No destination.

“Stop spending the whole bloom of your youth pondering decay,”

She whispered to herself.

Still, she could not know if this garden even needed a single flower like her.

To be Continued…