She thinks the nights where she can’t sleep are the worst. The solid mass of heart and veins beats her awake. Inside her, it can’t help but scratch at the surface, leaping from her chest, thumping to freedom.
She can feel the words she’s been pushing down start to put up a stronger fight. She can feel that heart haunting from the darkness, pushing poisoned blood through angry arteries. Left atrium. Right. Right Ventricle. Wrong.
Suddenly, staring at the ceiling becomes less of a task of counting the weathered cracks and more of a battle of wills. It’s chambers and valves taunt: Have a heart. Be merciful. Cry your heart out. Grieve.
She can feel all the things she’s been trying so hard not to say etching themselves in the ceiling: daring to be read aloud. Suddenly, the silence in the air becomes less like a hollow mass and more like a weight on her shoulders. A weight from a solid bloody heart, peeling-back her layers like its own. Endocardium. Myocardium. Pericardium. A complexity no one is ready for; an exposure that can’t be forgotten.
She can never sleep at night. It’s never that she’s not tired enough, or not worn out enough. She can feel it in her body that it’s ready to be released with hours of rest. But, somehow, her nerves find a way to jolt, and her heart finds a way to sink to the pit of her stomach. Taunting her: Heavy heart. Be sad. Broken heart. Lost love.
For the longest time she thought that maybe she had some kind of sleep disorder, so she started taking sleep aids, thinking that a little extra push was all she needed.
Instead, despite the help, her mind still found a way to fight past it; her nerves would still jolt, and that stubborn heart would find its way to it’s resting place. Pushing that poison through left ventricle. Right. Right atrium. Wrong.
After He left, she had thought that maybe it was that void that kept her body so unwillingly awake. That large mass haunted. Change of heart. Change your mind.
She had tried so hard to push Him from her mind, that maybe she had somehow thought that if she let her body drift off to sleep, that it meant it was drifting out of her control. Out of her control meant that whether she liked it or not, whether she thought she could handle it or not, He would find his way into her thoughts. Let him, it taunted, even now. Be heartfelt. Feel deeply.
If she let that happen, she knew she’d wake up in the morning with a deeper void than she had allowed in the beginning. And that crimson heart would hiccup laughter from a resting place between shaky lungs. I know you by heart, it would taunt. You’re memorized.
Now, many months after she’s started to fill that void fill up, she still can’t find rest.
There’s so much going on all day long; alarm clocks, rustling clothes, shuffling feet, laughter, pen on paper. At night, all that noise comes to settle.
There’s no longer anything to busy her hands with. Thud.
There’s no longer anything to busy her ears with. Thud.
Of all those thousands of people sending small talk and chatter billowing into the atmosphere, she’s the only one left.
She’s the only one feeling what she’s trying so hard not to. Thud.
She’s the only one restless. Thud.
She’s the only one fighting her biggest fear every night: being alone.
But that solid mass of beating livelihood selfishly watches her pain.
It isn’t attractive, but it’s her best friend. It’s selfishly loyal. Honest. With a whole heart.
Even still, sitting in her windowsill, she’s never felt more alone. She can feel the vibration of the window’s glass, resulting from the persistent wind’s screams, but nothing has ever felt more still.
The giant tree feet from her window is quivering, and shaking clusters of crystallized ice from its limbs. Ice has found its way onto the framing of her window, shining in all its midnight glory before the soft winter sun steals it away. Despite the noise and despite the silence, she’s never realized more how feeble we are. How disheartening, it whispers. Devastating, really.
The tricuspid valve is at the exit of the right atrium.
The pulmonary valve is at the exit of the right ventricle.
The mitral valve is at the exit of the left atrium.
The aortic valve is at the exit of the left ventricle.
Sleep is the exit from her mind.
Feet from that giant quivering tree, and behind the window decorated in shiny matted snow, sits a girl waiting for an answer to be carried through on wind. As she waits, she’ll lie awake at night and press her palms to the window, waiting for the trembling glass to lull her to sleep. As she waits, she’ll lie awake and feel the silence swallowing her up, suffocating her eyes closed. Behind those heavy lids, she’s promised a resting place; a false hope of a place where her muscles ease themselves and her mind can allow itself peace. Such a wild-hearted soul, it hisses. So pure of heart.
Just when she thought
it had forgotten about her,
It sang as she cried.
A melody of hiccupped laughter through the left tricuspid valve. Right. Right aortic valve. Wrong.
Each salted truth, a crescendo in it’s melody.
& just when she thought the song was over,
Just when she felt movement beneath her palm,
it sang on.
Cross my heart, it sings. I hope you die.
Alyssa Chaffee 