Early morning. Earlier than ever. Elia slips on her coverall's second sleeve and reaches for the zipper. Beat her for once. She thinks, zipping from crotch to collarbone.
Off near her bed, an alarm squeals. Shrill, warbling tones like a distressed bird in an old recording. Fire floods Elia's veins in an instant. She tramps from her foyer closet, past her kitchen, and over to the new clock on her bedside table. "Fuck! I'll never figure this damn thing out."
Picking it up, she fumbles with its buttons and dials — of which there are far too many. "Fucking — ugh — stop!"
Inside her mind, something twinges. Unclear and quiet. Yet, distinct enough to recognize: a reminder. Her past pleading with her present. She pauses, alarm still ringing in hand.
Yeah. Should try what the therapist said.
Memories of exactly what the therapist suggested are conspicuously absent, papered over by her own interpretations of the unbearable, feel-goody bullshit. Cars are easy; engines follow rules. The squishy workings of a brain and its feelings are much the opposite.
Never say never. Talk better. Whatever.
Taking a breath, Elia locks eyes with the clock's display. "This makes me mad. Very mad. But, that's okay, I guess; I have time to figure the clock out."
There's no instant quenching of flame — no sense of accomplishment. She drops the alarm clock onto her nightstand and yanks its plug from the wall. "Fuck, I feel ridiculous."
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The clock's squeals die over a second. From unbearable, to a weakening whine, to nothing at all. Upon the clock's segmented display, red numbers reading "8:00 AM" fade away.
8:00 AM already? Elia glances out her bedside window. She should be here by now.
The window is open. Only cracked, but enough for a cat to slip in. Unease sits in Elia's gut. Breaths quicken, goosebumps rise, and teeth clench.
She shakes her head, casting the worry away. "No, no. She's fine."
There's a sensation at her finger tips: embossed, cold metal. She looks down. Her right hand, stuffed inside her chest pocket, caresses the pocket mirror within. Her stomach jumps and she yanks her hand away.
No. It's just here for peace of mind. That's it. Never using it again.
Force of will isn't enough; the allure to rip the mirror out from her pocket festers. Grows. Could she resist using it forever?
"Use it." Her inner voice whispers. "Just for today, huh? Just for an hour? Not having to worry for a little while sounds so nice."
Her chest constricts. She wipes a sweat-slicked palm down the leg of her coveralls. "Shit. What'd the kook say to do?"
"Use it."
Nope. Not quite that.
More self-paraphrasing of the therapist's nonsense spews forth: baby steps. Take baby steps. Elia grits her teeth. Asinine, embarrassing bullshit.
But, what choice does she have? She plants her back against a wall, cranes her neck skyward, and closes her eyes. I can go an hour without using it. That's all I need to do.
The thought acts as a chisel, chipping away at an impossible forever. Carving away blocks until only an hour remains. A single hour.
Her body's response isn't instant, but the pressure eases. She breathes in and out — slow, deliberate. "An hour; I can do that."
Bamboo still isn't here, but that's okay. It's fine.
Dipping into the kitchen, Elia fishes wet cat food from a cupboard. Her knuckles shine white against the tin. "Bamboo'll come; just a bit late. That's all."
Work isn't going to wait for the cat. So — with a final slow breath — Elia cracks open the tin and leaves it on her windowsill. For whenever Bamboo does come.