Chapter Forty-Seven

My heart feels hallow, my brain is vastly cluttered, and I can't seem to remember why I decided to not jump off the third floor balcony of our winter home in Detroit when I was fourteen.

I think often of that balcony, and how amusing it would be to die specifically there, specifically in front of the neighbors, specifically right in front of their six-year-old daughter's bedroom.

I'm tired.

Mirea is sitting on the couch, drinking a cup of coffee that she's offered to me at least three times and each time I say no but actually I want it and yet my bruised depiction of my own needs, in contrast to my own wanting towards self-destruction is so blinding.

I take the cup from her.

Caffeine is my least favorite thing. It makes my heart beat so fast my mind only moves quicker. The last thing I need is to combat a racing mind and abusive hyperactivity.

"You look hideous today." I tell her, as I sit beside her on the couch and wait not very patiently for the clock to tick faster. I don't mean what I say. She looks perfectly fine. In fact, I'm so wholly attracted to her that I want to take her clothes off as well as make sure she takes mine off but I don't want her touching me either because my heart is really racing right now and it's embarrassing that I can't even control my thoughts when I could be having sex.

A fear of mine is losing concentration while consuming her. I think she knows my fear, and she refuses to go beyond kissing. Is it out of pity? Or does she find my child-like behavior just that repulsive?

I want her to want me. I am convinced she will never be attracted to the brain that I have. Sex will never be a consideration to her, at least, not with me. Every time I kiss her, every time I take her clothes off, she never let's me go further. She sees me as a child.

I sometimes hate myself because of that.

I take a deep breath.

"You look awful." She responds, and I know that she definitely means that.

"Stop deflecting." I take a drink, "It's not nice."

"Hypocrite." She takes the coffee cup from me.

We never did get to go back to sleep. After visiting my mother this morning, we ended up returning home at seven, and thus, it was time for us to prepare for yet another excruciating day of preparation.

As thrilled as I am to execute the president of the United States, I am so fucking sick of everything. I look in the mirror, and I do not see myself. I don't remember what I look like, or who I'm supposed to be. I feel completely empty in every sense of the term. There's nothing I remember about my former self. This past week has been the staple of my deterioration. I can not breathe without questioning why I don't fill the tub with the hottest water and drown in my own scalding misery.

Mirea's hand laces around my wrist before I can steal back the cup, "What's on the agenda today?" She asks me, and I think about telling her self-mutilation (if she's up for it) or perhaps simply going to bed would be nice.

"Today we will both be getting fitted for our attire."

"Thrilling." Her sarcasm attracts me more than she will ever know.

What she doesn't know is that her hand still around my wrist makes me want to scream. I can not remember the last time I've screamed. I want her to scream with me.

I pull my wrist from her hold. She looks at me funny, and then reaches out and grabs my wrist again. Sometimes I miss it when she wanted me dead. At least then, when I feel lesser than nothing, I wouldn't have to beg her to stop looking at me. Perhaps I should threaten to kill her father again. I should cut off his finger, she will never forgive me then.

If she will not want me whole, then I do not want her to want me at all. Except, that is a lie, because I often daydream about kissing her. Her arms around my body is my preferred clothing.

I take the coffee back from her, and I take a large drink, and the liquid burns in my mouth, and stains my teeth, and reminds me that I really shouldn't be drinking caffeine because it doesn't sit well with me.

"You're erratic today." Mirea, once more, takes the drink from my hand. "You need sleep."

"Rude." I tell her, as I stare at the walls, and the hideous gold trimming of our living room. Who decided gold was a good idea? I think it was me actually, but I regret it and therefore, I feel the need to blame someone else. I'll blame it on my mother, she's dying anyway.

"Have you considered the idea of moving?"

I feel her staring at me, and something tells me not to stare at her, so I pretend I do not acknowledge the action, "Moving? Why would you want to move?" Her question doesn't surprise me but I'm still anxious to make up an answer.

"I'm bored here."

"We're barely ever here anymore. We're too busy to move."

"We can make time."

She sighs, "Erratic."

I sigh as a means to copy her, and say, "Boring wife." It was my attempt at a joke that was not at all funny, but it always makes me feel better to get her mad. She's a lovely distraction to me. Her anger is gorgeously amusing.

"Shut up." She says, her voice light and careful. That's it. I've pinned it. She's pitying me. She thinks I'm going to lose myself. She think I'm going to throw a tantrum like a child because my mother is probably dead now, or maybe close to it. If she was dead I'd be informed, or maybe they won't inform me until I kill the president. They want me in a solid headspace until after I mutilate a politician in front of millions, only then will they let me go a bit mad.

I shake my head, disagreeing with the voice in my brain's conclusion. They don't care about me that much. My madness penetrates their pockets. The more immoral I am, the more gossip pays the bills.

I should live on a farm, I should kill animals and make furniture out of their flesh. Or, at least I think that's how it's done. Still, it would be much more relaxing than all of this.

"Maybe you should go back to sleep for an hour?" Mirea suggests, and I think an hour is not long enough to gain back my dignity, but I don't say that.

Instead, I simply respond with a shrug, and speak, "Would that hour consist of you in bed with me and absolutely no sleeping at all?"

I see the irritation in her eyes. I see how much she hates it when I bring up anything in the realm of sexual release. She really does not want me. My lack of self-esteem would end up killing me were I not raised an insufferable and very rich narcissist.

I suppose I could thank my mother for smothering me. Or, in the literal sense, not smothering me when she probably should have.

"Why can't you take your health seriously?"

"I didn't realize I was dying."

She waves a hand at me, "See? That right there. Enough with the jokes. I've watched you spend the last several days not sleeping, I can't even remember the last time you've ate and yes, I've been watching. I can't stand it. You look awful, you need to eat and rest."

"You are not my mother." I defend myself, because I don't know what else to say, and I could say 'my mother is dying therefore I can do what I want' but that seemed in poor taste.

"You're right." She takes a deep breath, "I'm not, I'm your wife, and I will not be the first widowed Harvester. I refuse."

I lean my head back, "Fine, what do you wish I do? Go back to bed for nap time like a child? Perhaps you'll feed me, cut my food up in small pieces and lie to me and call it candy."

"You're being pathetic."

"And you're treating me like I am pathetic." I stand, "Is that why you won't sleep with me? Because I'm your child? Your little project? Is that your intention? To take my mother's place?" I should not be saying these things. Most is absurd even to me. I'm so annoyed with myself that I can't stop.

It is rare to see such a horrified expression on her face. Her eyes wide, and her mouth parted. Her eyebrows narrowed like one would narrow if they had just gotten stabbed in the gut. "That's not- I would never-" She shakes her head, attempting to gather her words, "I can't believe you would ever ask something like that." She stares at me, a fire in her eyes I've only seen when she was bartering for her father's life, "Is that what you think?"

Yes and no. I don't think any part of her wants anything to do with replacing the role of my mother. I also think subconsciously, she's doing it anyway. She stupid and caring all at once. She would make a good mother, or a terrible one, I'm not really sure.

Sick of this conversation, and also conflicted on whether I should retract my statements or consider it too late to do so, I simply say, "We might as well get fitted for our outfits early. Let's get on with it." I turn, like a very, very big coward, and attempt to leave the room. My cowardice, though, does not outweigh my pride, and so I'm stuck pausing at the doorway, and looking back at my very surprised wife I say, "Are you coming or am I going to have to drag you?"

She doesn't fight me, and instead follows me out of the room.

The rest of the day, we say nothing to each other, and I begin, again, to fantasize about jumping off the third floor balcony of our winter home in Detroit.