Something I wrote quite a few months ago when I was clawing my way through some tough times. I kept it hidden under friend-lock on LiveJournal, and only just now decided to publicly upload it. It's written in present tense as a challenge, and all run-on sentences are intentional.

I don't know why, but I love this couple to death.

Mint Tea

Eileen wakes up that morning because something is not right. She can feel every muscle in her body, cold, limp, and covered with icy perspiration. Her room, colored by filtered sunlight, seems soft and warm as the shadows sway with the leaves of the trees just outside the window. As comforting as it should be, she's tense. Gathering up her frail body, she tumbles out of bed and pads her way to the bathroom, flinching at the cold tile underneath her bare feet. Hunched over and panting, she wipes the cold sweat off of her forehead, and turns the knob at the sink, waiting for the hot water to rumble up the pipes to her apartment.

When the water is warm she splashes her cheeks with it, sooner rather than later awkwardly pressing her face to the stream of water. Licking her lips to take some water with her, she turns the knob and shuts the sink off. Not bothering to dry her face or hair, she lets the drops of water fall off of her chin and nose for a moment before wandering out to the kitchen.

The apartment is small and cheap, just below the value of her last apartment in appeal and function. She hugs her torso to support her breasts underneath her tank top, kicking the cuffs of her sweatpants away so she can walk properly. Opening the cupboards, she frowns at the lack of appealing food, finally settling on the bland taste of corn flakes for breakfast. Eileen pours the milk absentmindedly and tries not to imagine too far.

That's why she hates to sleep. Her imagination takes her too far, and suddenly the events of her escape and survival are the dream as she's running away again, limping and panting and screaming and crying as blood trickles down her back, men laughing behind her and the awful sound of metal scraping on metal deafening her ears. The churns of chains and gears twist and gnash in her head and she feels like she's going insane, so she runs from the epitome of insanity itself as she struggles to escape the hands of the man in the coat as he's closing in on her with his dogs and his double-headed monsters and infected nurses.

Cold milk spills onto her toes and she dances away. She was pouring the milk so that it is now overflowing in the cereal bowl. Scowling at herself, she turns around, rips a paper towel away from the roll, and bends down to mop the milk up. No use crying over spilled milk, Eileen, she tells herself in her mother's voice. She spoons the cereal into her mouth forcefully to choke back the tears she cannot hold back alone.

Finishing the cereal, she drinks the milk from the bowl hungrily, using it as a device to detach herself from the morning. When it's gone she meticulously cleans it and sets it on the rack to dry. Padding back to the bathroom, she ignores the ruffled, ragged reflection in the mirror and begins to undress for a shower. Everything done in precision to occupy her thoughts, she rolls the hem of her tank top before she lifts it up to her arm pits. She pauses as she finally catches a glance of her reflection, and she stares.

Round, usually vibrant green eyes, faint freckles on the nose that show themselves proudly in the right light, thick brown hair that drops just below her jawline, soft lips that have become chapped in recent days, ears that just barely poke through the curtain of her hair. Sunken eyelids, drooping cheeks, pouted chin, red veins coloring the whites of her eyes, brows that are tired of screaming, pale nose, temples that are red from being rubbed too much. Her eyes travel down the reflection. Slender fingers with unkempt nails gently gripping the edge of her purple tank top, hovering just above the receding curve of her breasts. She can barely see the soft shadows of her ribs as she breathes in and out, the shadows shifting harsher as her breathing quickens in sorrow. A stomach devoid of definition save for the single soft line tracing down to her inset belly button, stopped by the twisted waistband of her gray sweatpants.

Eileen stops and stares. If she looks hard enough, the line down her stomach is broken by cuts, the soft shadows under her ribs are crooked, her fingers are welded together into a mass of flesh, and her face is beaten into submission. All of this, coupled with the numbers bridging the distance between her shoulder blades, dead flesh tickled by the ribbed fabric of her shirt.

She has been staring too long and the precision has broken and her lip trembles as her neck undulates with gulps of depression and worthlessness. Eileen cannot move, she is frozen in front of the mirror, staring at the surrealist painting of herself as she begins to tumble into the abyss of utter nothingness.

A blaring buzz slices through her thoughts and her eyes snap shut as she shoves the rolled hem of her tank top down all in one violent motion. Adjusting the neckline so it brings decency back to her breasts, she holds herself almost angrily as she leaves the bathroom and goes to answer the door. Too clouded by her thoughts and emotions, she doesn't even bother to check the peephole before opening the door too sharply. It was probably her landlord, coming to see her to wonder if she's gathered money for the bill as the landlord never sees her leave her apartment to go to work.

But the feet she ends up staring at as she opens the door are different, and she catches her breath in her throat with a soft short squeal as she slowly looks up until she sees his face, and suddenly she is very, very embarrassed at such a crass greeting she had given him.

Oh, you, she manages to squeak out to Henry, What are you doing here?

Henry shifts on his feet as he mutters, I'm sorry.

No, no, Eileen corrects, It's alright, I'm sorry. I, er...

She almost, almost tells him of the nightmare she had last night, and the thoughts she let herself begin to think this morning, but she stops herself.

Do you want some coffee? She says instead, opening the door wider in invitation.

Er...no, I don't like coffee. He seemed to be keeping his eyes suspiciously up and directed at her face instead of the wall or the floor like he usually did.

Oh, right, right. Well it's not like I have any coffee anyways... She mutters to keep the silence at bay and ushers him inside despite his heightened awkwardness. It's then that she realizes that she's still in her pajamas and her shirt isn't exactly the type of shirt that leaves certain things to the imagination. Crossing her arms immediately over her breasts so the soft nipples are hidden from view, she can almost feel Henry's tension release as she turns around and offers him tea instead. He takes it out of courtesy, and she puts a pot on the gas stove and patiently waits for the old thing to light as Henry takes a seat in her cramped living room. She hadn't realized how late in the morning it was—in fact, it was almost noon instead. As the water heats up Eileen stands in her kitchen, too afraid to get close to him yet acres more comfortable now that he is here.

So, uh, what are you doing here? She asks, hoping it doesn't sound too accusatory. He looks at her strangely, then fidgets with his fingers.

I guess you forgot...we were going to go to lunch today...you know...to see how, ah...how we were doing.

He finishes the sentence with a cough, and Eileen's eyes widen as she finally remembers the plans they had made only days before. She tightens her arms around her chest and her voice becomes shrill and apologetic.

I...I'm sorry, I did forget, I guess this morning I just—I was just, um, I just woke up.

Henry blinks and Eileen feels a stone settle in her stomach. Of course he realized that the moment she flung the door open and revealed her pajamas to him. She turns around and turns the gas off just as the teapot is moments away from squealing. Pouring the tea into two mugs, she breathes in the calming mint smell as she hands Henry's mug to him. He thanks her quietly as she sits down across from him and keeps himself busy with sipping the hot liquid rather than staring across at her. On one hand she understands and silently thanks Henry for his courtesy, but on the other hand she wants to cry at him to raise his eyes up to stare at her—face, breasts, she doesn't care, she just wants to feel his eyes on him to let her know that everything is alright and it's still just a nightmare and nothing more. The precision of her day is completely lost and she feels her mind scurrying into the background to hide from the dark thoughts that begin to blossom again in her head.

Her feet and toes scald as the tea pours onto the floor and the mug shatters on the tile, shards of ceramic scattering everywhere. Henry is suddenly beside her, almost like magic, and she forces herself to feel his arms about her shoulders so that she can find her way back out of the labyrinth of her head. Once she does she unleashes the tears she had been holding back. Her face flushes stupidly red in embarrassment, and she tries to pull away from him but his gentle arms tighten around her and she cannot.

Why didn't you tell me, he whispers worriedly in her ear, I could've come sooner.

I'm not weak, she babbles blindly in the midst of her sobbing. He assures her she's not but she doesn't believe him.

She keeps herself strained against his hold as she cries, watching the tears drop down into her lap. Unable to even face him in fear that he'll accuse her of betrayal of their pact, she wishes she could break away and run and huddle under her bed sheets, hidden from his view and reach. They had told each other, soon before they packed their things and settled into different apartments, that they would call whenever they were having trouble dealing with the trauma. Along with the pact, every now and then they would visit and have lunch or something just to make sure everything was okay. And she deliberately denied the pact as evidenced here and now as Henry still does not release her. She blubbers at him, she means to say 'let me go Henry' but nothing can escape her lips. Henry remains silent as always, good, unchanging Henry, always quiet and willing to help.

Eileen gives in and lets him press her tentatively against his chest. She cannot see anything anymore, the tears blur her vision too much. Slowly, he gathers her up, folding her legs close, slackening her tense shoulders, bending her smooth spine closer to him. He's not quite as shy when she's broken into a fit, she notes in her head. But perhaps it's a purely scientific response, wasn't there a recent article somewhere about a woman's tears softening a man's libido?

She claws uselessly at his chest. She is no woman. Not anymore. Henry clenches his hold about her waist and head as if he read the thoughts in her mind.

Why do you do this, Henry? She asks once her tears calm down somewhat. He doesn't answer and she gathers the courage to look up at him to search his subtle expressions.

Why do you stay with me when I do this to you? What have I done for you? She asks again, seeing pain in his eyes as she speaks to him. His arms around her begin to weaken and withdraw, and Eileen is suddenly facing raw terror in the face as he retracts from her. Throwing her arms about him and clutching hard so it is he that cannot escape her grasp now, Eileen drowns in the tidal wave of emotions pointing her in a single direction whether it is right or wrong.

Nevermind, nevermind, I never said anything, I never said anything. She defends before she perks her chin forward and presses her lips to his. No response from him. Whether his muscles are limp or stiff she can't tell. That's alright. She isn't expecting an immediate response. Pulling mere inches away she meets his eyes. Emotionless on the surface, as to be expected from Henry, but from the time she has known him she can see everything he feels at this moment and she whispers to him.

Don't be shy.

There is a fuse in her chest that lights and sparks as he kisses and moves his hands around her, soon finding herself back where she started that morning, the scent of mint on her burnt feet and his hot breath on her neck to move her away back into a slumber where she can wake up because something for once is right.