Something in the Way (Nirvana)

You wake up. The air is warm, a cool breeze blowing from the opened window. Your other half is sleeping soundly, snores escaping between shallow breaths. The sound that has awoken you comes ringing in your ear - it's your alarm, signalling your time to start the day. You silence it and roll out from under the covers. The soles of your feet are cold on the tiled floor.

The coffee is instant - quarter cup full of the powdered stuff just to get you through the morning. There are clouds outside, dark and threatening rain; you start a load of laundry anyway because you know if you don't do it now it will never get done. The coffee is bitter down your throat.

The drive to work is long. You listen to the radio to drown out the voices in your head. You listen to them ramble about inconsequential things in between songs off the top 40 hits and adverts campaigning you to buy insurance, a new car and a trip to a far away island - none of which you can afford.

The parking lot is full; you park in the alley half a kilometre away. The walk is long, your shoes too tight. The wind has picked up. You stuff your fists into the pocket of your old school sweater. It reminds you of a time when you had dreams.

Work is mundane. Everything you'd worked for down the drain - now you're pouring coffees for people who don't have time to say thank you or good morning. Your boss is an idiot. He tells you to do things you've done a hundred times and hounds over your shoulder just waiting for the smallest mistake he can berate you on. He likes being right. He gets to be right a lot because he is the one with the money and the business. He has no clue what he's doing.

Your feet hurt. The skin on your hands is chapped and dirty from washing dishes and scrubbing floors. You wave good bye to tolerable coworkers and trudge home. You're tired. You haven't had time to eat anything today apart from a shot of espresso and a stolen bit of someone's leftover muffin. You're exhausted. You know there's more work waiting for you at home.

The drive home is long. You listen to the radio again. Different people - same trash. A sad song too much resembling your past comes on - you immediately turn the radio down. You let the thoughts overcome you.

There was a time, not that long ago, when you were free. There were no responsibilities. No baggage. There was the freedom to choose how to spend your money, to not worry about supporting anyone or anything else. You could be ignorant because you were young. You could pretend because there was no one relying on you. You could care less and think less and do whatever whim was tempting you.

There was a time. The time has passed.

You come home; the children are screaming. There's two: they never shut up. Your other half is in on the couch, snoring again. The kitchen is a mess, the floor is a disaster, the beds haven't been made. Something's been smashed, someone else's skin has been cut.

You stand in the doorway for a moment. You want to scream. You want to smash. Instead you move, relying on your muscle memory to get everything done.

When everyone's fed and cleaned and wrapped up, you have a moment. It's almost time to sleep, to face another day. You can't bare it. You lock yourself in the bathroom and stare at your face in the mirror.

You don't recognize yourself. Tired, worn, baggy eyes, baggy skin. You used to be so young, so full of life. So full of freedom. You miss the girl with the bouncy curls and the bright eyes, the one whose skin glittered under the lights of a dance floor, who could drink away any worries and forget about them the next day. You miss the softness of her skin and the way her nails never chipped. You miss how much energy she had, how often she could stay up days on end enjoying life. You miss blowing all her money and then saving it all up again for another adventure. You miss her. You miss her freedom. You wish you could go back.

You close your eyes, darkness settling in behind your eyelids. When you open them again, she's looking back at you.

She's got on a vicious grin. Her eyebrows are perfectly manicured, perfectly shaped, perfectly coloured. Her cheeks are splashed with colour, and her face light with youth. She winks at herself in the mirror before heading out for the night.

She'd just awoken from a glorious afternoon nap in the arms of one of her many lovers. She ate a slice of pizza, and reapplied a thin layer of makeup to her rather spotless face. She was off.

She walked, because the night was so dreamy - cloudless and starry. She couldn't even feel cold on her skin. At the bar, she drank with friends, martinis and gin and tonics with sprigs of rosemary. She dance, with friends, with men, with everyone. She was the star. Her body moved so in tune with each song, effortlessly.

The dancing ceased just as the sun came up, and she and her friends stumbled to their favourite breakfast spot, a diner with the greasiest grilled cheeses and the hottest kitchen-sink coffee. They talked until the late morning and parted ways. On her way home, she made friends with the cab driver and invited him up for coffee. They shared a moment, and never saw each other again.

She slept for as long as she wanted. She took a scalding bath and shaved her legs with smooth accuracy. She put on her face again and danced another night away. Another. And another. And when she felt like staying home she did, opening up a bottle of wine and watching reruns of her favourite reality TV shows.

She drank. She danced. She drank more. She stumbled home. She met men. They were nice. They liked her. Sometimes they weren't so nice. She drank. She danced. Sometimes, they danced for her. She drank. She grew anxious. She was tired, she wasn't getting enough sleep. She'd thrown up six times in the last three days. She was exhausted.

She'd go out. She'd drink. She'd dance. Sometimes, she didn't remember. She tried, but she couldn't piece it together. Sometimes, she was happy to forget. Sometimes, the drinking would come at a price. Sometimes, there was more, and she'd trip home and pass out on her kitchen floor in a pool of her own blood from smashing her nose.

Sometimes, she wouldn't remember the men that left her apartment in the morning. She'd be surprised they were even there. She'd take deep breaths and squeeze her eyes shut. She was tired, she wanted to stop. She couldn't stop.

Sometimes, she wished the floor would open up and swallow her whole. Sometimes, she'd lose her friends in the crowd and the next morning find out they hadn't even realized she was gone. Sometimes, she'd find herself asleep in places she hadn't remembered going, scratched and bruised and scared. Sometimes, she'd have headaches so bad she couldn't get out of bed for days. Sometimes, she'd miss important things and have to act like she didn't care but she really did. Sometimes, her brain felt sick but she couldn't admit it to herself.

She crawled home. Her hands and her knees were dirty and bruised. She had been crying. She couldn't stop. Her make-up was running down her face in long streams. She got home, barely, but had just enough strength to pour a glass of wine - just one more. She took herself to the bathroom where she stood in the mirror and looked at herself.

She didn't recognize herself. Tired, worn, baggy eyes, baggy skin. She used to be so young, so full of life. So full of freedom. She missed the girl with the bouncy curls and the bright eyes, the one whose skin glittered under the light of the sun, who could spend all day running and playing and never wear herself out. She missed the softness of her skin and the way her nails never chipped. She missed how much energy she had, how passionate she was for discovery and people and life. She missed not having to worry about money, the lucky childhood with not a care in the world. She missed her. She missed her freedom. She wished she could go back.

She closed her eyes, darkness settling in behind her eyelids. When she opened them again, you are looking back.

She swallows. You look awful. You look sad and lonely. She tries to reach out for you - you try to reach out to her, but your fingertips meet at the pane of glass between your worlds.

You stand still, wishing for the nightmare to end. She stares back at you.

You miss her life. You miss her other half, her noisy children. They weren't always so bad - they were happy. They helped out whenever they could. They worked together. Every day wasn't as bad as the worst. Most days were nice. Her job was fine. She liked making coffee. She was doing so much other work on the side, building herself something she could take with her wherever she went, for adventures planned with her family. Her boss was an idiot, but gave her and her coworkers lots to talk about. They were really nice. They invited her out for dinners and coffees where they shared interests and ideas. She was part of a pottery group which met every week. She loved pottery. She loved taking her kids to her pottery class and watching them make distorted animals out of clay. She loved her dog and her cat. She loved her home. She loved her life.

But you are trapped. You push against the glass and she pushes back. She wants you back but you're stuck. You push and push until your frustration gets the best of you and you start smashing, throwing your fists up against the glass until there are just broken shards of a distant memory. Your fingers and hands are red, shaking, sparkling in the reflection of the dim lights and filled with the crystal splinters.

You fall to your knees.