amber pacific

for silent descant

I suppose you could say I've had better days than today. Oh, plenty. The days where I am able to actually smile and mean it. The days where I can laugh free of tension and overworked shoulders. The days where I needn't worry about a thing, where I wouldn't be pestered, bothered, labored to the core. Working is completely tolerable, but when it gets the best of me, the best of me is gone. I'd have to wait forever for it to come back. Waiting is fine, but that gets the best of me as well. It is not pretty when the "best of me" is taken away twice, because that's quite impossible. Isn't that Life? A workload of impossibilities that are actually, truly possible if you have the right key?

I suppose you could say I've had better days than today. Write a book if you wish, I am not going to deny it. After nearly getting fired out of two of my three part-time jobs, after figuring out that my bank account had spontaneously decided to pick this very day to bounce, after running into my drunken ex… Oh, my drunken ex. How stupid of me to bring him up. How stupid of me to bring him up into my life in the first place. He had given me everything I'd wanted. He just… kept giving, and giving, and giving still. Then the knot was tied, the ring was slipped. That was when I gave my all into the relationship. That was when he declared it was his turn. To take. He kept taking. And taking. And taking still. Until I was about sure every ounce of fatigue in me had weathered.

The knot loosened. The ring slipped off.

I was left with nothing but bruises and a son.

I thought I'd hated the man, my former lover, my former best friend. His hair, oh, his hair—it amazed me. When we were much younger, I had expected each and every one of those gingerbread-cinnamon strands to be held up by invisible strings attached to the clouds in the sky. He hadn't even touched gel in his life; he swore it to me in a pinky promise. He swore it to me and crossed his heart and hoped to die, stick a needle in his eye and the whole lot. I'd loved him. I had believed him. I let myself drown in the sea of beryl gems that were his eyes—and died. His oceanic gaze washed over me and killed me.

I am a practical ghost who has mastered a succeeding façade.

Everything is quite all right. Did you believe that?

… …

I brushed a dimly glittering droplet away from one of my eyes, rapidly using my cleaned fingernails to peel off the shells from my batch of tender, pale and almost translucent headless shrimp. I aligned the sea critters into a tight row, tucking in the softly curved shrimp, one into the next. As I dabbed it ever so slightly with a sourly sweet sauce, I reached over and grabbed a narrow metal spatula to transfer them upon the cease-to-shine frying pan sitting over the old-fashioned stove. The immediate touch of hot oil against shrimp flesh caused the combination to spit and sputter indignantly. They demanded it was too hot. I declared I was cooking them anyhow.

More liquid crystals appeared on my lashes. I thrashed them away. I was not crying. I had no time for such… such stupidity. I'd given up on Love and Love had given up on me, so we were even. Even, I echoed to myself in my mind, over and over again, before a pair of words flashed into my conscience: roast chicken. Roast chicken? Roast chicken!

I angrily seized the uncooked, fleshy beheaded chicken and slapped it upon the counter. I yanked open the cabinet above my head, almost hitting my forehead and therefore almost triggering a concussion I nearly yearned for. My hand slipped into the opening of the cabinet, fingers groping in the dark for what I needed: a boning knife. When my desired tool was claimed, I pulled it out of its slot with a stuffed shiing; silver glinted deviously when it met the light. I felt related to the knife. So sharp, so used often, slicing into so many things but never satisfied.

I returned to the lonely, cold chicken on the counter and pitilessly plunged my pretend-weapon into the flabby meat. I focused determinedly on cutting along the side of a breast bone, then sliding the knife's blade along the neighboring bones, cutting the meat off its bone as I went. I slit a breast in half crosswise, and then parted with my miniature sword to obtain welcoming, sparkling scissors into my weary fingers. I snipped and snipped until I was satisfied, until I was sure the chicken had been dissected and lacerated enough—for the moment.

Even though the chicken was very much dead, I hoped it hurt.

Because it's not fair to be the only one hurting.

I pulled up a sleeve and rubbed my dampened eyes. I was positive they were bloodshot—blood always has to be involved, whenever the haunting image of copper spikes and cerulean orbs poured mercilessly into my fragile mind. Traitor. He betrayed me. Betrayer. He used me. Took advantage of me. Forgiveness was out of the question… forgiveness?

I stormed over to the mourning frying pan and crying shrimp, using the spatula in an attempt to shut them up by flipping the sea creatures over. Then, I retreated to my post on the counter, where the chicken still awaited me. I reached out and ran a finger against the torso. Oh, birdie… I gripped the wings near the torso and with a jerk of my wrists the chicken's joints snapped, broken. I retrieved my lovely, shiny scissors again… shiny… and cut through the wings. I flipped my defenseless victim and bent each leg back, exposing the joint. I fractured each joint with a pop, snipping through them and along the backbone to release the legs from the carcass. My fingers traveled up and down and up and down, nicking the chicken's drumsticks and thighs. I rapidly patted a white, powdery substance on its featherless contour.

I breathed heavily, finished carving the chicken at last, slamming the scissors down upon the wooden counter. They were still shiny. My gaze focused on it fondly before I snapped out of my trance, hearing my frying pan and shrimp begin to lament again. I supposed they had enough, so I huffily sauntered over, killing the sapphire fire and using the spatula to send the cooked shrimp flying onto an old, faded-blue porcelain plate. I set that aside before I shoved the chicken into the oven to endure the blazing flames of my hell.

I began trembling, shifting my jeweled, icy arctic eyes all around the plain kitchen. Claustrophobia awakened, creeping into my bones. The walls threatened to approach me, to fly forward and collide into my frail body so that I was a mangled, bloody mess on the kitchen floor. I reached up and fiddled with my auburn hair before dropping onto a chair near the oven. I heard the chicken whisper to me, but I did not bother to listen. I opened a drawer, suddenly finding a book I'd been looking for the past few days.

Traitor… betrayer… I hate you… hate you, hate you. I loathe and despise every inch of your arrogant being. Your goofy adorable smile won't fool me anymore, even when you are sober. The next time I see you, I'll whisk that transparent jade bottle of alcohol right out of your hands and blitz it against your head. I don't care if you pass out, bleed internally, lapse into a coma, get a concussion, or earn dire cerebral damage… whatever! I won't regret it, you bastard.

You left our son without a fatherly figure, a male role model. I hate you for that, even more than I hate you for turning your back on me. Our son, my son needed you. And what did you do? Breathe the breath of an alcoholic right into his young face. You left. Without a word. You left without a word.

I flipped open the book, yawning to myself and letting a few tears plummet upon the pages, soaking the yellowed paper. I tried to read, tried to put all the words together, but the story seemed broken. Either that, or I had exhausted myself with my ways of cooking. I glanced at the scissors resting on the counter and shook my head before resuming my attempts at reading. My eyes went in and out of focus, swelling up with watery crystal. I exhaled sharply and forced myself to keep reading, keep reading, keeping reading, read keeping…

My eyes closed for about two seconds before I snapped awake. I pointed to the part I left off and tried to resist my nodding off to slumber. Letters, words began fading away. Tired. So tired. I found that I was reading the same sentence over and over again. I found that I was reading the same sentence over and over again. I found that I was reading the same sentence over and over again. I found that I was reading the same sentence over and over again.

… The chicken must be done now.

… …

After washing my face in an attempt to hide the fact that I'd been sobbing next to the oven and that I'd practically murdered a dead chicken before even cooking it—I stood at the very last step at the bottom of my staircase, quivering hand grasping the stair railing. I have recovered. I know it. That gravity-defying man is out of my life, permanently. I swear it. I pinky promise it. I cross my heart, and hope to die. Hope to die. I hope to die. I just… hope to die so much.

He must be hungry. My son. My son of amber hair and pacific eyes. He made it all better. He always did. The younger version of his father. The younger version of who had once been my best friend. A light. My light, in my dark tunnel. My pale lips curved into a smile before transforming into a smirk, staring up the second story, towards my son's room. I hated the light. He looked too much like his father. I wanted to obliterate the light that was left. He reflected that man too much.

I do hope he enjoys the chicken and shrimp I've made for him. Just for him.

A twisted sneer wound up on my face as images of sauce and white powder flashed in my mind.

It'd be his last.

I cleared my throat, rubbing my still-bloodshot eyes as I struggled to make my voice as motherly as possible. My throat tightened. Amber hair. Pacific orbs. Amber pacific… you must die.

I pressed my back against the wall, listening to the rumbling of an oncoming storm outside. I felt somehow relieved. It was too quiet here. I needed calamity. I needed catastrophe. I held my breath and strained my voice so that it would travel every step upstairs toward his room.

"Sora! Dinner's ready, come on down!"

… …

But he never did.

"Sora…?"