"Bleeding Heart"--July 2

Word Count: 750

Bleeding Heart

Jamie stood by the front door with a tiny key in her hand, a bright orange keychain just showing through her shaking fingers. She strained to see through the peephole, checking the street for signs of life.

The neighbor across the street had mowed his lawn an hour before, and the clippings clumped at the edges of his yard. The neighbor to her right worked nights; he would be sleeping. The other neighbor’s van had departed fifteen minutes ago, loaded with nine family members and three dogs.

Jamie put her hand on the doorknob but stopped herself. As slowly as she could manage, she counted to fifty.

Getting the mail was her one daily treat, and she couldn’t let it be ruined by going out before the coast was clear.

The wet scent of the freshly mowed grass hit her first, then the slight chill in the air. Beneath her bare toes, the concrete drive was damp. A pigeon hopped from the curb into the gutter.

Jamie padded toward the mailbox, soaking it in. She lingered with a stack of mail in her hands, flipping through catalogs and bills.

“Morning!” called a cheery voice, and Jamie’s entire body froze.

“Good morning,” she managed, but already waves of agitation were rocking her head to toe, clouding her vision.

Just go away, she hoped. The woman was on the other side of the street, walking a ridiculously fluffy dog and smiling, her long blonde ponytail bouncing. A picture of suburban contentment.

As she neared, waves of anxiety flooded over Jamie, mixed with self-loathing and fear. Bile rose up in her throat and she struggled to breathe as she averted her eyes from the woman. It never worked but she had to try anyway.

What had happened to this poor woman, she wondered, that she felt like this?

The woman gave a cheery wave as she passed by and jogged out of sight. Jamie held onto the mailbox, her eyes still closed, lost in a wilderness of emotions. Sharp pains began to radiate from the center of her chest, and this time, Jamie knew that the fresh waves of fear were entirely hers.

It took the woman five minutes to get far enough away that Jamie stopped feeling every nuance of her inner life. As soon as she dared, Jamie rushed back into her house and slammed the door shut, near tears. Hands shaking, she poured an assortment of pills from a bottle and downed them.

When she had finally settled, she sorted through her mail, tossing catalogs and advertisements in the trash with irritated grimaces. At the last envelope in the pile she stopped, staring at the angular, shaky handwriting across the back.

Inside was a plain white card with a simple border and carefully hand-written words.

Please join us for the Celebration of Life for Pierre Dumont…

****

A long time ago, Jamie had lost the ability to distinguish between her own sensations and those of others. Even from the parking lot, a fire hose of anger, grief, and anxiety hit her square in the chest.

It’s a celebration, she thought, clenching her fists on the steering wheel. I thought I might at least find some joy.

She braced herself as she walked in the door and took a seat at the back of the church. There was music and someone was speaking, but she could make out none of it. The woman beside her gave off such powerful waves of hopeless grief that it was all Jamie could do not to burst into tears. Slowly, the pains in her chest worsened.

She hadn’t even been that close to Pierre. Why had she come?

Jamie lost track of how long the service lasted—it felt like it stretched on for years. The audible sniffles around her thankfully masked the tears in her own eyes as any energy she had left after the stormy sea of morning traffic and the tidal wave of the parking lot ebbed away. Finally it ended, and the room slowly emptied, leaving Jamie alone in the back corner, trying to find the energy to stand and leave.

The grief, the rage, the pain faded as the last car left the parking lot, leaving Jamie alone with what she knew now was her own faint grief. Wearily, she made her way to the parking lot, pausing beside a picture of Pierre. It blurred around the edges, then from the bottom up as Jamie slumped forward, bleeding from the heart.