Rejection
She wrote him letters. He would never read them, but still, she wrote. She'd read somewhere that writing was the best form of therapy - taking the pain out of your head and trapping it on the page. Soothing your thoughts. So she wrote.
"I'm not ready for this," she wrote, "I'm thinking of the future." "It would make us both unhappy." It was no good. Her thoughts were not quieted, her mind remained un-soothed. She could see her lies. See that she'd really written: "Leave me alone." "You're terrifying." "I never asked for you to be here." She laid down her pen and pressed her fingers against her eyelids. It was difficult, to push him away like this when he was so close. She sighed. But she had made her decision.
Tomorrow she would get rid of him. The day after that she would get out of this place, like she should have done a long time before. This slate grey city, where once she had watched as it rained steadily for twenty three days and nights without let up. And then started again less than twenty four hours later. She could barely remember the sun being here, was unsure it ever had been. The damp had crept into her life, ruining everything. So she was leaving, heading south, to dry out. Get a new job, new friends. She already had a new man lined up. Everything was ready - books boxed, bags packed. She mustn't hesitate. So she wrote. Trying to pin everything down so it wouldn't torment her in the night. She just had to reach tomorrow, and then he'd be gone. She'd be free to do as she pleased. There'd be nothing left to hold her here.
Her friends had disappeared since his arrival. They had grown more and more unsure of how to talk to her. Were aware he'd changed her, subtly, that she was more fragile now. Trapped and frightened and quick to anger. They were as scared of him as she was, and crept away one by one, afraid of catching some of her panic themselves, of becoming diseased. She grew past caring. She couldn't join in any more anyway, felt guiltier with every drink and always left early, crying off ill. But she was ill. He was making her sick. Her nerves were torn apart, her bones aching. She got confused easily, couldn't recognise the difference between hunger and nausea, didn't know what she wanted. Found herself resting her head against the coolness of the bathroom floor, sobbing and pleading with him just to leave her alone. Couldn't he see what he was doing, why she had to leave without him? With every fresh wave her mind taunted her. It's not him. It's guilt. Guilt is making you sick.
She had always known he was coming, but took no action to stop him. And when he arrived she had known straight away. Woken up strangely calm, just knowing. By the end of the day she was certain. Spent all night talking to him, excited and giddy, not remotely unhappy. She'd been hysterical, getting her laughter and her tears all mixed up. It was no use trying to explain it to anyone else. He'd turned up early, that was all. That was all. But after a week she knew it was wrong. The feelings were too powerful and she couldn't cope with them. They ripped into her with a force she'd never felt before. He was killing her slowly, from the inside out. So she waited. Willing him to find fault in her and leave first. Recognise she didn't have the strength he needed. Expecting her body to act before she did, taking the decision out of her hands. But still it went on, and she knew what she had to do. This time tomorrow it would be over. She picked up her pen. She had to get this letter right. Had to let him know why.
The sixth week. That's when it's decided. So she knew he'd already made his choice. That he was a boy and not a girl. He had to be a boy, perfectly alien, against everything she knew. That made it easier, made it feel like less of a betrayal. She knew that once she'd closed the door, he might never return. It was a chance she was willing to take. She tried to explain it in the letter - that she wasn't denying him forever. One day he'd be back, and she'd be ready. Lessons learned, word perfect. Still it nagged at her. Already she missed him. He wouldn't forgive her. He wouldn't forget her rejection. He would never come back. He taunted her every night, floating just in front of her til she woke up gasping and grabbing at air. There was no going forward like this. Tomorrow she would be at the hospital, and they would make her better.
She shifted in her chair, glanced at the bed. She should have been asleep hours ago, in preparation.