Severance - Short Story

The lime green tiles are still wet from her morning shower. One towel hangs unused, while the other lies in a crumpled heap. The center of the mirror is cleared of condensation though the water droplets seem to return with haste. Sitting on the ceramic sink counter is an earring, used dental floss, and two toothbrushes; one still damp and the other bone dry, standing erect in its holder like a trophy. The air is thick and wet. Unbreathable. Suffocating. Desperate for the relief of a cracked window.

Tightened without care, the shower handle remains slightly loose, causing drops of water to ring out in the hollow bathroom until she returns for her next cleanse.

She has now spent 58 days without her. The absence of touch festered into delicate wounds, still sensitive to the exposure to warm water. When she showers, the weakest spots are avoided, leaving areas untouched for weeks. She scrubs endlessly at the raw skin of her arms but only grazes over her neck and waist, not even bothering to touch her face.

Unable to face her singular body, she cleans herself with closed eyes, blind to the abandoned shampoo bottles and the periwinkle loofa. She tries each day for progress, but with each stretch of her hand, her body recoils. Hair, no, shoulders, no, legs, no. In her defeat, she takes advantage of the comfort of containment and sighs. Time trapped in four smoky walls.

She was not prepared for grief and yet, here it was. Grief was an unexpected guest, banging on her door in the middle of the night, demanding shelter indefinitely. Grief pulled cans out of cupboards, strewing cereal across the floor, making its presence known. She believed this bold presence was an unfamiliar invasion but it wasn’t.

She used to wake up next to a warmth, a powerful thing she didn’t know how to keep. In the mornings, they danced. Springing on the balls of their feet, they were one. Their necks wrapped around each other, coiling to the ceiling, lovingly growing in tandem. But at night, they were severed. Loud and explosive, their bodies fell to the floor and so did the ax.

After each night and each severance, they laid in silence, too tired and too traumatized to discuss. They drifted off after heavy eyes won the war of sleep, memories of the night long forgotten. While sleeping, their cleaved bodies seemed to find each other, attaching nerve by nerve and joint by joint, until they found themselves as one once again, renewed for the morning.

Rising with the sun 58 days ago, she woke to the crime from the night before. Now just a severed head attempting to grow a singular corpse, she bore witness to the violence of their split. Unsalvageable nerve endings and splintered bones lined the edge of her body while blood covered her soft linen sheets. Unable to collect herself, she let herself lie, quieting her breath just in time to hear a limping leg and the shutting door.

Clinging to the grief that slung her back and forth, she’s reminded of the habitual severance of her relationship. The comfort of push and pull, the promise of a stinging wound. It was painful but it was familiar and so, she tried to preserve it. Protecting the vow of her wounds, she waited each day for a new limb to grow from her form, declaring the great return. But the limb never grew back, and she remained as one lonely body.

She returns to the bathroom, seeming to have forgotten something. Staring into the foggy mirror, she recognizes herself with relief. The condensation of the tiles are still present, lining the walls surrounding her. Nothing has changed since her morning shower. Her purpose slipped her mind. But before leaving the confined space she lifts the window pane and sighs. The room breathes with her.