Empty – SFD

“I tried to think about photography today, I looked for things on our walk.”

Devin looks at me.  “That’s good.” He drags out the second word, questioning, waiting for the rest.

“I couldn’t.  Nothing was… good.”

He twists his mouth slightly in sympathy.  And Sir, standing slightly behind me, brushes my hair back behind my ear.

“What are you going to write about tonight?” Sir asks me, and I catch Devin’s quick glance at Sir’s face.  I wonder for a moment what the flicker in his expression was.  Judgment? Worry?  It’s gone now, his eyes focused again on me, his expression returned to mild concern and interest.

I shrug.  I’ve been standing on the porch for ten minutes, in the darkness, watching the leaves move in the breeze, black silhouettes against the steel-gray sky.  “I don’t know.  I don’t…” I cast again within myself for anything, but it is like searching an empty room.  “I have nothing.  I have no ideas.”

“What have you been thinking about out here?” Sir’s tone is even, there is no hint of condemnation in it or his words, but I feel it, a phantom of my disease, and I curl slightly around the hurt.

“I’ve been thinking nothing.  I… I have nothing inside of me… It’s all blank and empty.”

Sir gives a soft laugh, “Lia, your brain is never empty.”

He’s right.  It’s not completely empty.  My own voice keeps echoing, think, think, think about trees, think about night, think about the wind, think about shadows, think of something… think!  But I don’t say anything.  I turn toward the railing and lean over it, putting my back to the light spilling out the open door, hiding the sheen of my tears in the darkness.

“You’re depressed,” Devin says, and I glance at him, but his eyes are fixed on Sir.

I don’t turn to look at Sir’s face, but he doesn’t answer, and I wonder what Devin is seeing.

Another breath and the tears have retreated along with the feeling that preceded them.  Blank again, I turn.  “I’ve been depressed for weeks.  I’ve still been able to write, even if it was just journaling or ranting.”

“Different symptoms manifest at different times.”

“Anhedonia,” Sir adds quietly.

“I know how depression works.  Jesus.” A sharpness is suddenly in my voice, and I shrug away from Sir’s hand which has been resting in the small of my back.  He lifts it and brings it down in a sharp swat to the seat of my jeans.  Though his body doesn’t touch mine, I can feel his heat as he leans close to me.

“Would you like to write about how well these branches work as switches?”

I catch Devin’s look, his eyes wide, his lips pressed tight.  I can almost hear his shut up, for Christ’s sake! and I grate out, “No, Sir.  I’m sorry, Sir,” and I let my head droop.  Even his threat, which I know should have sent a jolt of icy anxiety through my guts, barely stirred me.

I hear Sir sigh heavily behind me.  He’s frustrated.  It’s hard for him to watch me suffer, to be unable to do anything, to solve the problem.  It’s hard for Devin, too, and I watch him for a moment from the corner of my eye.  His gaze is turned downward; he looks sad and worried.

I take a breath to speak, then stop.  I already know the answer, and it suddenly seems pointless to try.  I sigh, and dredge the depths of my reserves, “Sir?  Could I… skip one night?”

He’s silent for a long time, and I stare into the shadows, shifting with the wind.

“No,” he says, finally, and I bow my head in acknowledgment, feeling nothing.

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