The door clicked shut behind me. I flicked the light open. Three brown suitcases were aligned from the biggest to the smallest next to the console table.

Something in my chest contracted as I stood there, keys in hand.

I'm just stalling the inevitable.

The keys fell inside the ceramic bowl with a clunk, disturbing the eerie silence of the room. It wasn't the first time I came to an empty home. I had sent Jenna to Janice's house a couple of times so I could take a break and recharge, but this silence was different. It was like the deceiving calm of a river with a killer current underneath its surface. My thoughts were shredding my sanity into pieces, like the monsters they were, taking advantage of my predicament as the outside noises quieted down.

Hostage to my inner demons, I had to trust my muscle-memory to navigate my own house. It brought me to the kitchen for a glass of water I seemed to need, but the lump in my throat made it difficult to pass through. The kitchen's window with its red polka curtains blurred before my eyes as a sense of loss stole all the solace I was looking for in my solitude.

I've lost everything.

The business I'd worked hard to establish was gone and with it I lost my chance to support myself and my child.

Water splashed in the sink as I emptied the glass and put it on the rag. My hands tightened on the edge of the tile countertop as tears flooded my eyes. It washed away all my hopes and every bit of strength I'd left.

I don't want to fight anymore.

My body tingled with a need to run. I wanted to disappear from a life that only brought me misfortune. Even the happiness of my daughter was on the expanse of my own.

I rushed out of the kitchen with ragged breathing. Its white tiled walls wasn't the reason of the tightness in my chest.

Nevertheless, I ran.

I ran from the wrong problem toward the wrong solution, hoping that two wrongs would make it right.

I ended up in the shower, water pulsating on my face. I'd always been too busy to fix the shower head. The smell of lavender soap filled the air as I lathered my new loofah. It was the last of this year's harvest. And the last I ever planted with my mother before she died.

I scoffed at the memory. It was rather I who planted it while she complained about how messy I was, how the lines were not straight and how the strings were too loose to support the vine's weight. I pressed the scratchy loofah against my skin. It was hard like a brick. No amount of water would soften it, but time would. Unlike some people in my life. Only death had succeeded to take the hard look out of their eyes. She was right about one thing though. I couldn't do anything right. I should've listened to her.

Why should I be this stubborn? Why should she be right?

The strokes became short and irregular as my anger flared, trying to wipe the mistake that I was.

And scrubbing I did.

I scrubbed my failure, my disappointment, my hopes, my dreams. Every flesh-peeling stroke was a promise.

Never again.

My self-loath was my friend as it showed me how silly I was to believe that I could make something of myself. For every delusion I had, I scrubbed my skin, marking my words.

Never again.

I collapsed on my bed. A bathrobe and a towel around a numb body of despair, but I was clean. There were no emotions left. Everything had gone down the drain.

The room was bright, but my body was too tired to close the curtains and my mind was too gone to notice the light. The childhood memories that clang to the furniture had witnessed my rise and fall. Like a plucked rose, I bloomed, then lost all my petals.

I should've known better. Roses' life is too short.

I closed my eyes, choosing the darkness behind my lids over the darkness that life forced on me.

And to the darkness I opened my eyes.

I strained my ears, listening. I was sure a sound woke me up, but I couldn't hear anything. My eyes roamed around aimlessly. The night reduced my room to mere outlines which didn't make any sense to my eyes, but it did to my brain. So, when I stood, I knew how not to stumble on my invisible desk's chair and how to reach the door.

I turned the lights on, squinting my eyes. A headache forced me down on the bed. I pressed my temples, waiting for the pain to subside.

"Ugh, I hate crying. Why I keep doing this to myself? Ah, my head."

I took a pill from my nightstand's drawer and shuffled to the bathroom with only one eye open. The towel fell from my head as I pushed the door open. The picture that looked at me in the mirror only belonged to a nightmare. Thanks to my Mediterranean genes, my half dried hair was a fuzzy mane around my face. I shuddered as I thought of the comb going through it.

I gathered the black mess with one hand and threw the pill in my mouth with the other. Which appeared to be a bad idea as the pain blinded me for a brief second.

"Agh, ouch."

I leaned on the counter, resting my head on my arms with my eyes shut.

When the bitterness of the pill seeped into my tongue, I opened the tap and gulped more water than it needed to swallow the medicine.

The vibration of the phone rose from somewhere behind me when the water's flow receded.

I winced, this must be Janice. I forgot to call her.

I took the phone out of my hoodie and looked at the time, careful not to press the green button. It was past nine pm. Soon, the vibration stopped. I went back to my room, throwing the phone on the bed.

Please, don't call again.

I begged in my head as I put on a white tee and grey pants. It was easy to go through the few items left in the closet. A high grey socks for my ever cold feet and a long grey cardigan for the pockets it had.

I took my phone, sending a text to Janice. I pocketed it and went to the kitchen for some food.

I stopped in the middle of my living room, braiding my hair as I eyed the entrance.

I'm sure I heard something earlier.

I went to the front door.

Did I imagine it?

I opened the door to find a handful of white chamomile and a small folded paper.

My ten years old voice rung in my ears.

"Give it a second shot." I gave him three chamomile I picked for him from his backyard.

"I tried a thousand time. I can't do it," he said, looking at his injured knee, hiding his tear-filled eyes. He winced as he dabbed the scratch with a paper towel. His bike was on the ground next to him, wheels spinning.

"It doesn't count if you think you'll fail. Let's try as if it's the first time."

The words glared at me as I unfolded the paper, reminding me of what we had, demanding a second chance I couldn't give.

Let's try as if it's the first time.

I fisted my hand around the paper, slamming the door shut. I threw it on the ceramic bowl as I put on my coat and shoes.

This can't go on like this. We're not on the same page.

We do need to talk.