Baily Gates

In... out... in... out.

That’s all there was to it. Just a simple pattern of ins and outs, chest heaving as she forces

herself out of her bed, forced to face another day. Another day with the onslaught of mental

torment, over and over again the cycle continues, her head spinning in circles as she fruitlessly

tries to prepare herself for another day, tries to convince herself today will be better.

It has to be a better day. She has to convince herself it will be if she ever wants to get out

of her house. But that’s the thing, she doesn’t want to leave her bed, let alone her house. She

wants nothing more than to bury herself inside her blankets, the weight of her comforter

crushing the anxiety, until it’s nothing more than an afterthought.

But that’s not how the world works. She can’t just pretend like she doesn’t exist, like the

world isn’t still turning, like she doesn’t have rent to pay or food to buy, no matter how much she

may wish she could.

So, up she gets, her body sluggish as she fights her mind to get dressed, one leg, the other,

pull. One arm, the other, her head, and pull. One foot, the other, repeat. After everything that

happened, even getting dressed isn’t getting dressed anymore. Once what was such a

quintessential part of a routine, one done without a bat of an eye, is now a chore, having to be

thought of one step at a time, taking tens of minutes just to be fully covered.

Her brush lay neglected, forgotten, atop her vanity, collecting dust with her powders and

creams, and shadows as she instead opts to take out her messy bun, retwist to tighten again, and

once again fastens her messy bun back on her head. What was the reason for putting effort in,

why bother when it would only be messed up by the end of the day.

With extra effort to avoid the mirror, the shattered glass with jagged pieces surrounding

it, she leaves the room. She follows a path, one that takes extra care to avoid the creaky and

loose boards, as every sound now causes her to jump, fear of what could happen caused by fear

of what did happen.

She closes her eyes tightly, so tight she can see colors behind her lids, as she passes the

one wall. The wall that holds the desperation, the last piece of her sanity that fell just a few

weeks ago. She avoids looking at it now, and the only reason it remains is the fact that she simply

avoids acknowledging that it’s there at all.

She continues her careful, considerate steps, leading her to the couch in the parlor. The

faded purple, the dust and dirt signalling how little care is placed into her apartment. The books,

once an object of her pure affection, left untouched from the last time she cared, collecting

cobwebs and dust, losing the care they were once given.

Looking around the apartment, she almost feels the twinge of sadness, the sliver of regret,

the ounce of embarrassment that her life had reached this low. Almost. But the second she gets

close to feeling something other than this everlasting numbness covered pain, she gets reminded

yet again of why things had gotten this way, as a knock sounded through the front door, causing

her body to recoil, her arms mindlessly flailing up to guard her face, her legs bending and

folding to block her stomach.

It was quiet for a few seconds, and she reminded herself to breathe.

In... out... in... out...

After she was able to regulate her breathing, she uncurled her body from it’s protective

stance, slowly coaxing it into a standing position. She carefully inched towards the door, not

knowing who was behind the door, but desperately hoping it wasn’t the cause of her agony.

She cautiously reached a hand out, resting it on the doorknob as she leaned her body in

slightly, a singular glassed over eye peered through the peephole, closing as a singular tear

trailed down her face, her body sagging from the relief at who she saw.

Henry. Henry was safe. Henry was secure. Henry is her friend.

She hastened her pace, moving to slide the chain lock, to twist the deadbolt, to undo the

lock on the doorknob and open the door to see Henry. Her Henry.

“Henry,” her voice was crackly and dry, incredibly quiet and shaky. It didn’t sound like

her, she wouldn’t have believed it was herself had it been any other situation, “you’re here.”

“Of course I’m here, Lia,” she flinched at that name, that cursed name, and he clearly

took notice, immediately backtracking. “Emilia, sorry. I’m here Emilia, I’m always going to be

here for you.”

~~~~~~~~~~

“...mie...” I began to come around, suddenly painfully aware of the shakes possessing my

hand, starting to spill the water out of the watering can onto my carpet, “Emmie! Hey, where’d

you go, there? You just disappeared on me.”

“Sorry, Henry,” I let him take the can from my hands, using them now to wipe my face,

erasing the escaped tears, “I um, went back to that day, for a minute.”

“Oh, Emmie,” Henry faltered, setting down the watering can and wrapping his secure

arms around me, “it wasn’t, that day, was it?”

“No, no it wasn’t,” thank god, “the day I told you what happened, when you came over

and saw just how bad it had gotten.”

I watched as a slightly more relieved expression took over his face, before a strong mask

of resolution replaced it. He confidently picked up the watering can, forcing it back into my

hands, and turning me back to face the wilted flower.

“Emmie, you know it needs to be done,” he whispered to my left, his arm finding its

place around my waist, grounding me in the present, “this is the first step in recovery, in

rebuilding and taking back what he took from you.”

Henry was right. He was always right, and yet, it still seemed impossible. How was I ever

meant to heal from what happened to me? But, how was I ever supposed to attempt if I never

took this step?

I nodded my head, shaking myself out of my fearful stupor, stepping forward, and again,

until I could get no closer to that dreaded pot. I watched with bated breath as my arm, feeling as

though it was a separate entity from the rest of my body, raised, tipping the watering can towards

the flower.

As if in slow motion, the first few droplets of water began to fall from the nozzle, my

body tensing at the implications of the moment. My mind is still reeling, panic filling my every

sense. But, as the water slowly hit the soil in the pot, it truly felt as though the constant weight

and pressure that had been residing on my shoulders had lifted, and I felt as though I could truly

breathe again.

I wasn’t better, I knew that I couldn’t be truly better, truly healed immediately, that would

only be wishful and naive thinking. But, somehow, just from watching a drop of water absorb

into entirely too dry soil, I knew everything, eventually, would be okay. I can be happy again.

I am able to reclaim what has been ripped from my grasp, and I will. And the absolute

best part? I don’t have to do it alone.