#cassandra walker

As Rita came crashing down to the floor, you had dropped what you were doing and had rapidly approached the shaking brunette. But as you kneeled down to comfort and check in with her, you had extended your hand to the women’s back. Rita instinctively withdrew with sharp skill, a horrifying instinct drilled into her. She sucked in a breath as she avoided your touch, like it was a hot, scalding iron rod, curling up with her arms around her retracted knees.

Rita closed her eyes, and a tear escaped her left eye as she recalled all the haunting memories of her past, the ones that she had thought had surely been buried long ago. Seemingly not. Her limp, curled up form floated back to that day. All those years ago, she had been so young. She had been so innocent, kind of like you. Your touch hadn’t even been that bad, hadn’t even been intentional. But it didn’t matter. A flood of sadness came over the woman next, filling every sense of her being in a depressive state.

Rita couldn’t stop the following downpour of tears that emerged from her form. She curled even tighter into herself, shaking violently on the ground. In the back of her mind, she could vaguely hear you calling out her name in appropriate concern. But the ringing pain in her head was louder. The brunette sat on her kitchen floor; her tears ran down her body and pool on the ground. She managed to peek out of her cocoon, but she couldn’t look at you. Instead, her reeling mind tried to grasp the surroundings around her. From her position, She could see the heights of her living room, where her Bloomingdale curtains had once hung, but now with her remodel, all there remains are the new, empty gold drapery rods waiting for new, luxurious drapes to cover the glass wall. She tried to focus on those, the drapery rods.

Her mind was an abyss. Her life was a failure. Why did she even try? It was useless. She was useless. Part of Rita knew that was not true, but that part was currently tied up, duck-taped, and thrown in a closet, door locked and key lost. The new and improved part of her that she had spent curating was thrown aside. The new coats of platinum white on her walls were stripped to reveal the mundane beige of her college youth. This wasn’t your fault. It was her own. She deserved this. She deserved all of this. She cringed internally at how pathetic she was behaving, at how pathetic she was.

After a god awful amount of time of sobbing on the tile floor, Rita eventually could produce no more tears. She sniffled and slowly raised her head from her defensive curl towards you. And she was immediately met by your eyes dazzling with concern and naivety. You looked up to her like a mentor and here she was breaking down in the middle of her kitchen. How pathetic. Rita felt a pang of guilt ripple through her as you attempted to speak to her once more.

“Hey, Rita…Are you okay…?”

But Rita was in no state for verbal coherence. She nodded, as her lip trembled. She felt so small. Even though she was taller than you, even though her build was stronger than you, even though she was decades older than you, Rita still felt small. She felt like she was small enough for the world to swallow her whole without anyone noticing. She felt like she was small enough for him to come back and for her to not be able to fight back.

Your eyes softened as you nodded and cautiously extended a hand to the brunette. Rita couldn’t help the small gasp that escaped her lips at the kind gesture. That alone made her want to cry again. She slowly reached out and gingerly took your hand. With your help, the woman stood up on her wobbly legs. She took a deep breath as she stood. You didn’t know what happened, what was happening. But you were determined to be there for Rita.

Rita’s thoughts were still swimming, but now she had an anchor. Now, your consenting touch was keeping her tethered to reality. As you guided her to sit down by the kitchen island, Rita took deep breath after deep breath. She now knew that she couldn’t continue to ignore her past like this. No matter how many properties she owned, no matter how many times she remodeled and tried to cover it all up, no matter how many times she rebought her entire wardrobe, it would never go away. No, she had to properly heal. And as she squeezed your hand in gratitude and reassurance, she knew that she would be alright.

~~~

Rita Calhoun Masterlist