![]() “Ladies and gentlemen of TrueCrimeCon, it is my honor to present to you, our keynote speaker. The audience cheers again, and I clear my throat, remind myself why I’m here. It’s everywhere, it seems-in front of me, behind me. I watch the man speaking onstage, ten feet away, his voice booming over the loudspeakers. “And now, we are ready to bring out the person I know you’re all here to see.” How to order the story like I’m following a recipe, meticulous and careful, sprinkling the details in just right. Little bulleted instructions reminding what to say, what not to say. I look down at my hands, where I used to hold notecards with talking points scribbled in pencil. I walk past him, to the edge of the stage, and stand behind a black curtain, the audience just barely obscured from view. I follow him through another door, the gentle roar of applause erupting as soon as it opens and we step inside. I follow him out the door and through a dim hallway, the fluorescent lights buzzing in my ear like an electric chair humming to life. I hold out my arm, gesturing for the man to lead the way. Then I stand up, run my hands over the front of my pants, and slap my palms against my thighs, signaling that I’m ready. I dig my hand into my purse and pull out a bottle of eye drops-redness relief-and squirt three beads of liquid into each eye with expert precision. I nod, down the rest of the coffee, and savor the bitter pinch in my jaw. ![]() I look up at the man standing before me, clipboard resting against his hip. I haven’t had that in a long time, either. Comfort is a luxury I can no longer afford, and routine. But I don’t care about that anymore: comfort, routine. Comfort-in-a-cup, like those dehydrated noodles you splash faucet water into before popping them into the microwave and calling it a meal. I lived for the smell of it wafting through my kitchen the warmth of a mug pushed against my fingers, cold and stiff from standing on the back porch, watching the sun come up with morning dew beading on my skin.īut it wasn’t the coffee I needed, I know that now. ![]() I used to savor the taste of that daily morning cup. I lift my arm and take a sip of my Styrofoam cup of coffee- strong, black, squeaky when my chapped lips stick to the rim. It’s melted back into the carpet, into oblivion, the way I wish I could. I blink a few more times before trying to find the spot again, but it’s gone now. “Sorry,” I say, shaking my head, as if the motion could somehow clear the fog like windshield wipers swiping at rain. There’s a hand in front of my face now, waving. I wish I could always have tunnel vision: the ability to selectively focus on one single thing at a time. My surroundings grow fuzzy as the spot- my spot-gets sharper, clearer. A spot with no significance, really, other than the fact that my eyes seem to like it here. My pupils are drilling into a spot in the carpet. One whole year since my Mason was taken from me, and still, I’m no closer to the truth. Of becoming intimately familiar with the night. One year of sleeping pills and eye drops and chugging caffeine by the quart-full. One year of opening my eyes to find myself in another room, another building, without any recollection of when I got there or how I arrived. One year of stumbling through life in a semiconscious dream state. One whole year without a single night of rest. Or, if you want to go in the opposite direction, fifty-two weeks. Five hundred and twenty-four thousand minutes. Three hundred and sixty-four days since my last night of sleep. Today is day three hundred and sixty-four.
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