a tidy mess

the one reason elizabeth didn't mind the rain was because it made her hair look good. most days it just sat lazily on her head, indecisive about its curly or straight intention. but on wet grey days like this her hair's inclination towards gentle curls was encouraged by the moisture. while her face frowned at its reflection against the weeping window, her hair happily made of itself soft curves looping around invisible fingers. maybe it had been left as an unknown impression from reading too much about tin men and wicked witches as a child, but she almost felt as if walking out in such conditions would destroy her just the same. she stayed inside feeling sorry for herself and feeling guilty for feeling sorry and feeling disgusted at feeling guilty for feeling anything. she always ran this pointless race through the maze of her mind, frantically searching for a bit of cheese. elizabeth was severely lactose intolerant.

elizabeth's stomach hurt all the time, not as a casual statement but as a fact. her stomach hurt all the time as if it were a needed reminder to her that she was still alive. the pain in her stomach was as old as her first memory. the one companion she had allowed herself to count on, all the others somehow disappointing her. grade school playmates and high school prom dates had grown fuzzy, their names and hair colors uncertain. but the nature of her stomach and its varying degrees of pain in each interaction was something she could recount with alarming clarity. pain seemed to take up most of the space in her memories.

new people she would meet, whether at church or the grocery store, didn't have names but health problems. never candice, but rather the woman with a hiatal hernia. not murray, but the man with the newly diagnosed fibromyalgia. she took comfort in things that could keep a person from smiling. of course she felt guilty for feeling this way and correspondently disgusted with herself for feeling guilty.

elizabeth was a mess. a tidy mess.