Blank

Is there anything more frightening than a blank page in front of you?  Why, yes.  Yes, there is.  There is a blank page in front of you and the clock ticking down the minutes until the page has to be filled.  Leaving it blank is not an option.  No, truly, that would be too cruel for words, but the words aren't coming so perhaps they deserve some cruelty in return.  Perhaps they do.  Perhaps he does as well.

If only...  If only he had checked the pockets of his coat before handing it to her to put in the donation bin.  If only she hadn't felt it necessary to go through them herself.  But he didn't and she did and now there's a blank page waiting to be filled.

What to write?  What does one write in a final note to someone?  I'm sorry?  But she's not sorry.  Not sorry at all.  It is he who must be sorry, but we won't go there now.  The fiery rage had died down to a slow and steady simmer, the tears have dried up, and the broken china has been cleaned up and swept into the bin.  It's time to write.

That damn blank page.  Any words she coaxes out and smears across it will carry but a shadow of the racket in her head.  What good is that?  What good is she?

Stare at the page, press the point of a pen against it and watch the ink form a tiny, jagged edged blob.  Words.  Words are failing her.  No.  He failed her, but words won't.  She'll be damned if she lets them.

Eyes focus on the ink stain; unfocus and now the stain looks shimmery around the edges, softening and blending into the pristine whiteness of the sheet.  Her right hand is gripping the pen, harder, harder, until the clasping fingers become pale and tremble under strain.

The words are hiding.  Huddling together, whispering nervously among themselves in some dark corner; spooked by the guttural screams and shattering glass.  It's no use, they aren't coming out.  Not for all the blank pages in the county.

Blank.  Blanks.  No, no, she can't think about it.  One hysterical meltdown per morning is enough.  She pauses in thought.  What if she left him a blank page?  Would he understand what she meant, what she found?  A blank page for months and years of intentional blanks?  Does it matter?  In the end, does it matter if he sees it and knows that she knows?

Pen still pressing into the ink spot which has now grown to the respectable size of a baby jellyfish, she slowly drags the nib across the whiteness, forming two words in the bottom right corner of the page, capping them with a tiny, final ink blob.

Good bye.