Buried in Sunshine (3 page)

I take the list and fold it up and place it in
my jacket pocket. I sit silently for a moment as I bite my bottom
lip apprehensively. “I’ll give it a try.”

“Good.”

“How do I meet someone?” I ask, genuinely
confused by this task. After all, if it were just that easy,
wouldn’t I already have met someone? I see people wandering the
streets on my way here, or in line waiting for my prescription at
the Walgreens. I see other troubled people in the waiting room as I
am leaving. None of these people seem remotely approachable to me
in the slightest bit.

“You could try and volunteer somewhere—an animal
shelter perhaps. Do you like animals?”

“I’m not particularly fond of them as pets or
being around them for that matter…” I say honestly. “They’re messy
and not as interesting as people make them out to be.”

“Well then that is perhaps not your avenue,”
Julie says with a short pause as she attempts to think of something
more suitable. “Would you like to get a part time job somewhere?
That could be a great way to meet new people. From what I tend to
know, the easiest places to make friends are either through some
kind of volunteer group, work, or school.”

“So it should be one of those then?”

“It doesn’t have to be specifically,” Julie says
as she rubs her chin with the top of her silver pen. “You could
even take a chance and just approach the first person you find
attractive.”

“I doubt that I could pull that off.”

“Life will never surprise you unless you give it
a chance to.”

“Did you read that off of a bumper sticker?” I
say rather rudely, and then ultimately end up feeling bad for
it.

“I think in a book actually,” Dr. Riley says in
reply. Sometimes I forget that she is used to my snarkiness. “But
it is a valid statement.”

“I think that I’m not an interesting person,” I
finally concede. “I look at myself and I see nothing redeeming. I
am not good at anything. I’m unusually critical of people. I’m even
kind of rude. I don’t mean to be—it is just that I don’t know how
to act or respond properly.”

“Well then we will have to add that as number
four on the list: work on yourself and be happy with who you
are.”

“I don’t think I’ll ever get to a point where
I’m happy with myself.”

“That doesn’t mean that someone else will see
something within you and help you draw it out.”

“I’m not saying I won’t try,” I whisper as I
sigh heavily. “I’ll do my best.”

“Then that’s all I am asking for.”

*

I pass the beach on my drive home. I contemplate
stopping for a moment. It is a nice day after all. The midday sun
hangs brightly in the sky and envelopes me through my car windows
with the same familiar warmth that reminds me of being a part of
those I have lost. I pull into a parking lot. I stare for a moment
as the glittering water sparkles and the waves gently lap against
the tan sanded shore. For a moment I am overcome with sadness once
more for the water reminds me of Alexis’s beautiful eyes. I see her
face in my mind. A terrible flash of a false memory encroaches its
way into my head—the image of her hanging lifeless and swaying
gently from the cord around her neck. In tears I drive away. I head
out of city and into the country as I make the short drive home. I
think about swinging by the cemetery. It seems like something I
should do—but mom is there with her. I don’t need to go, I don’t
want to go. I arrive back home. I pull the car, a silver 2010
impala, into the rock driveway and park beneath the shade of a tall
oak tree.

A rabbit crosses my path as I walk the short
path that leads to my front door. A red door stands at the top of
three weather worn concrete steps with black iron rails on each
side. I place a silver key into the lock and give it a turn. The
door creakily opens. I keep meaning to oil the door so that it is
not so noisy; however, I am constantly forgetting to do so. It is
on a short list of things that either need repaired or replaced in
the house, such as the screen on the back door, a window on the
second floor doesn’t shut all the way, and the basement needs to be
swept for spider webs—but like I said before, I dislike going down
there and will avoid doing so as cleaning the cobwebs ranks very
low on my priority list.

I enter the house. In the warm spring sun I can
smell the faint scent of cedar hanging about the air. I pass the
main hallway that once had pictures of my mother and sister upon
them—I have taken most of them down months ago as I could no longer
stand to see them. A taped up moving box full of family photos now
resides in the basement. I wonder if the pictures miss me, as
sometimes I do miss them.

I make my way up the iron spiral staircase,
which squeaks with each footfall, and head up to the second floor.
I pause for a moment as I stop and think back to when things in
this house weren’t so quiet. Now it is just me—me and the house. A
house that is far too big for one person. I have given some thought
to moving, but I find that the thought of leaving gives me much
more terror than the idea of simply staying. After all, despite
everything that has happened here, it is where I am most
comfortable. My therapist says that I should work on leaving my
comfort zones if I want to get better. I disagree when it comes to
this house.

I think of going back into my mother’s room.
There is still some paperwork that I have to go through. I have
been tossing old statements and documents over the past few months.
Today I do not feel like it. Most days I do not feel motivated.
Today I feel depressed. It could be because that today is the day
my sister died—but it is most likely not, most days I feel like
this. I wish I didn’t. Then again, if wishes were granted so easily
then no one would ever want for anything. I am not naïve enough to
believe that I am the only one in the world who feels this way—I
just wish it weren’t me. Then again, I suppose that is the fate of
anyone who has depression. They don’t want to feel the way they do.
They envy those who can operate normal lives the same way that I
imagine that the dead envy the living.

I continue up to my room. I kick off my shoes
and peel out of my jeans and kick them beside my bed. I adjust my
pink panties with the little red flowers to be a bit more
comfortable against my skin as I lie upon the old couch. The sun
feels warm against my bare legs. I pull my shirt over my head and
remove my bra allowing my bare breasts to be exposed to the
sunlight. I then arch my back and push down my panties, tossing
them onto the pile of clothing on the hardwood floor beside me. I
allow the warmth of the sun to cover my naked body like a calming
blanket of radiance. I close my eyes—even with my eyes closed, in
the sun, there is never a sense of darkness. I clear my mind of all
thought. I brush my fingertips against the soft, warm skin of my
stomach. I allow my hand to slide down between my legs and begin to
stimulate myself. I bite my lip to keep all the noises that want to
quip out at bay. I begin to rub my wet fingers more roughly against
my body. I can feel a bead of sweat dripping down from my neck; it
both tickles and excites me further. I let out a short whimper as a
hot, pulsating feeling of pleasure overwhelms me as I come. I let
out a contented sigh as my damp hand drops down to the floor. I
curl up into a ball and bury my face against the side of the couch.
The side of my naked body is warmed in the sunlight. I fall asleep
in the ambit of its comforting glow.

That afternoon I have a nightmare. It is not the
first time. In my dream, the sun descends to earth and comes for
me. A massive glowing ball of white, it blinds me. It does not
blind me with darkness—instead, a forever endless brilliant white.
I can feel hands all over my naked body. They are not here to
comfort; instead they pull me into the flames. I scream out as I
burn alive. Then, after I burn away to nothing, there is finally
peace. However, that peace does not last long as I find myself
blindly trying to make my way down a dark hallway that extends
seemingly forever. Behind me a terrible sound of scratching—like a
thousand nails on chalkboard—chases me. I begin to run, but
constantly stumble. I cannot outrun the strange grinding noises. I
am thrown to the ground as my chin strikes against the floor. I
feel a crushing sensation, like a thousand hands against me
squeezing all of the air out of my body. Eventually I die. I always
die in my dreams.

My heart races as I awaken. My body is covered
in a heavy sweat. My chest rises and falls quickly as I attempt to
regain a sense of calmness. My body feels hot. I look to my side
and see that my skin has turned slightly red from the sun. I turn
to my other side. Despite the nightmares, I still feel comforted by
the sunlight. I suppose, in a way—I am disturbed. I suppose if I
weren’t, I would not be seeing a therapist. The same sun that
terrifies and haunts me—allows me to remove myself from my
situation in life and give myself some small amount of physical
pleasure and peace. I do not know why I also allow it to bring me
pain as I constantly burn from staying too long in its sanctuary. I
suppose I have a kind of skewered relationship with the light.
Almost an abusive relationship—even I know how messed up that
sounds. This is the one secret that I have kept from my therapist.
My one strange pleasure that I feel would make her think less of me
in some way. I cannot explain it. Perhaps, in a way, I am crazy. I
certainly feel that way sometimes… both crazy and depressed.

I hear the phone ring from downstairs. With a
healthy amount of hesitation, I get up to my feet and walk naked
down the spiral staircase. By the time I reach the phone and pick
up the old corded speaker, all I hear is the constant high pitch of
the dial-tone. I replace the phone onto the cradle against the wall
and allow myself to slink down to the ground as I wait. No one
calls me these days unless I’ve either missed an appointment or my
prescription is ready. The phone rings once more, I get to my feet
and pick it up.

“Hello?” I ask.

Breathing can be heard over the line but no
response is offered.

“Hello…” I impatiently repeat. “I can hear
you.”

The sound of some kind of sharp feedback forces
the phone away from my ear which begins to ring in response to the
high pitched noise.

“Yeah fuck you asshole!” I shout into the
receiver as I slam the phone down.

“Fucking people…” I mutter as I begin to ascend
the staircase. As I reach the second floor I notice that the
bathroom door is slightly ajar— a yellow glow from the fluorescent
lights escapes past the small opening. I do not remember leaving
the light on. I pause for a moment. Cautiously I creep over to the
bathroom and place a hand against the rufous colored door and
gently nudge it open. I take a step into the room. The shower
curtain is closed. My mind starts to believe that someone is
perhaps hiding behind it. I do not know whether it is paranoia, but
I swear I can see something moving beneath its plastic surface. I
quickly cover my nude form with a long white towel. With a
trembling hand I reach out and draw the curtain back. To my horror,
I see the image of my sister hanging from her neck—her face is
twisted and lifeless. I stumble backwards and hit my head against
the sharp edge of the sink. I can feel a sickening warmth beneath
my head as everything goes black.

I Wake up against the cold wooden floor of my
room. Convinced I have had some kind of dream, I slowly get up and
open my weary eyes. I look to where my head lied and find my white
towel covered in a haematic dried red crusty pool of blood. In
shock, I reach to the back of my head and find a small wound. For a
moment the light of the sun is blocked as my eyes advert to the
window. I see my sister sitting against my couch. I am rendered
speechless.

Alexis smiles, the light illuminates her hair
and traces out her small familiar form in a faded yellow. She is
wearing a white dress, one that I have never seen before. Her
barefoot feet are bunched up beneath her and her bare arms are
outstretched against the arm rest. She looks surprisingly content
for someone who is supposed to be dead.

“Alexis…?” I mutter as I instinctively reach a
hand out to her. “Is that really you…? It can’t be.” This is not
happening… my mind repeats this thought as though it is a skipping
record. I must be hallucinating. I must have injured myself. “Are
you real?”

The glowing form of Alexis smiles as she nods
once.

“Are you a ghost?” I ask as I draw in my legs
close against my naked body. Despite the fact that this is my
sister, I feel an odd sense of embarrassment at her seeing me nude
and sunburned. “Can you… talk?”

“The sun is coming for you,” Alexis whispers in
such a faint wisp that it is barely audible in the still air.

Alexis begins to approach me and in reflex I
back away, crawling to avoid her touch as though she is some kind
of monster. I lock eyes with her, I can feel that she means no
harm—however, I still continue to back away. I wrap myself up in
the blood stained towel just as her hand comes into contact with my
arm. Her fingertips are warm to the touch.

“What… what do you mean the sun is coming for
me?” I ask as I begin to tremble. “What do you want from me?”

“The sun is coming here,” Alexis whispers as she
places her heated hand against my shoulder and with her spare she
brings me to my feet. “When it comes it will burn away all life…
all I wanted, is to tell you—to warn you of what is to come.”

“The sun is going to crash into the earth?” I
whisper as I attempt to shake away the thought that this is all
some kind of hallucination from my head injury.

“Not crash,” Alexis whispers as she begins to
guide me to the hallway.

“What do you mean?” I ask as we pass the
bathroom. As my eyes wander into the sea-foam colored room, I see a
flash of blinding light and my head begins to throb in agony.