It most certainly was not the first time Cyd had royally screwed the pooch but it sure made top ten. Granted, it should have scored higher in the list but at the moment Cyd felt the numbing calm one feels during a tempestuous storm, that patch of nothingness at the center of the hurricane.
Cyd stepped outside onto the concrete in a drunken trudge. Feeling her throat tighten from the sharp blast of cool air, Cyd’s mind drifted away to a hidden pocket dimension. One that mirrored her reality in every shape and way. All but that one single singularity that had uprooted her perfectly mundane existence.
Sure, Cyd hadn’t amounted to much in her twenty-seven revolutions around the sun but she had never inflicted harm on others or had caused discomfort. She wasn’t too hard on the eyes either. In fact at one point in her life, several boys would have even gone to the extent of describing her as “above average.” That was then, now Cyd could perfectly be lost in a crowd of grunting pedestrians on their way to work and was more often than not remembered as “girl with brown hair” around the office.
It could have driven any Betsy or Lindsey to put a bullet in their head by now but not Cyd. No, Cyd had been tailored and groomed for the occasion. Growing up in Doveport, a rural town on the outskirts of Utah, Cyd had nothing to complain about. Perhaps the worst thing to ever happen in her life was being in Manhattan a week before 9/11.
Needless to say, everything that needed to happen in a person’s life happened for Cyd Hanson. Born to Amelia and Jack Hanson, two bigshot divorce lawyers from the windy city, Cyd had everything she could ever want. Potty trained at two, training wheels off at eight, braces at thirteen, college at eighteen, bachelor's at twenty-two, marriage at twenty-five.
That’s when Cyd Hanson became Cyd Olivier.
So to say that Cyd had a life to lose, it was somewhat ambiguous. It was the life of a million women before her, one that did not solely pertain to her.
That’s why Cyd’s face suddenly becomes damp to the touch. Her eyes blankly staring at the illuminating green outline of the man from the walk sign. Mouth ajar, saliva pooling at the pavement.
“Ma’am?” a voice drones out.
Yes, a life not appreciated by many but not one that could be lived as genuinely as Cyd.
“Are you alright?”
Cyd’s knees buckled under the weight of her tired body giving way to gravity’s enticing embrace. At that moment, Cyd could feel herself becoming one with the earth, could hear the callings of its fiery core pulsating in harmonious synchrony with her heartbeat.
In all reality, Cyd was not crying out of sadness but rather out of an obligatory reflex built in her long before she could make the conscious decision to not be affected by matters that did not concern her.
“My God, I think she’s bleeding.”
Cyd laughed dryly at the thought. Or at least she thought she did, it was hard to tell at this point because of the sudden awareness of her mouth melting away.
“Quick, call an ambulance!”
In those last moments, Cyd didn’t think about Adam or her daughter, Liza. She didn’t think about her childhood friend Pam who lived next door and was her closest friend for the sheer sake of convenience. She didn’t think about her life insurance or her next car payment. She didn’t even think about her well-overdue promotion or the fact that she had been working at the same office for the past seventeen years.
No, in that fleeting passing moment, in that inexplicably monumentally eternal moment, she thought about being four. The warm touch of her mother’s palms rubbing against her cheeks. The striking smell of floor cleaner and her father’s non-menthol cigarettes.
“Where’s the wound? Should I put pressure on…?”
But at the end, she couldn’t help but think about Adam. Sweet, decent Adam. The reason for it all. Would he forgive her?
“Stop,” Cyd croaked out, having found her mouth again. “It’s not my blood.”
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