Catharsis

The curtains were drawn tightly over the window and hid the city from River McCarthy’s living room. Usually, it was a view she revelled in, the crowning glory of her lofty perch; the entirety of the ever-bustling metropolis lain out before her. The inky silhouettes of late-night wanderers scattered the oil-slick pavement, floating like phantoms, lost amongst the flickering light of the lampposts and the buzzing neon signs. The buildings stood like gods, looming above the streets. The symphony of car engines and rain comforted ears not used to silence.

And then there was the pulse.

The city had a heartbeat, of that, River was sure. When there was nothing else to listen to, she could hear the city thriving beneath her. It stirred in its sleep, twisted as monuments were erected upon its gnarled back. It understood its inhabitants – was on the same wavelength as them. A city of bohemians, and at the heart of that, the omnipresent spirit of the bohemian, who nurtured them and in turn was nurtured itself. It grew without rest, and this, River knew. Its pulse drummed out the beat of the city louder each day.

Only the infinite expanse of the sky could make the city seem small. The stark navy abyss had her engulfed. In spite of this, the city dealt the final blow, thieving the shine from the stars. For all their long-enduring dazzle, those celestial diamonds could do little more than dim when faced by the urban thrum of streetlights, car headlights, the glow of signs bearing the news NO VACANCY and XXX GIRLS. And so, the city shone triumphant.

On this night, and this night only, River hid from this grandeur. The city had never seen her vulnerable. It was a state of being already painful enough without the intent stare of a thousand eyes upon her. But it wasn’t the only view the window held that unnerved her. Behind the heavy curtain – thick, velvety and the richest of reds – lingered her reflection.