Misery’s visit

Misery has been visiting for while, I didn’t answer the door when she rang the bell, she quickly let herself in with a key she’d made for herself a couple of years back, she arrived claiming it was time for our annual check-up. I laughed at her ironic doctor-reference and proceeded to disregard her presence until it grew so large I could no longer effectively ignore her. She drained the fridge, hid my shoes when I wanted to go walking and tormented me at night so I couldn’t go to sleep. Growing tired of my uninvited guest, I asked how long she planned on staying, “I love company” she grinned, her feet laid up on the table, back reclined in the chair, looking right comfortable. “I’ll leave when I feel like it, not a moment before,” she twirled a lock of hair with her fingers. I sighed unamused. “You really could work on some new material, that joke is growing stale” I said. “Not as stale as you are about to be!” she playfully retaliated, and the sudden twist in my belly informed me she was right. “Don’t you have better things to do? Or just, other things?” I asked, squinting. She quit twirling, withdrew her smile, jerked her feet off the table and leaned forward, she looked me dead in the eye with a loud and clear four-lettered “nope.” My hands caught my face as my head bobbed down, my elbows resting on the table, my head resting in my hands, I sat like that, breathing, thoughtless. Misery recovered her reclining position and started gesticulating with her hands, “look, it could be a lot worse, at least you know me well enough to be able to sit there sulking in front of me, you’re comfortable with me, you’re not hiding, you’re not masking, at least around me, you can just.. be you, is that so bad?” I remained with my cheeks squished by my palms, my eyes imprisoned behind my fingers, I turned my head slightly up to face her, “you’re not wrong” I granted, and grunted.

Misery is like a pseudo-sister, she was around the house a lot when I grew up and after my parents divorced she stuck around for so long I thought she’d moved in permanently. I was rather shocked the day she suddenly took off. I learned over the years that she turns up when she wants to, leaves when she wants to and can’t be coerced, bribed or forced to do otherwise. I keep an empty drawer for her, a space in the bathroom-cabinet, it’s precautionary, if I don’t have space to host her, all hell breaks loose when she arrives. At least her initial landings are softer now, I’m no longer so resistant to her showing up. The day she turned up with a freshly cut and pink, because why not, key I produced no reaction. I gave up trying to keep her out a long time ago.

A shit house-guest, Misery has no regard for my routines, schedules, desires or even needs. Her ability to make a mess out of nothing is quite frankly astonishing, at times I can’t help but marvel at her. However, her long visits become difficult, with every passing day neuances of colour disappear from my field of vision, replaced by a gradually growing cloud that fogs my general functioning from within. Of all the ways I’ve tried to make her leave none have worked, whenever she’s finally off, I take no credit, I simply sigh in relief and go looking for the broom to dust what remains of her out the door.

“What do you want to do today?” she asked as I dragged my feet to the kitchen one morning, “do you want to not leave the house, perhaps forget to drink water and neglect any and all physical activity?” she chirped. I scowled in her direction, “it”s what, 7 AM? Can you tone down the proverbial skip in your step?” she laughed, her eyes bright as if she had, at least, gotten all sleep necessary. I turned my back to her and put the kettle on. “You know,” she continued, “we could start the day watching a movie, maybe two, hey, no rules right, popcorn for breakfast?” “Jesus,” I muttered, “have you no sense?” “I do,” she replied, “I just don’t care for it.” I didn’t turn my head to look but I could hear her smile over the boiling water. “At least she’s sincere in her sinistery,” I thought to myself. “I heard that,” she shot across the room, I pivoted and glanced at her before returning to my tea-preparations.
“A pot of tea is not going to fix anything, you know” she teased, I ignored her and walked back up to my room, where I stayed, as she suggested, or perhaps predicted, for most of the day, plotting on how to get rid of her, knowing full well it was nothing more than a mental exercise or day-dream, but it’s not like I had anything better to do. She’d hidden my shoes and coat that day, the royal Cuntess.