Made of Matches (prose, short story)

By Constance R.

Though her dark eyes appeared to be looking out the window, Jean did not see the scenery outside, nor her reflection. She didn't see the handsom robin that pecked around in the front yard or the small violets that surrounded the house in a purple barrier. The fence, too, was invisible, as well as her own daunting glare. The only thing she registered was the glass itself, that thin, glinting pane that seperated her from the outside air. She continued to observe it with such intense loathing that any onlooker would have expected it to crack and shatter. But alas, there was no such onlooker, so it remained whole and Jean continued to stare.
Now, the fact that no one was there to watch was precisely the problem--Jean hadn't seen or spoken to anyone in over a month. Well, she had seen people, like those she passed in the grocery store and such, but no one had stopped by to visit for quite some time. Everyone was either on vacation, across the country, or too busy, and didn't have the money or the courage to get herself out of the house and visit them instead.
Jean was dying to talk to someone, but was too afraid to call. She had terrible penmanship and felt all her letters were too sappy or had 'pity me' stamped al over them. E-mails felt too pestering and ingenuine, and if she did pick up the phone she knew she'd only get an answering machine, which proved to be poor at engaging in conversation.
At around 2 a.m. every night Jean would jerk awake with the strange hopeful expectation that a certain someone would be lying next to her; But alas, she always awoke with the cold absense of arms about her and resorted to mopping up her tears with the pillow she desperately clung to. The hours of sleep she was able to capture dwindled little by little until she simply curled up by her window at night and stared off into the darkness.
Often she would hold the phone, finger poised above the talk button, ready for it to ring at any moment. When it did and she would answer with an over enthusiastic 'Hello?', an automated voice would come on and request that she take interest in whatever product or scam they were trying to sell. A day or so ago she had resorted to re-listening to voicemails she had saved, cherishing ever word the long-ago caller spoke, hanging on every 'um...' and sobbing at each 'g'bye'.
So there Jean sat, hateful and more lonely than a single violin player in a deserted concert hall. And to make matters worse, it was Sunday. Jean had always said that if she were ever going to kill herself, it'd be on 'The Lord's Day.' Besides, wouldn't that make it more convenient for Him? With all the energy of a herse-driver, Jean rested her forhead against the glass, letting out a long and heartbroken sigh as she glanced down at the cellphone that lay in her lap. It stared mockingly up at her, as if it were trying to tell her that no one would ever call--But she didn't need an inadimate object to tell her that. It was already blatently obvious that the world had ceased to care for her existence.

To be continued