5
833 Words
Chapter 5: Eight Months After the Funeral
Diva Hart woke to the 6:12 a.m. alarm. She stared at the water-stain continent on the ceiling. Her body felt heavy, a permanent negotiation with gravity she was losing.
The room smelled of dust and old coffee. The radiator clicked for no reason.
She expected her father’s voice from the kitchen. You’re up early.
The expectation hit first, always. Her chest tightened. She pressed a hand against it.
“Stop,” she whispered.
She silenced the phone. A calendar notification flashed on the cracked screen.
Dad’s appointment at 9:00 a.m.
She swiped it away. Sat on the edge of the bed. The floor was cold.
The bathroom mirror showed dark circles and pale skin. She brushed her teeth, staring at the chipped porcelain near the faucet. He’d promised to fix that.
“I know,” she said to the empty air.
The kitchen was quiet. No radio. No forgotten kettle.
She poured yesterday’s cold coffee. Drank the bitter sip.
Her phone buzzed. Unknown number. She let it ring.
On the table by the window sat a stack of envelopes. White. Brown. Most unopened.
She picked them up. The paper felt heavy.
“Electric. Internet. Rent.”
Her hands shook. She opened the one she’d been avoiding. Crisp paper. Unforgiving words.
Past due. Final notice.
She laughed, a short, dry sound. “Of course it is.”
She dropped the letter. Pressed her palms to the table. “Okay. That’s fine.”
Her voice cracked.
She scrolled through her contacts. Past Mom. She tapped Lena’s name.
It rang twice.
“Diva? Is everything okay?”
Diva swallowed. “Define okay.”
“You didn’t sleep again.”
“It’s early.”
“That’s not a denial.”
Diva sank into a chair. “I’m fine.”
Lena sighed. “You say that like it’s a spell.”
“I just needed to hear a voice.”
“That’s not nothing. Do you want me to come by?”
Price flared, weak but stubborn. “No. I don’t want to be like this in front of you.”
“Like what?”
“Like me.”
Silence stretched.
“Diva,” Lena said carefully, “you don’t have to do this alone.”
Diva’s grip tightened on the phone. “I am alone.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
“I’m running out of time.”
Lena’s voice sharpened. “What does that mean?”
“It means grief is expensive.”
“How bad?”
Diva closed her eyes. “Bad enough that I don’t want to say it out loud.”
“I can help.”
“No. I won’t do that.”
“You’re not doing anything wrong.”
“I know,” Diva said. “That’s the problem.”
She ended the call.
A knock at the door made her jump.
“Diva Hart? Building management.”
Her stomach dropped. She peered through the peephole. A man in a navy jacket stood there, clipboard under his arm.
She opened the door a c***k. “Yes?”
“Morning. I’m Frank. Here about your account.”
“I know.”
He nodded. “You said that last month.”
Her cheeks burned. “I’m working on it.”
“I don’t want to make this harder.”
“Then don’t,” she snapped.
He raised his hands slightly. “I’m not the bad guy here.”
“Everyone says that.”
Frank was quiet for a moment. “I lost my wife three years ago. Cancer. She handled the bills. Life doesn’t wait.”
Diva’s eyes stung. “No. It doesn’t.”
“You’ve got two weeks.”
She nodded. “Thank you.”
He left. She closed the door and slid down to the floor, forehead on her knees.
“I’m trying. I’m really trying.”
Her phone buzzed. Unknown number. She let it ring.
An email notification chimed.
Subject: Payment Required
She laughed, a hollow sound. “You’re kidding.”
She pushed up and gathered the letters from the table. One slipped, falling open. Red ink caught her eye. Then another. And another.
Her hands shook openly now.
The pile spread across the table like evidence. Overdue notices. Final demands.
She sat, head in her hands, surrounded by the paper reminders. The exhaustion settled deeper than sadness, deeper than anger. A weariness in the bone.
The apartment walls felt closer. The silence is heavier.
The phone buzzed again. Unknown. This time she answered.
“Hello?”
“Ms. Hart? This is regarding your outstanding balance with ”
She hung up.
Her hands wouldn’t stop shaking. She pressed them flat against the wood.
Outside, a delivery truck pulled away. The new quiet was worse.
The envelopes seemed to multiply. Each one a small, concrete failure.
“Dad would know what to do,” she said to the empty room.
But he wasn’t here.
She was.
And the bills didn’t care about grief.
- Writer
