I open my eyes in the dark.

From the reddish sunlight peering through the crack of my heavy brown curtains, I figure it’s already afternoon. Afternoons in the city of angels are breathtakingly beautiful, golden lines, red clouds, on the pale beach.

Just like the mop of golden threads on her head… the delirious redness on her cheeks when she is shy after our little activities in the nights… the pale colored, slim hands that always feel cooler than mine…

Tina…

I reach out an arm to the spot next to me.

Cold. Not the cooler temperature of her skin, but cold, and empty.

She is not here.

I am aware that she is not supposed to be here. But the thought still strikes me. I am panicking.

My breath is becoming sharp as I listen to my rapidly beating heart. As if the organ is beating in a hollow torso, it is too loud to bear.

Soon, I have to force myself to regulate the breath because it is starting to hurt me. My throat feels like it’s on fire. I try to make a sound of painfulness, but the attempt is in vain.

With each exhale, the moisture air caresses the sore skin on the inside of my wind pipe. However, the inhales take away that moisture and stick knives to my sensitive skin.

So I breathe shallowly, trying to grasp the short relief of breathing out to suppress the hurt.

My face is burning too. My temples are throbbing. My brow ridges are aching.

I take a rough guess. It feels like 103 degrees. Yet, the temperature doesn’t help with my shivering.

Water is needed to get me out of this dark pit of pain and loneliness.

It is plain torture to have my mind awaken and my limbs still in deep slumber. I can’t pick up my arm to get the water on the nightstand.

Now I feel like crying.

So crying I am, weeping with little water remaining in my eyes, shivering because of the strange coldness in my burning being, and burying my face into the pillow and the hair spraying on it.