Drabble #2: Facing what lies on the other side of the door

It was one of those ruts which she often found herself caught up in, hopelessly entangled in the inescapable web of confusion, frustration … and emptiness. Despite the raging emotional turmoil kicking up one hell of a storm within her, there was also this strange calmness which stubbornly stuck to her outer shell. No matter how hard she wanted to vent, to let the molten anger erupt from her very core and rip another hole through her very soul, she just couldn't do it.

Laziness or guilt; she couldn't pin the reason on either word, nor could she think of any other word that embodied the intensity of her ruptured state. If anything, it was draining. Her emotions were so conflicting, her mind a war-torn battleground for the struggling conscience, leaving behind this gaping void in her soul. Void of all emotion, a deep abyss to which her thoughts fell to their impending doom, trapped forever and never reaching the surface. All that remained was the empty shell, a blank conscience, an empty husk of anonymity. There were emotions, yes, but she could not feel them. She was alive, but not living.

As she lay in bed, staring absentmindedly at the fine etchings on the ceiling – a small dent she hadn't noticed before, the varied shades of grey along the wall, the sudden obscurity the light posed – the more abstract and violent her confusion became.

Why was she even confused in the first place? It was a question she kept returning to, but never really answered. She remembered wanting to fall asleep quickly, to forget the day completely and spare the torture of having to even think at all.

The small bottle filled with sleeping pills lay on its side on the bedside table-top, its lid turned upwards. She had hoped for its effects to be swift, knock her out for at least a couple solid hours before she was forced back into the harsh dullness called reality. But of course, it didn't work to her plans; it never did. Instead, she was now stuck in the cruel clasp of consciousness, tormented by the million half-ended thoughts surging through her head.

Did she overreact? Why was he ignoring her? What if he had been legitimately concentrating on his work that he didn't even realise she was talking to him? Was he having a rough day too- Great, now she was making up excuses. She wasn't the kind to cover for anyone, so why was she doing it now?

She frowned. Here she went torturing herself again on this vicious loop. Dammit, she had to stop this now or she really would lose herself in paranoia. 'Get a grip; you're losing your head. Why the heck are you doing this to yours-'

A noise at the door halted her thoughts. Reflexively, she sat up; the mental screech piercing her thought process as it slammed hard on the brakes.

Shit. He was here, standing outside her door, here to ask questions. Questions which required, no, demanded, answers, answers which she did not have.

Frantic eyes flew to the computer monitor on the desk, still on. The Skype window she had left open and untouched an hour ago displayed no new messages. No messages? What did that mean?

Her screen looked exactly as it did one hour previous. From her bed, she could clearly see that one little green icon, indicating that he was online; online, but not speaking to her.

Her heart skittered. After an argument it was protocol for him to send her a message. A simple and short "Can we please talk?" usually. But this time, there was nothing. No warning. No words. None. Zip. Nothing but silence, and that was what worried her the most.

Between the two, neither of them were big talkers. Typically, he would usually say more than she did. For every word that she came up with, he'd say three. In comparison, it was clear as day that he came closer to being a natural talker than her. That was with the exception of sarcasm, of course. No one else could match her expertise there; sarcastic comments were her forte after all. But despite the rocky communication they shared, they somehow got along. Somehow, someway, they managed.

Double shit. Was he angry? If it was her on the other side of that door, she'd be spewing fiery insults everywhere like Mount Vesuvius on eruption day. In fact, she was surprised he hadn't broken down the door already. She had lodged a towel into the side of his head. Given, it was only a towel, but a cold, damp and extremely heavy one at that. Physics wasn't her best area, but even she knew that its weight would deal quite a fair bit of damage on impact. Maybe not badly enough to injure his ego and make him cry, but it still had to hurt.

There was that noise again. Strange. One would typically knock before entering, but this – this sounded more like … scratching?

Scritch. Scratch. Pause. It stopped momentarily, replaced by a soft rustling. The intermission was short-lived, however. The noise was barely noticeable as the scratching of claws against the wood started again. Damn, she'd have to get out of bed and open the door now.

White socks landed on carpet, treading carefully across the sea of paper littering the floor. "Atticus, what did I say about scratching on the-," she started, flicking the lock open and then the door. "Oh."

Dark eyes met in surprise. She had been expecting the small feline at her doorstep, hopefully looking guilty at his misdemeanour. That part was right, but what she hadn't expected to find was the surprised look mirroring her own on the other side of the door.

"Hi," he said quietly, his voice strangely calm and gentle, and looking just about as guilty as the purring bundle of fur snuggled comfortably in his arms. No, she had certainly not been expecting this.