what to do when there's nothing left

autumn

NOVEMBER
the day is finally done.
you're walking in the rain on the way home from school, limbs heavy and eyes full of tears from what you were put through that day. your body is wet and you can feel wet fabric clinging to your body, the November air is suffocating, but you're so numb that the cold of the rain comes in and out of your awareness like nauseating waves against a lonely shore.
a car passes every once in a while, slowing a little, and you duck your head and pull your hood tighter around your head so they won't see how miserable you are.
at some point, though, it doesn't even matter. you notice that your teeth are chattering and your hands are numb—like your feet. your face. your mind.
another car passes and you don't even notice it until you see its blinkers in the distance—it's your neighbor's car turning into their driveway—she must be home from work already. is it really that late?
then you realize it's starting to get dark, and you've been walking at a snails pace, so no wonder you're not home by now. the sky is a dark blue with storm clouds and night approaching, and though you're almost home, it seems as if you have hundreds of miles left.
when you finally reach your doorstep, it takes you a while to unlock and open your door. when you're inside, once you close the door behind you, the sound of rain disappears, and you're left with the loneliness of the empty house.
the house is so dark that the mirrors are nearly black, and the floorboards are so cold that when you take off your wet shoes and socks, your toes curl up from the ice like surface below them.
you pull off your wet raincoat and feel water from your wet hair drip down your back, like icy fingers choking you to death.
you wander through the dark to your room, where you peel off your wet clothes, put on an old t shirt, and climb into bed. you have four hours worth of homework tonight, but it doesn't matter. nothing does.
at six pm, you fall asleep to the sound of the rain.