She told herself a long time ago that this was it. She believed in destiny and it was her destiny to be alone.
Every night she’d lie in her bed, rolled on the side or staring at the ceiling, trying to conjure up a fairytale to tell herself. When she was younger the fairytales always involved her. She was the strong female protagonist who fell in love with the strong, handsome, talented, intelligent man. Lately she’d been telling herself fairytales from a position of objectivity, more akin to gay porn, because somehow those tales were more comforting.
Every morning she’d glance in the mirror and start making faces. When she’d first realised she was starting to get wrinkles in the corners of her eyes she had winced then shrugged. It didn’t seem to matter how she looked. So she would put on her clothes and not worry if they were flattering because there wasn’t much point.
Every day she’d find some task or goal to work towards. The goal generally changed both in importance and attitude. Sometimes it would be about work. Sometimes it would be about completing a small project she had set herself. More often it would be to watch something engaging. Watching was better than reading because it required less concentration and it was easier to forget she existed.
Before she knew it, another day had passed, and she had survived, still alone. Frankly it wasn’t all that bad. Being alone was essentially no worse than being with others. It was certainly a great deal better than being with those you hate.
Every year there came a night when she wouldn’t be able to come up with a fairytale. On that night would cry instead. And in the morning she wouldn’t get up, couldn’t get up. She would lie there static. During the day there would be no tasks, nor goals, nor surviving.
She told herself a long time ago that this was it. She believed in destiny and it was her destiny to be alone. Most of the time it was this mentality which saved her, but of course there were times it didn’t quite succeed.