At some point it had stopped being fun. She had hemmed and hawed for hours spread out over the course of several days making it hard to pinpoint the exact moment when she realized the fun had died. It had started like a clown making a balloon animal.
There was the suspense of what the configuration would end up being: a dog, a horse, a princess crown, maybe even a sword. Because only in the world of balloon animals were a sword and a crown counted as such. While the pieces were all being built the imagination was free to form whatever ideas it could muster. Balloons being picked out of a large supply, stretched, warmed out, filled out. Then they were blown up – almost ready to form something larger than itself. Something that was supposed to bring joy to another person, regardless of their age or fears. Because even people afraid of balloons or clowns overlooked irrational fears when given a balloon animal. Right when everything was getting ready to come together, right as the shape was transitioning from an outline to an actually being that’s when the balloons popped, ending all of the fun.
The waves of fear or disappointment, both depending on the perspective of the matter crashed over the excitement, the wonder, the possibilities and ruined the fun. What Emily was to going to do was irrelevant. There was no way to restore the fun, no way to explain the tidal ways of upset and anxiousness that overcame her. So she wept.
Emily wept for days. She wept like a small child whose balloon was popped by the class bully, and the clown after the party who frightened all the children instead of bringing them joy. She wept so fiercely and for so long her tears wet the floors under her feet. She wept for her lover. She wept for herself. Emily wept for days.
She wept while she cleaned, as she showered, and she emailed in sick to work. She wept without shame or concern. She wept through all hours of the clock. Emily wept through her pillows, through her clothes, and through her couches.
Emily wept for days. Her wet floors became flooded floors. Her predicament only grew as each day turned into the next one. There was nothing she could do. She felt angry and trapped. Her tears came out hot and salty. As the hours moved closer and morphed into days, which turned weeks the tears came out faster. Emily wept for weeks.
As she paced around her house trying to keep her tears from pooling, she had an idea. Not about what to do or how to bring the fun back. Because in nowhere ever did a popped balloon come back to life. The fun was gone. But Emily’s idea, much like her tears, was a hot one. Weeping in the shower had been problematic when her tears turned the water cold as they streamed down her face, into her mouth, over her lips, and off her chin rolling down her body creating contrast to the hot water.
Perhaps what she needed was a hot bath. A hot bath filled by her tears. It would solve the problem of her potential to flood an area, and would give her the warmth of a hug fashioned from the pain of her indecision. Perhaps Emily could do this right, if nothing else.
Emily took a bath, and for the first time in weeks was able to sleep. Not unrestfully thrash around her bed, surrounded by water and sorrow. But actually sleep. Her tears flowing from her face, down her body and into the tub. The saltiness of her tears lifted her ever so slightly from the bright blue water created from tears and a bathbomb. Hours later the music died, more specifically her phone playing the music died. A day later the candle snuffed itself out. She kept weeping, even while she slept. Emily wept and slept for days. A week later her weeping stopped.
As police broke into Emily’s home they saw the salt and water damage from her tears. They followed the path of increasing wetness toward her bathroom. The door was closed. A flood washed over them, running as high as their kneecaps as they opened the door. The officer closest to the light switch used his flashlight to flip the switch. Emily laid dead in her tub. Her body swollen from her tears, bloated from the water and salt together. Her skin visibly mushy, a smile rippled across her face. Emily had wept for weeks, and drowned in days. She no longer needed to address her sorrows, only thank them for washing them away in the end.