when you let yourself feel devastated

and forgive yourself for it,

hope seeps in

— Heather Havrilesky

She sits on the sofa, covered loosely in a blanket, a cup of still-warm tea nestled in her hands, mind in so many places at once. Shivering a bit as the cool air drifts around her ankles, somehow masterfully slipping between the woolen socks and worn-out sweatpants that she has on today, causing goosebumps to explode on the skin like tiny fireworks, the hairs on her arms lifting instantly. The old windows, miserably failing to stop the cold from coming in on a frigid day like this. The heaters, not making that much better job at keeping her warm. Unless she would consider clinging to them directly from floor level and with high levels of affection. Well, something to think about. Shrinking a bit, she wraps the thick rust-colored blanket tighter around her, making a face as the over-sugared liquid slips down her throat. Then she sighs, staring numbly at the darkening room. Feeling too tired to even get up and turn the lights on.

Yesterday proved to be a very long day, not just for her but also for Charlie. Funny enough, her collapsing in public and then later exposing herself emotionally on the roof didn't even prove to be the hardest or the strangest part of the day. She looks down at her hands, the fingers still wrapped around the chipped, red ceramic cup, wondering how much crazier her life could still possibly be. There really was no answer to that. All she could do was square her shoulders and soldier through whatever the world had in store for her.

Slowly, her mind returns to the cafeteria and the plastic chair that got more and more uncomfortable the longer she sat there alone, waiting for him. Arms crossed, and her back shoved into the seat as if she wanted to sink into it and blend with its structure until she would disappear altogether. Time, the surroundings, and the people around slowly blurring away, fading into oblivion as everything inside her became loud. So loud while lost in the soundless world that held her in a tight, nearly suffocating embrace. Destructive tenderness, and cold fingers against the skin, that were calling her home. A home that nobody wanted. A home that scorched and burned until there was nothing left.

Lost in your thoughts, stranger?

She remembers flinching and then looking up a bit dazed until her stare had gained some focus, eyes meeting his as her muscles lost some of their tension.

Concentrating, she slowly makes the rest of the scene come back to life, playing out as if she was there again. The past and present blending together as she holds the cup tighter in her hands. Her mind, settling all too easily in the conversation they had. Breathing and inhaling each word as if it was all happening now. His question, still vibrating in her ears.

You could say that. All gloom and flawless skin in one. Always some upsides to every situation.

She had tried to add a smile to her words, but it came out crooked and mangled somehow. Not that she was surprised much. One could only pretend so long before everything started to fall apart.

Yes, there are always some.

He said slowly and then tilted his head, his hand resting questioningly on the chair opposite to her.

Can I join, with the threat of my head being chopped off by any uneasy topics?

She stared at him for a moment, getting herself together, and then outstretched a hand with ease as if she wasn't really strained or bothered by the whole situation. As if there weren't any chunks of ice swimming in her veins, making her body become unnaturally still. She wanted to act naturally in front of him, yet each physical action felt like moving through rust. Just rust and countless wholes.

Go right ahead. I won't stop you.

He nodded and then sat down slowly, the chair's metal legs making a screeching sound that made them both flinch painfully.

Sorry about that.

No worries, it's my daily soundtrack in here.

She tapped a finger at the side of her forehead, trying to bring some comic relief, but it only made him frown more.

I wish you wouldn't have to go through all of this.

His voice had been soft and gentle and made her even more uneasy than before. Receiving comfort and affection was still a rather alien concept for her. Before Charlie came along, she had many dark months to go through, her soul or whatever was left of it at its lowest. And now, all those weeks later, she was still baffled that all that warmth was meant for her. Still looking at him almost suspiciously whenever he spontaneously did something nice for her, feeling like a wild animal that was brought into the house. Or a beaten-up dog that was doing its best to figure out all the new surroundings. Not knowing how to react to all the good that was coming its way. Rolling into a tight ball somewhere in the corner and only very gradually getting used to the kindness that was being given away so effortlessly, it seemed.

I think I lost you again.

His voice made her snap back into reality again.

Just for a moment, but I will always come back to you. Promise.

I know.

His voice became gentle, and she inhaled deeper, watching him tap against the table a few times before looking up at her again.

I'm not any better at picking at an awkward conversation than you are, trust me.

Her forehead creased automatically at the words.

Oh, I could argue with that.

I am aware, after all, arguing is your favorite activity at the gambling table.

Slowly, her eyebrows lifted then, the corners of the mouth shifting into a faint shadow of a smile.

You're not entirely wrong there.

She smirked a bit. And this time, the smile felt less broken.

Well, I will take that answer as a win. Hopefully, not my last.

She inhaled quickly and spoke before her old patterns caused her to stretch out the conversation, only sliding past the surface and not cutting anywhere deeper. Not touching the layers that were covered in cement and rubble of her previous life.

I had someone very close to me, someone I loved so much that it brought me pain. The good kind, the kind that has no explanation that could ever be put into silly, meaningless words.

She said with surprising calm, things that stirred in her mixing with the ones that felt relieved that she could finally let go of some of her burdens. Observing as his vibrant blue eyes became slightly bigger. But beyond that small change, he remained calm as well, not even moving or trying to speak. She nodded, mostly to herself. A sort of reassurance to continue.

It wasn't an easy kind of love to live with. It was chaotic, unpredictable, and not possible to put, in any kind of frame. It brought the worst and the best in me at the same time. It made me stronger, but it also made me more vulnerable, weaker to what could come. Because when you love like that, there aren't that many places that you can hide to avoid the grief and pain that would come when it's taken away from you.

She had taken a slow, steady breath and marveled at how strangely easy those words flowed out of her. Words she thought that she had thrown away on her darkest day just to remain breathing, but now realizing that they had never left her. They clung to the skin and wrapped themselves under the muscles, mixing with the oxygen that colored her lungs so well. It was at that moment when something in her shifted and bend unpleasantly. Her chin raising, and the jaw clenching, knowing what had to be said next.

But unfortunately, that day came sooner than I feared it would, the empty prayers that I whispered every day proving to be just that. Just empty things.

She swallowed as a sad smile appeared on her lips, and he outstretched a hand automatically to soothe her pain. But she just shook her head and quickly moved the fingers away, crossing her arms tightly over the chest.

I loved him, Charlie. More than anything in this world, it seems at times, but that wasn't enough to keep him alive... with me. Because one day someone decided that his life was no longer worth the while.

She looked to the side and stared out the window at the thick clouds coloring the sky with deep greys and shades of purple that brought some unexplainable beauty to the picture. Yet, her brain decided to ignore any form of such comfort, her fists clenching until the knuckles became white. Not that she cared much. The only thing that mattered to her at that moment was to let it go. To shed some of the layers that no longer served a purpose. Almost like a snake trying to wriggle itself out of its old, dead skin. Even though the process proved to be rather brutal.

Like at that moment, inside the cafeteria. On those two plastic chairs and the big table between them. The silence, separating them physically, with all the words that still had to be said, making them even further away. And she didn't want that gap to grow. No, that was something that she could no longer allow. Sometimes you just have to forgive yourself, or it will drag you down under all the dirt you were already under, but this time there would be no air left to breathe in between.

The softest of inhales. Say it. She urged herself in that second that somehow seemed like the most fragile second in the world.

Dan. That was his name.

She whispered and heard his chair scrape a bit against the linoleum floor. After a few seconds, she glanced back at him, fingers unclenching slowly.

You see, Charlie, Dan tended to have a talent for making bad decisions. Repeatedly, somehow never learning from his mistakes. And I was there to see him through all the storms and fires he recklessly jumped into without a second thought. At most times, he was lucky. Dangerously lucky.

Her eyes searched his for a moment, and then she pointed a finger at him, almost accusingly.

But you know how it is with luck, don't you?

He nodded slowly, cautiously, apparently sensing a shift, and her smile grew heavy and dark. Thick and black, like tar that drips down your fingers. Deadly, slow calmness.

Yes, exactly. Luck runs out, even for the dark horses of the race.

Silence swelled in around them as the people in the cafeteria kept on talking. Plates and cups, shifting, hushed conversations filling the vast space. So many worries in one room, it caused her a headache. Unfiltered sadness, and anger sipping into the brain, pulsating accusations and dread she could not block, throbbing whispers tightening around her. Just another day in hell, nothing else. She exhaled and put her hands on her lap, rubbing them slowly against the knees in thought. Memories flooding her slowly but with power as she put the physical pain away, separating from it for now. Only one destruction at once, God. Something in her smiled in a bitter way. She wasn't even sure if she believed in any higher power, and yet she begged for its mercy at times like these. She tilted her head slightly and let out a breath, eyes gliding numbly over his worried face.

So, one day he didn't come back. I wasn't really surprised that much as he had episodes like those before, drifting away from me for a day or two. Sometimes even three. Once again handling, another new lucrative business that "this time will work for sure".

For a second, she heard Dan's voice as if he was right there with her. This time it will work, baby. This plan is bulletproof, I just feel it. She breathed out and tried not to taste the bitterness on her tongue and instead just continued, her voice becoming dull and empty.

But it never really did. And on that day, instead of seeing his tired, mangled face, which somehow always had a smile reserved for me. Just for me...

She inhaled through her teeth sharply, and without warning, the wounds opened up again, catching the light and gushing blood all over the table. The motion nearly too painful for her to swallow, her throat tightening. But she fought it and clenched her fists again. It's just pain, it's nothing you haven't felt before. Get a grip on yourself. Finish something for once. She told herself with sternness, trying to replace the ache with anger. Grabbing her side as if wanting to stop the invisible bleeding and barely stopping herself from growling as the pain became too physical, too real.

But I didn't get to see it. Instead, seeing a different face and different eyes. Those eyes were serious and respectful. The officer that I had opened the door to; surprisingly gentle as he explained to me that the person most important to me, someone I could not imagine breathing without - not fully, anyway - was gone. No longer... here.

She stumbled on the last word like there were pieces of shredded glass in her mouth. Feeling the ice in her veins, stirring and covering the spaces between the ribs as her chin lifted slightly, back straightening in the plastic chair. The urge to disappear in it was gone. All she felt was her muscles thickening and beginning to settle like concrete. Matching the texture of her bones as the next words felt out of her mouth like tiny sharp pebbles, covering the floor with dust and rubble.

Murdered coldly in some dark, disgusting... sickening alley.

She looked up at the ceiling, letting the light from the lamps blind her a bit as her shoulders rolled slowly. As if she was trying to make her body move. As if she was trying to remember how it was to be human again.

The officer said a fight must have had broken off between him and the attacker. And the other person had no trouble taking one step too far. These things happen more often than one thinks, apparently.

She said in an empty voice, sarcasm coloring her words and seeming to be the only audible shade of life left in her on that day.

Hey, but what to expect when drugs and gambling issues are involved, right? Some people are just problems from the beginning. And society doesn't like that, Charlie.

For some reason, her voice managed to turn sweet as her tongue ran slowly against her teeth, threateningly sweet. As if she had been hanging on the last thread that kept her from tasting insanity fully. Tasting it and enjoying it.

Did you know they found cocaine on him? I mean, beyond finding a wide, gushing gap in his chest? Mmm, not the prettiest sight, in my opinion.

She hadn't looked his way as she asked the question. Lost somewhere between the past and what was actually going on around her. She felt disconnected from everything and didn't have any will to resurface.

He lost so much blood.

She murmured it very low, making it sound more like rusting leaves than actual words.

Whispering them almost to herself as if she was the only one in the room.

But there was nothing they could do when he was found. Nothing to be saved. It didn't matter though, as he was left there to rot there the entire night. They found him early in the morning. On November 12th. The policeman knocked at my door a few hours later. It was 9:32 a.m.

She faintly heard the voices return, creeping into her head and bringing tension under her forehead. She couldn't care less.

9:32 a.m. It's funny how a human brain can recall such small details. Don't you think?

Her voice trailed off, and she shivered after a moment, somehow smelling the snow in the air. Even if she was inside, sitting in warmth. Maybe it was because of how frozen her body felt against her numb thoughts. Or perhaps she remembered how the air smelled when she had to go in and identify the body. And feel the cold skin of his cheek as she stroked it for the last time, in that soulless room with fluorescent lights and metal, shiny surfaces everywhere. Standing there, feeling like being inside a freezer. But then again, since that day, everything felt cold to her.

Suddenly, she felt gentle fingers wrapping around hers as he pulled a chair next to her and sat down, not saying anything. Just being there and coating her with a soft warmth that she needed so desperately.

It's okay. I'm here, and I'm not going anywhere.

She stared at her hand in his, not looking at him until he reached out with his other hand and lifted her chin lightly. A kind smile that brought some light to her state and gradually melted the ice covering her skin. Just like the winter sun as it allows the Spring to shyly creep onto the stage. Slowly for now, but enough to let some hope to seep in. A trace of waking up life.

Is that where you were last week, Nora? Honoring his memory? Dealing with the date?

He asked after a few seconds, but to be honest, it might as long have been hours or days, for all she knew. Time felt like a very surreal thing to inhale and breathe with on that day.

You don't have to answer now. I'm sorry, that was probably a bit insensitive.

She shook her head slowly as his hold was still on her. Smiling a bit at him, his fingers on her chin seemed to burn right through the flash. It was a good burn.

No, it's okay. And yes. I went to visit him at the cemetery.

It must have been a rough time for you.

You have no idea.

He nodded and let go of her chin, letting her lean in and rest her head on his shoulder, as his arm wrapped around her body, his other hand still squeezing hers reassuringly.

I can only guess all the things you have been through in the last couple of years. But I"m here for you, whenever you need me. I mean it.

I know... I know.

It was then when he rested his chin against her head, and her body nestled itself into him. As always, somehow so naturally as if she had known him for years and not just a couple of months. But she didn't fight it as much as in the beginning. No, at that moment, she just let herself sink into him and forget that anything existed, apart from here and then.

_ _ _ _ _

She shakes her head and comes back to reality unwillingly, as the cold of her flat and the empty couch without another warm body against hers hits her harshly. Less than 20 hours, and she already missed him and his presence. And there was less and less in her to fight that feeling. She wraps herself tighter in the rusty color blanket, and sinks deeper into the pillows, letting her body fall and roll into a ball, the street lamps coloring everything in shades of orange and gold.

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

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https://theprose.com/post/230936/with-all-my-senses ( the beginning )

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Previous chapters :

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42. https://old.theprose.com/post/441074/between-the-corridors-of-fragile-things

43. https://old.theprose.com/post/442704/doctor-issues

44. https://theprose.com/post/444836/eventually-everything-resurfaces

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Lately can be characterized by lots of New.

i'm no longer sixteen.

i ate chocolate covered strawberries in the dark

with new friends,

threw the leaves and the bitter white crowns into

the grass that has the privilege of never missing a moonrise.

i envy the grass sometimes,

glowing in its frosty veil like a bride to everyone and no one--

perhaps the sun.

then other times i remember that the grass grows

to cushion falls and heavy footsteps,

to be chewed and spat out to the earth again and again and again.

there is honor there,

yet i am not sure i'd be content with constellations

to be forever scarred with paths that are not my own.

4000 words or so ahead .Reader discretion is advised.

Part 1

There is this singular thread that connects us all in a universal moment of

unity. It intertwines us regardless of who we are and what the world

beats us up to be. Before we are separated into our luscious microcosms of

diversity, into class, race, creed and other archaic human inventions.

It is crying ,as you can guess by the title.

“The Big Waaa Waaaaaaaaaaaa”.

We all enter into this cosmos, with a cry.

Some say it’s a cry for help, a newborn with a birthright of fear, running

through their veins.

Others say it’s a cry against the precipitous change, from the dark, veneered

protection of the womb, to the cold rush of air and insecurity bathed in

searing light, as we are brought into this world, naked and afraid.

Doctors say that the first cry of the newborn is of utmost importance.

It cleans fluids out of the lungs, opens up airways.

And well, the baby isn’t exactly prepared for the sensation that is breathing.

It's like a sharp gust of air being thrust down your throat, your muscles

suddenly are forced to move.

Forcing them to accept this reality of breathing, as soon as possible.

Nature, on the momentous occasion of birth, presents us with the

ultimatum, at the beginning of worldly life, “You either breathe or you die.”

And we’ve got to choose.

Fast.

The decision of life then is instinctual.

We cry .

And with that cry, we win the first fight that life throws at us and face the

consequences of willing to live.

We face the ramifications of choosing to breathe over death itself, at least

for the time being.

Of Choosing to be.

It's almost as if from the beginning itself, we are thrust into battle.

We start from sperm, racing to the homely egg, against our compatriots,

who are all doing the same. All responding to the thirst of life, wanting to

live on, swimming in the anticipation of acceptance and a future. Willing

themselves to live through to the end, or die trying.

If we do survive, numerous battles face us, one after the other, in light and

heavy succession. In birth, in growth, all till our death.

The constant war of being .

Here’s an activity for you.

Close Your eyes.

(Wait you won’t be able to read anything if you close your eyes.)

On the off chance, your eyes are open.

Try loosening yourself up. Notice the sensation of shoulders drooping in a

slump.

Stretch your fingers and toes, and try loosening up

Then for about 10 seconds. Just breathe.

As deeply as you can.

Inhale.

Exhale.

Inhale.

Exhale.

Do all of this while keeping your eyes closed for about ten seconds.

Don’t worry. There’s no rush.

I’ll wait.

How did you feel? What did you notice?

What is breathing to you?

However good your answers may be, I can’t hear you, so listen to what I

have to say about it.

Sometimes ,I think that the process of breathing itself is a battle, this tug of

war, for air.

We gulp in air, those molecules marching in a machinic flurry. Creeping

through our passages, into our lungs. Waiting there for a frozen moment in

time.

And for that single moment, that paused present, we are gratified, fully

quenched for our need for oxygen.

Stasis from the pull and push of inhalation and exhalation,

as they cancel each other out.

No need for more or less.

We’re content, just for this brief moment.

We're Enough.

Alas, you can’t stay here for long.

Soon enough, the whaling, exhaling need builds up, pressurizing us to let it

out, let it fly free into its home before we let in a new wave. Before we set

the continuum back on track.

Slowly but surely, time and time again, we are told, by nature or nurture,

from the Voices that hate and/or love us, that there is always one more

battle, one more war.

And that there are many more to come.

Part 2

Crying is the first language that we speak.

Not speak, not in the literal sense ….is utter the right word?

If we look at the definition, language comes down to 2 things. The tenets

that it is built upon are that of Expression and understanding.

Converting the abstract formless ether that is emotion and

information into a format that is understood and accepted by others.

And in that sense crying is a language is a right? yes, it's primitive, each

instance left up to interpretation, and can barely be held in comparison to

its other contemporaries, who have the upper hand in the game of language

because of syllables and organized value and thought put behind of each of

them.

But as a first attempt, right out of the womb, it is fairly effective for a certain

period.

I cried when I was a child, so did you, so did most of us. It's just how life

works. Nature ordained us with that this innate language. It needs no

syntax, rules or pronunciation, it's the language of incorrupt, innocent

emotion.

And therein lies, to me at least, its power.

Organized language for all its freedom, in its diversity of syllables, words and

sentence structure, can never truly encapsulate and translate our emotions

as powerfully as crying does. Crying, despite all of its well-known flaws,

helps to smoothly emulate uncut, raw emotion, because crying is uncut and

raw if that makes sense.

It's as if crying is one of the truest languages of emotion if the previous

statements did not sound precocious enough.

Our essential needs and wants as powerless beings were ,I think

expressed through this concoction of saline and raw sentiment, spiced in

with a few sounds. As children, we would cry for a variety of needs. From

food to sanitation, fear to attention and even sleep, or more accurately, lack

thereof.

We process pain, anger and joy among an assortment of others' emotions, through

these salt and mucous infused streams mixed with throaty gargles and

vibratos.

It provides this primitive yet most advanced language. Helping us to

materialize emotions, those certain shivering, anxious, thought-spirals

that rattle through our cerebrums day in and out.

Giving us a voice, a space and a contoured, covert sphere of my own ,far

removed from the intangible maelstroms of doubt and crippling fear.

As adults though,we move on to other,more efficient modes of

communication, right?

Odysseus, from the Greek legends, did it and he was commended for it.

In the XVI book of the Odessey, (255-260) the encounter of Odysseus and his

son, who hadn’t met each other in years is described so "Salt tears/ rose

from the wells of longing in both men, /and cries burst forth from both as

keen and fluttering/ as those of the great taloned hawk/ whose nestlings

farmers take before they can fly. / So helplessly they cried, pouring out

tears”

One of the greatest of all Greek mythological heroes, surviving a war, many

treacherous voyages and monsters, praised for his honour and patriotism,

oozing with machismo, was praised, sung about even, for a form of

expression which is looked down upon to a certain degree.

In their case, the expression of such emotion wasn’t seen as a flaw,a source

of shame, or even a loss of masculinity, rather it was seen as a symbol of

fortitude.

Perhaps these emotional outpourings could solidify relationships, even more

than words can ever do between people.

So,When and where did tears change, from this standard of emotional

experience and expression, albeit a very ancient, cherry-picked one, to a

shameful one?

I don’t know.

Part 3

What are your first impressions of someone who is crying or someone who

is very prone to cry? What do we or you specifically, characterize them

under?

Is it that they are weak, often swept in a wave of feelings, unable to control

it, unable to anchor themselves down, to a calm, cold, logical reality?

That they are fragile for letting their emotions rule them, instead of the

other way around?

This is a rhetorical question because I might not get an answer from you. I

don’t expect one.

But I hope that you’ve thought about it now. Even if it is for a little while.

For a long time, at least in popular culture, whether it be movies, shows and

books, crying is shown to be a sign of weakness.

A scene that comes to mind is from the movie Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs 2 ,Earl the police officer reacts to the preceding scene (no spoilers) by saying "This is enough to make a grown man cry ,but not this man .Get back in there ,tear "as the muscles in his face jerk that tear back in ."

This scene was played out for the laughs and in the context of the movie it is mildly funny , but the additional context of the phrase "Enough to make a grown man cry", is worrisome ,is it not ?

Over time, I do not know when, nor do I know why, but a certain stigma was

built around it. It was weaponized for the glorification or vilification of

others in terms of comparison.

To cry was to be perceived as a weaklin, you are called a girl or a number of other insults . As a result, there's a certain air

that ranges from hesitancy to shame, which prevents us from crying.

This public hesitancy slowly crept into our private lives too.

Because monkey see, monkey do.

Thus, Letting this natural coping mechanism become demonized, restricting

it to certain age groups and/or genders which further deepen scars, that

people try to seek refuge from when they cry.

Ohh the irony .

The social taboos of letting tears flow begin from the assumption that

tearing up an age-restricted thing. That it is a child using a primitive

language. That it is not appropriate at all for a teenager, adult or geriatric.

It’s seen as a sign of immaturity, unreliability, leaving most of us no option,

but to,” Suck it up","Be an adult “or the more popular, sexist version of it

“Be a man “.

Essentially, cork it up like a fine wine, till all you can see in the world is your

ache. Hoping that you’ll forget all your wrongs, all the misdeeds done to you

and you have done to others and trudge along like a zombie in this world as

time goes by.

With the little knowledge that I have about this subject, I understand that

tears don’t always indicate weakness but they help in portraying the

fullness of emotion which words fail to capture, even if such emotional

displays would be seen as weak in contemporary culture.

The act of crying as said by Dr. Recalcine Leaf, is considered to be three

things. A sign, a call and a release.

It’s a sign to us and those whom we trust enough to be vulnerable, no,

honest with, that we are experiencing an emotional whitecap. That we need

all the time, patience and the help that we can get to ride this wave out.

It’s a call for introspection, for us to look into ourselves, the mistakes we’ve

made, the time we’ve lost, the joy we share and partake in, and come out

the other side, a better human being

And finally, it’s a release. Physiological response to pent up emotional and

psychological pressure. Giving that sense of temporary catharsis and clarity.

The briny hug that our tears seem to give, whispering,” it’s okay, it’ll get

better. I know it will, I know it will, I know it …...

So that when the tears are finally wept away, we can see, if only

temporarily, a sign of hope, this unrelenting sense to live, to get up and

continue to fight the next battle, the march in the next war. Sometimes,

many temporaries can stretch to a lifetime, and maybe that itself is enough.

Or is that line too cheesy?

Tears serve a cleansing purpose. Not just in the physical sense (tears do help

in the sanitation of our eyes), but to remove, no, process this sudden or

gradual excess of emotions that may or may not be inappropriate to voice

out loud, like grief over a lost friend, bitterness, or regret of past misdeeds.

All the good stuff that makes us human.

Then again, I'm no expert. I don’t have PhD in crying. This is, after all, A

controlled embellished ramble of my surface-level understanding of things.

Am I Contributing anything new to this conversation? Am I making a net

positive, giving more than I'm taking, or is it something else?

I don’t know

I don’t know.

Part 4

There are a lot of times in my (admittedly, short, relatively inexperienced

and sheltered with a dash of privilege,) life, where I feel that anything that I

do, just seems to hurt.

It's not physical pain. Usually, those have a definite source and a natural or

artificial, known remedy. If I get to scrape my knee, I'll put turmeric powder

on it. If my Stomach aches, I might have an antacid.

So on and so forth.

Instead, it's this, well familiar concoction, of mental and emotional strains,

pains and agonies, all in a class of their own.

It's that knot in your stomach, it keeps getting tighter, till it reaches a

sustained peak of a feeling that I can't seem to describe, overwhelming you

to a high degree that you can’t see anything else, feels anything else. and

you can’t get through yourself to change it, to ease the pain.

So, all you can do, and all you do is to bear it till passes by.

Those times in life, where you feel that it hurts to be human.

Those times when you feel that you bear Atlas himself on your skeletal,

screeching back as you rummage through your surroundings, trying to make

sense of it all.

Those times when you feel so sore from the kicks and slips in life,that

getting up doesn’t seem to be a viable option anymore.

Those times where the light at the end of the tunnel flickers in the wind, and

your slink, turns to a saunter, then to sprint and then a scramble, bumbling

in a vague assurance that you’ll reach in time, when suddenly in a flash, all

seems to be lost. This journey that you were traversing on with all your

heart and strength, seems futile now. The light at the end is expunged and

worse, the light inside seems to follow suit.

What do you do then?

Can you start over?

Should you choose to suck it up, move along, not addressing it all?

Letting it fester, burn and rot within you, till you let it out in a toxic eruption,

wounding yourself and worse, those around you?

Or do you cry?

Knowing that these saline streams, flowing down your aching body, won’t

inherently free you from your gloom?

Knowing that this human nature of yours would be considered immature

among those who you respect, admire and dare I say, love?

Knowing that the only haven to do so is with locked doors, eyes and hearts

so that no one can see your shortcoming, not even yourself?

Do u still do it?

Would it ultimately matter?

These are just a few questions that pop off in my head, kind of like hydras, in

some ways. You cut one head off, and two more will promptly take their

place. Doubly loud, doubly intrusive, doubly doubt inducing, and doubly

potent. Over and over again.

Part 5

Whenever I have the chance to travel by air, I am always replete with this

sense of amazement.

Amazed at how a long aluminium can with wings that don’t flap, can.... fly.

How lifetimes worth of journeys, across seas, oceans and deserts are

covered in mere hours, something that Solomon and Alexander couldn’t do,

despite their immense wealth and Greatness, respectively.

Setting aside the collaborative wonder of the plane, the other compelling

aspect of travel in an aeroplane is the view.

Large skyscrapers, roads and trees, all seem to be shrunken, left on display

like neatly organized building blocks in a child’s room that go on to infinity.

They seem so close that I can almost touch them, as if they’re just one push

away, one flick of my finger and one draught of a breath, before the blocks

that make them, tumble into their deeply symmetrical hunks of plastic.

While the plane ascended to the clouds, it got me wondering. How much

does a cloud weigh?

I know, it seems like a dumb question, something which only annoying 7-

year-old children would ask in a series of questions like what does this do,

what does that do, why does this exist, what’s the meaning of life ?, that kind of stuff.

Well, it seems logical not to ask the question simply because. Because, well,

it floats in the sky, so it must be light, right?

To my surprise, I was wrong. Very wrong. With a quick search online, I found

out that they were heavy.

That these fluffballs, the abode of angels, creatively moulded into

trampolines in the sky, weighed as much as elephants do .11 of them to be

kind of exact.

On average a single cumulus cloud can weigh up to eleven elephants, or 1.1

million pounds or roughly 500,000 kg.

On the surface, they seem so light, like a floating feather. Yet the truth

often resists definitive simplicity.

In a slightly similar yet overthought fashion, I come across my friends,

family, who seem to be able to do it all, who in some ways reminds me of

clouds.

They have high expectations, full of hope and energy and achievement.

One plans to be a doctor, another an entrepreneur, another a musician, all

“successfully” juggling their social and personal lives, while trying to be good

people.

The “ideal “child a

parent could wish for, so to speak.

Yet they too undergo pain. They too hurt.

They too have their cumbersome clouds, wafting in their heads, floating

about ominously presence.

There are times when I'm lucky or unlucky enough to be able to capture a

glimpse of these clouds that hover in their atmosphere.

Sometimes it's in between certain light-hearted conversations about the

latest trends or books or something of that sort.

Other times it’s these scattering solitary moments as they seem to stare at

the window. Not the scenery Outside of it. Or the chalky mess suspended

within it, but the window itself. As if it is the subject of certain profound

interest, that they are right on the cusp of universe redefining discovery.

But I don’t think that the window is what they are peering into. Maybe it is

the person staring back from it.

They seem to swim in the depths of silence when the echoes of the

cacophonous crowd dissipate out of a room, when the silence amplifies,

whatever seems to be inside.

This silence, these clouds, they stay there for a split second, spreading its

foggy, protracted arms, to their faces.

Wrinkling a smooth cheek, into the old familiar home of despondency, as it

wriggles to their depths, like a railroad maggot to an apple.

Inch by inch.

Row by row.

Till it decisively reaches the eyes. The last crowning piece to this puzzle of

terror and what seems to be despair.

And then, it dissolves. Goes back to this seemingly fabricated state of

simulated calm, now overstretched because of this panic of recognition and

judgement, as if they are trying to convince any accidental onlooker that this

short-lived petrification didn’t happen, that it never does and maybe even

trying to convince themselves of that very lie.

I’ll never know whether these moments are rooted in mortification or dread.

Hatred of a past self or fear for an unknown future one. Or if it’s completely

something else. These are, after all, my perceptions of a frozen moment in

time. They may even be misconstrued by my starved Muse, eager to devour

any narrative that inspires, regardless of the truth.

All I know is that most, if not all of us have our clouds, Anchoring us to the

fathomless pit of self.

Creating this claustrophobic version of reality. And only those under their

clouds will truly know its gravity.

Far from what an amateur romantic can even describe.

Sometimes farther than their own words can put through.

Clouds that hang up in the sky for too long can make the earth gloomy and

in the same way. It can make anyone feel suffocated, like screaming in a

glass jar.

No escape, no response, just echoes, all while you’re on display, as you

slowly wither away, for lack of air and the want for something else,

something more.

Part 6

I think Tearing up, crying, bawling in its many forms is like rain.

At the worst or the best of times, it soaks us, down to the bone, before we

can change.

Starts with a mist, a foreboding cloak on our eyes, brimming up in a convex

wall, simmering in a frequency of its own, till it bursts.

It streams, forging its miry path, settling and dancing onto the delicate,

contours of our face, before the first fall.

After which it’s a flood. An all-consuming flood.

Rain has been represented as a carrier of renewal and rebirth in nature and

literature, the catalyst for spring, a symbol of hope, despite the disruption

that it represents and is.

They seem to dissolve the many pains and aches that hang suspended in our

atmosphere, and let it go, from mist to stream to flood, carrying the grime

and dust, and cleaning the crevices that exist or are constructed to be

hidden from everyone else, till nothing is left untouched.

But Clouds slowly dissipate or drift away when they are spent. And that’s

where I envy them.

It's usually not that simple in the case of human beings.

Unlike nature, our clouds seem to remain in our own atmosphere, long after

the rain has passed.

Sometimes, after my clouds seem to give up all they have and more, in the

numerous bouts of heavy sobs, I wonder or I hope, that it's all clear now.

That maybe after I open my eyes, wipe off the excess, a celestial clarity of

thought and action will somehow dawn on me, at least to a certain degree.

That Even though I am not excessively clear about everything, that maybe I'll

get candlelight, a fistful of flame, enough to light up the immediate future,

to warm up the gripping present.

To go on.

Then I open my eyes and look up.

The clouds are still there.

It’s all there, and a little more.

More imposing than ever.

A mountainous weight that doesn’t seem to go away.

They say that “The rain goes away eventually. That the sun shines brightest

after the storm rolls over.” That’s usually a metaphor for,” Don’t worry, it’ll

get better soon. Just Wait, happier times are coming “

What we are not told is that sometimes those clouds don't simply go away,

they pile on. When the clouds of our worries, inadequacies, sense of

hopelessness cannot possibly get farther, thicker and heavier, it just does.

Dimming our vision with each layer, sucking out any light that comes from

inside or outside till it's all pitch. Everything including you.

Sometimes the way to weather the storm, the way that works for me

sometimes, is to make a ladder with your own hands, high enough to reach

the sky, so that you can tackle those clouds, these puffballs in their territory.

They seem so innocent, so frail, yet they are the ones that turn into the

storm.

The journey is arduous and unrewarding, but it must be done for us to grow

It must be done for us to see the sun again, to tie up our shoes and walk on.

Through the thorny bushes, seas and deserts.

Conclusion

I’m not saying that crying has no inherent value. It's just that it's part of the

process. It’s a means to the end, its part of the climb, not the summit itself.

It's the acceptance of being scared, of being happy, being on this cusp of

growth and change.

It helps to put to rest the cognitive dissonance of emotion and logic, helping

one finally, even if or a few brief moments, reach stasis. It's kind of similar to

the act of breathing as I discussed before, an oasis. We stay there briefly

before moving forward, gives ourselves rest, time and hopefully

understanding.

That’s how I imagine it be

And yes, I do not think these exact things when I cry. When I cry, I get

consumed by the emotion that I have, happiness or otherwise.

This is just a retrospective, me looking at the act of crying to understand it,

myself and hopefully others too.

Hopefully, this essay does not come off as a snake oil sales tactic for

crying, where I say that your tears will erase all your problems and pain

away.

It won’t.

Because if it would, we would all have been transported to a perfect world,

the minute we entered, after our first cry. But I want it to help stress the

importance of crying in the process of grief, emotional processing and as I

mentioned, being human. It's not an innate solution, yes but, it’s a

significant part of it, at least in my eyes.

So don't be afraid when the tears come on. Don't be scared to open the

floodgates because this is part of what makes us human. Part of what helps

us get up each morning. That's important.

Ellen the anchovy goes skiing

Eric the antelope writes his dissertation

Elias the alligator becomes a hedge fund manager

Eva the angler fish commits arson

Enrique the albatross sing karaoke

Elizabeth the author gives up on writing

every time I write it’s always the same me, right? No.

Well, maybe.

Does it matter?

Doubtful

Where was I going with this

Or that

Or with anything at all

No.

Does it matter?

Doubtful.

it’s a constant process of falling in the deep,

resurfacing, re-calibrating,

and telling myself everything will be okay

- Fiona Robinson

The following day.

I lean my back against the front entrance of the hospital building in a slightly distracted state. Arms crossed tightly against the late Autumn chill as my mind repeatedly attempts to analyze the last 48 hours, coming with only one disturbing conclusion. The more I tried to put some distance between me, and him, the closer somehow I ended up falling into his bright, alluring sphere. Like trying to defy the damn gravity or the laws of physics. An equally useless action. I think bitterly, then sigh, rubbing my face over and over again until I feel the judging stares prick my skin, stirring my blood. I look up at the people that pass me on the way in and shift, annoyed. What, you never saw straight-on crazy before? I feel like shouting into the cold air but then exhale slowly and unfold my arms. What’s the point, anyway, Eleonore? We’re all some levels of crazy here, no exceptions.

The only difference here was that she didn’t have a problem admitting it. And instead of moving from it, she preferred to cover herself in it like in a thick winter coat that soon she would need not to freeze in this hell hole that flamed her skin not with fires but with frost. Tiny ice shreds that never left her, and had nothing to do with the weather, that liked to kiss her bones with sticky tenderness, whispering softly of the things that were coming her way.

A little dramatic today, aren’t we now, love?

The words ring out in my head, and I flex my shoulders, trying to calm it all down. No need to bring even more negativity into the world. There was too much of it as it is. Still a bit triggered, I turn around towards the entry. Hesitating for a moment as visions of last night color my mind with swelling, chaotic feelings that vibrate through my muscles like the wrong kind of medicine. I felt so exposed and bare yesterday, so not used to someone seeing under my layers, exposing the bruises under the haggard and scarred tissue. It wasn’t meant for anyone to see. For anyone to touch. It was just hers, and there were so few things that she could say that about these days.

I shake my head and march into the building, heading for the third floor without looking back or stopping to see anything or anyone. Choosing the stairs and running up as fast as possible, and not letting myself think until I reach my destination. After a short moment, I navigate to the right corridor. And despite the blazing irrational state that I’m currently in, something still manages to attract my attention. Slowly, my eyes follow a guy with a deep frown and a displeased expression coming out of Morgan’s room. I lift my eyebrows, surprised. He fixes his glasses slightly and writes something down in a thick, leather-bound notebook. I watch him get distracted in his notes and check something on the calendar while I silently head to her room. For a moment, he catches my stare, and I hold it, not in any way intimidated, more curious what the guy was all about.

My eyes gradually take him in, the short but thick brown hair with the beginning of grays streaks showing on the sides, then the rather tall frame and the slim silhouette. He seems to be in his early forties from the look of it. Wearing dark blue jeans, a swede jacket in the shade of coffee. All questioningly pared with a vest underneath that was so multi-patterned that it made it nearly impossible to declare what color it was. Not that it mattered. Maybe he was going both for the professional and laid-back option, trying to be more approachable. Who knew.

My stare drifts back to his, and I nod politely. He does the same and gets back to his little scribbles. Mmm, there was something about him that rubbed me the wrong way. My eyes narrow a bit for a while, but then I leave it at rest; life was too short to waste on such things. I walk into the room and, for some reason, notice a similar frown on Morgan’s face. She groans, annoyed, crumpling pieces of paper laying on her bed with frustration, and then throws it down to the floor, coughing slightly. I try for the sudden worry not to slip into my bloodstream the way it wants to.

Hey, hey, calm down there. Whatever it is, it’s definitely not worth that kind of energy loss.

I come over and pick up the paper from the ground, smooth it out a bit and glance at it, but don’t really focus on it much.

What’s this?

It’s called “dealing with trauma” according to my parents.

I gaze at her questioningly and then put the documents on her nightstand. She glares at me and huffs under her breath.

Therapy.

Pardon?

Therapy. An upgrade of a guidance counselor and a lesser evil from a shrink option. I mean, what would my dad’s friends and associates think if his daughter went to a shrink, right? Can you imagine the horror and shame?

She shakes her head and sighs, not really waiting for a reply.

My mom solves problems. I’m the problem. And there is the solution; a high-notch overpaid therapist wannabe.

She points to the man still standing in the hallway and making some phone calls now. I gaze at him for a moment and then back at her. She just shrugs.

Well, that’s her opinion anyway. As if a better mood and a fake smile on my face could help the diseases go away.

I open my mouth to say something, but she stops me.

No, don’t. At least you can spare me the “positive attitude can solve all issues” crap.

I lift my hands in the air and shrug, not really bothered.

Hey, I’m just an innocent passerby here. Don’t blame me for the way, in which the world is constructed.

She groans but then nods.

Yeah, sorry. I know it’s not your fault.

My eyebrows shoot up, probably giving me a very comical expression.

Excuse me? Could you please repeat that? Because I don’t think I will have a chance to hear it again. But slowly, and focus on the pronunciation, I want to enjoy each mouthwatering, honey dripping syllable coming out of your mouth.

The pillow flies my way at an impressive speed, but I manage it catch it in the last moment before it gets too familiar with my face, though, stagger a bit in the process.

Whoa, easy. Hospital property here, and I don’t plan on being charged by it. Mmm, well then. You ever considered playing professional football? Because we could definitely use you on the national playoffs.

She shakes her head but manages to produce a real smile for me.

You’re ridiculous.

Yet, you still tolerate me somehow.

For, now.

Of course.

I smile back at her but then touch my forehead, feeling my head spin a bit, legs going slightly weaker in the knees. I throw her a quick glance to see if she caught it, but thankfully she’s already occupied, making sure the stuff she got was torn into neat, smaller, and smaller pieces of white paper snow.

Feeling in a confetti mood?

I ask, amused but then try not to notice how my voice quivers a bit, putting hands in the pockets of my jeans as they start to tremble. This really was a sickness, no matter how much I went out of my way to pretend otherwise. And it was heading for the kill.

Yeah, something like that. Maybe I will make a snow globe and give it to my therapist as an early Christmas gift.

She says in a dark tone, and I smile again, despite feeling my fragile state increase with each moment.

That’s my girl. I’m proud of you. Uhm... hey, Morgan?

She looks at me from her entertaining activity and lifts an eyebrow.

I think I will go look for the nurse man, so he doesn’t send a search party after me consisting of the Baskerville hounds and his noble attitude. And then come back here. Okay?

She nods.

Do as you please. Just remember you’re behind on the product line.

She points to a plastic box filled with colorful paper and the things I already made for her, and the ones we have made together. There are roses there, tulips, and flowers made from multiple layers, resembling big balls of perfectly shaped petals. I must say, there weren’t many times when I could actually use the word perfect in any sentence that related to me personally but here, it was cutting it close. I focus even more on the box and smile at the sight of a few origami birds. I didn’t possess many positive memories from childhood, so this one I held specifically tight to my chest, remembering the time spent with my mom. I look back at her and nod.

It shall be done.

I smile faintly and walk out into the hallway, feeling my throat tighten as I try to swallow, beads of sweat appearing on my forehead. Why was my health declining so fast lately? Was my body giving up and shutting down completely, running its final course? I try to swallow again. Perhaps, I didn’t really have answers to those questions but knew that the pain and different symptoms came in waves. At times drowning me mercilessly and at others letting me simply drift on the surface. Carried with the current and giving me the allowance of a few temporary sun rays and the kindest form of warmth. I shake my head, annoyed a bit. Don’t let yourself get melodramatic again, Eleonore. Nobody really likes the sad sappy types too much. Slowly, I head forward and try to push away any dark thoughts that were pressing themselves onto me, a familiar buzz under the skull waking up and welcoming the voices. I hear them and feel the venom start to spread into my bloodstream, but don’t allow them to turn into words. Instead, shut my eyes closed for a moment, humming to myself soft melodies and drowning out the world around me.

If there is a lot of noise in the room and you blur out the actual conversations, focusing only on the sound itself... then you are left in a space full of bees. And as much as it sounds crazy, it actually not only works but can even have a soothing effect as well.

I shift forward with difficulty but somehow am able to harness a bit of the chaos that kept on attacking my mind. Detach yourself, love. It’s the only way to quiet them down. I feel the sweat drip down the lower of my back, and my jaw clenches tighter. They say you can get used to the pain, but they are wrong, very wrong. Because when it grows, it becomes a whole new Hellgate to cross under your freshly bleeding feet. I think with barely any remains of a clear mind just before my knees buckle under me, hands hitting the floor in a weak attempt to break the fall. I curse and groan through my teeth, my body rolling into a tight ball constructed of wires and iron strings. Not here, not now. Please. Not here where everyone could see. The thoughts scream at me as I have less and less energy to think straight or even try to get up to save myself from public view. Though I still try. But the sweaty hands slip against the smooth linoleum, my forehead bumping against the floor. Shit, shit, shit. Come one, get up. You can do this. You have to. The hall was still empty.

Come on.

Excuse me, miss? What’s wrong, are you feeling nauseous? Let me help you.

Or apparently not. I groan again and look up as an unfamiliar voice asks, my eyes watching someone get closer with every step. Their silhouette, seeming to move towards me in almost slow motion, my perception of reality altered and distorted somehow. Time and sounds, blending and changing their pace as they pleased. As if trying to breathe underwater and stumbling through an unrehearsed nightmare. I squint my eyes and moan in frustration, not being able to usher any coherent words. It’s the guy that I saw before. The therapist. This is not good.

I’m... f-fine.

I mumble, silently feeling like a winner for even finding scraps of my voice through all the mayhem that was controlling my neuron system and clawing its way deeper and deeper under and shredding me from the inside out. I make myself focus slightly more and somehow manage to move up to some kind of a sitting position, balancing myself on the hands and breathing with effort. But it’s clearing just a bit. I’m able to make out more of my surroundings, but I’m also all too aware that it’s not over, just a pre-show, and it will get worse before it can get better. It comes and goes in waves. It always does.

_____

Charlie

Something in him shifts as he’s talking to Raffael, his patient, the one with an arm in a cast and some broken ribs to match. Thankfully, he was feeling better with each day, though a full recovery would still take at least a few more months. He smiles at him, but his mind is distracted, a strange itch forming under the muscles, his body tensing. What was that sensation, that feeling? He couldn’t really explain it or the source of it, but he knew something was wrong. Helplessly, he looks to the sides and into the hallway but doesn’t notice anything out of the ordinary.

Mmm, Raffael?

The 17-year-old looks up at him, stopping in the middle of a little story he wanted to share with him, as he was rather bored in his room. Not really having that many opportunities to talk to anyone as there weren’t that many people visiting him on a daily basis. He lifts his eyebrows.

You will have to tell me the rest later; I just remembered I forgot about something important that needs my immediate attention. So sorry.

The boy looks at him a bit surprised as he knows this isn’t usual behavior for Charlie but then just nods, understanding.

Sure, you’re the one at work here, man. I’m just on an inventorially vacation here. And I think this place is way overrated, I wouldn’t recommend it to friends. Two stars at most, and that’s if I get my jellos more regularly. Otherwise, this place is going down any day now.

He says in a light tone and grins. Charlie smiles as well but then swiftly turns around, trying not to break into a run as he gets out of the room, more tension building up in his muscles. It seems to penetrate the bones. What the hell? He wasn’t even sure what brought the state he was in right now or what direction to head. No logical explanation in sight. Yet he doesn’t ignore or disregard it, something inside pushing him forward with force. He passes the hallway and turns in the opposite direction that the reception was. Making a few turns on his way. Soon enough, he walks past the room of that girl that Nora likes to hang out with and catches his breath. His entire form, freezing for just one second, both his heart rate and the world around him, seeming to stop at exactly the same moment. He hears her pained groan and instantly breaks out of the stillness.

He moves up to her and blocks Dr. Sorenstine’s view. Bending and holding her wrist as if checking the pulse, good energy spreading through her veins gradually, like a warm compress on sore muscles. Her mind appears to relax a bit, and she gazes up at him. She looks pale, and there is sweat covering her skin. She seems to be drained, but a shy smile appears on her tired face as the body still trembles a little. Charlie smiles back as relief takes over, soothing his tensed frame. Gently, he helps her shift and stand up slowly, giving her a reassuring stare. Then he straightens his back and turns around to the doctor, his whole attitude changing and growing professional, reserved; something in him taking the shape of a stone.

She should be fine now.

From what I just experienced, she did not seem fine.

The man speaks coldly, his dark eyes inspecting his facial expression and body language. Damn psychologists, always watching you like a specimen in the worst possible moment. The doctors for the mind. Though he wasn’t that phased by it, his reactions were composed and calculated. They had to be; too much was at stake.

She’s handling a difficult illness, making her body more weak and unstable. Plus, on top of it, a post-traumatic syndrome that as you, doctor, of course, know can be very overwhelming.

And grief, that leaves a mark.

His head snaps back to her as she continues in a hushed tone, not looking directly at neither of them.

My doctor says it’s a long process. The physical issues are not helping either, it’s a constant struggle to stay afloat. But I’m trying. I think that counts for something.

He gazes at her, surprised. Not sure if she is speaking the truth or just making stuff up like he was. He stares closely at her face but can’t really read it. Nora’s eyes meet his, holding the stare and not looking away, her expression seeming calm and confident. She must be pretending; he would sense something otherwise. He breathes out just as the doctor decides to slip into the awkward silence.

I am sorry for your loss...

Eleonore.

He gives her a quick nod.

Yes, Eleonore. Are you sure that you feel better? Maybe Mr. Evans should take you to the emergency room or at least examine you more thoroughly?

There is a slightly patronizing tone in the therapist’s words. But he decides to play dumb and ignore it.

That might be a good option, doctor. Come on, Nora. I will help you get there. You need to be checked; you know what happens when you don’t take your medication on time.

They walk away while James Sorenstine watches them, not in any way convinced by explanations that he just heard. What was this entire show about? He saw the symptoms and how her body reacted, all the vitals being out of order. And then just calming down almost as soon as that over helpful staff guy was near her. No one is that good. She should have not, get better so quickly. He looks as Evans walks her off, fingers still wrapped around the young woman’s wrists as he does anything in his power to block her out of view. Something was off here, and his mind would stay alert until he would find out some answers. But no rush. Shadows always catch up with us, one way or another. The doors to the elevator open, and they disappear in it. He definitely had to look more into this case. The whole situation felt rather surreal, something unexplainable still lingering in the air even after they leave. He couldn’t quite touch it yet, but it was just a matter of time before he would.

All he had to do was dig deep enough.

_____________________

*The Hound of the Baskervilles, one of the best known of the Sherlock Holmes novels, written by Arthur Conan Doyle in 1901.

_____

https://theprose.com/post/230936/with-all-my-senses ( the beginning )

Previous chapters :

40. https://theprose.com/post/427675/of-monsters-and-living-things

41. https://theprose.com/post/437586/those-deeply-rooted-ways

42. https://old.theprose.com/post/441074/between-the-corridors-of-fragile-things

I’m not left,

I’m not right.

I’m not a class,

I’m not an income,

I’m not wrong,

I’m not right.

Sometimes I’m all those things.

Sometimes I’m nothing.

But I’m always, me.

And if I know who that is,

I’m truly,

free.

and healing only happens in the spaces

you are willing to reveal

- Dian Tinio, Thought Catalog

Charlie

He knocks on the door impatiently, banging against its brown wooden surface. The golden number 9 nailed to it, seeming to almost muck his efforts and the anxious state he was in. The noise of it sounding very loud in the otherwise quiet building, the corridor that he is standing in, completely empty, a withering plant in the corner by the window, and a lonely, battered bike perched against one of the blue-greyish looking walls - the only witnesses to his actions. Finally, the lock in the door turns slowly, and someone opens it with slight hesitation. A slim, young woman with soft blond hair to her shoulders gazes at him with a tired gaze and then straightens her back, inhaling deeper.

She looks like she could be in her late 20′s and something in the way that she stares at him lets him know that there is more than meets the eye in this case. She’s wearing a deep green sleeveless t-shirt, parred with shiny black leggings. A long white and grey woolen sweater put loosely over her frame, falling down lazily to the side and exposing one of the light honey-colored shoulders. He notices her hold onto the door frame tighter, her knuckles becoming unnaturally pale. Yes, it was rather obvious that both of them were a bit strained and that this wasn’t exactly going to be a casual courtesy visit.

Hey, you must be Charlie.

All live and breathing, yes.

He hears the sharpness in his voice but is unable to take it back now. They stare at each other in awkward silence for a moment, then mercifully, the girl shifts slightly, opening the door wider and gesturing him to come in.

There, in the living room. She’s not doing too well, even if she tries to tell me otherwise. Don’t believe a thing that comes out of that mouth.

The last words sound much softer than the cold, almost razor-sharp tones she started with, a small smile appearing on her face. As if sunshine breaking through thick clouds. Instantly she seems at least a few years younger, subtle sparks twinkling in her eyes. It reminds Charlie of Nora, on her better days.

I never do when it comes to her health. I learned as much by now.

He smiles a bit and reaches out a hand; the girl lifts an eyebrow but takes it. The grip is firm and comforting somehow.

I don’t believe we did this right before. Cara, right?

All live and breathing.

She sends him an amused look after mirroring his own words, and he cannot stop and smile at that. This time it’s a bit more genuine.

Anyways, I will leave you two to it. You can find me in the kitchen if she starts throwing things. I won’t protect you, but I will take pictures of your demise and send a bill later.

She gives him a gentle look despite the not-so-subtle traces of sarcasm. Mmm, apparently, there were more creatures like Eleonore Walton roaming the world. He inhales deeper and then slowly walks past the little hall, walking into a cozy-looking living room that’s connected to a half-open kitchen. He notices a purple plastic table in the corner of the room filled with a bunch of crayons, pencils, and everything a little artistic individual could ever need or want. His stare drifts from it to an antique wooden and metal coffee table covered with glossy magazines with a few empty mugs and plates lying in the close neighborhood. Charlie’s stare moves up, and his eyes automatically smile as he looks at a sleeping child that appears to be somewhere between two or maybe three years old. Her golden curls so similar to the woman he had just met, the child’s small form nestled into the body next to it. And that’s when he sees her, feeling as though the whole world suddenly grew into focus while before it was only made from unnamed bland colors. It was a strange feeling, and he didn’t know where it came from, to begin with. He shakes his head slightly, brushing it off quickly, and looks down again. Her eyes are closed as well, like the girl next to her. Though it’s apparent that she’s awake, forehead scrunched into many lines as if the body was in some form of pain or discomfort. She’s sitting almost limply there, a burgundy, soft blanket covering the knees while her fists are on top of it, clenched tightly. She looks like she is silently repeating some incantations without using any words. Yet he can almost hear and taste them on his tongue just by looking at her twisted features.

Without saying anything, he crouches before her and then gently grabs both her wrists, rubbing his thumbs against the skin that should not be so cold. He frowns with worry, watching intently as the lines on her face very gradually smooth out. It feels that he’s waiting for an eternity before her eyes finally open, the stare a bit unfocused until their eyes meet, the awareness slowly coming back to her. Immediately she grumbles and shifts a bit. Seeming to be very stiff from being in one position for way too long. Automatically, the child next to her stirs and nestles more firmly into her left arm, quite clearly, claiming its possession. Nora gazes at the little girl and manages to give a weak smile. Then her stare returns to him, and the smile dies out, her voice raspy and scratchy when she speaks.

This was not the way I planned this.

He looks at her, confused.

What are you talking about?

It just played out differently in my head.

What did, Nora?

She sighs, and there is something bitter in the way she attempts to smile.

Your vacation time from the disaster that is me, Mrs. Evans.

He stands up abruptly and dusts away his knees automatically, his brain trying to understand the unexpected absurdity of the situation.

My... vacation time?

Oh yes. But apparently, I failed even at that. A shocker, right?

He nods several times before he can find his voice back, something inside poking him, ready to explode.

Nora. One more time. What the hell is going on? Explain, please. In slow, at least semi-rational sentences.

She deliberately sighs and then shakes her head. Then her stare turns to the child, eyes becoming softer as she slips the fingers through the girl’s delicate bright hair. He blinks fast, not sure what kind of emotions this awakes in him. Quickly he exhales, trying to brush stuff off once again. That causes her attention to drift back to him, her voice more gentle now.

I just wanted to give you a little time off from me, that’s all.

Why?

To his surprise, his voice becomes a whisper, a complicated set of emotions rising and falling under his ribs.

Because I use you, Charlie. I use you every day, and let’s be honest, you deserve better than that.

Nora.

No, don’t. I know that sometimes I’m irrational, and things that I do, don’t make much sense to you but... I just don’t want to use you, and I feel like I am. Constantly.

He picks a pillow to make some room for himself at the other side of her and sits down on the sofa, gently, as to not wake up the child.

You never told me this before.

I don’t talk about a lot of stuff, Charlie. You should know that by now.

Her whole body seems to radiate a heaviness that pains him in ways he can’t even describe, not even to himself, left alone anyone else. He puts a hand on her right shoulder and rubs it a bit. She doesn’t look up; instead, stares numbly at her hands. Slowly, he inhales and speaks very gently as if to a wounded animal, that’s still bleeding red under his touch. Always be kind when the situation calls it, you never know what scars others carry underneath their brittle bones.

And what about the things that I gain?

She looks up surprised and furrows her eyebrows tightly together. It takes all of Charlie’s strength not to lift the other hand and smooth out those lines gently with his fingers.

What?

You heard me. What about all the things I gain because of you?

She looks doubtful, and he smiles at that.

I mean it.

I always knew you were a strange one, Charlie. You just hide it well, that’s why. No one suspects the warm breeze to turn into a tornado.

He shifts a strand of hair behind her ear, and she looks up, a determination in her stare waking up to life, even though her voice is still very quiet as she speaks.

And what do you gain?

He stiffens a bit under that gaze as if she has some power over him that he’s unable to comprehend. Yet, he manages to snap out of it somehow, taking in her words.

Someone that irritates and confuses the hell out of me and hides in the bloody half-truths. Someone that drives me freaking insane every single day until I don’t know my own name and flips my whole life upside down, making me question my choices repeatedly.

Well, aren’t you sweet.

She whispers, annoyance and hurt blending in her voice into one. He smiles at that and puts a hand on her cheek.

You didn’t let me finish... I gain someone who makes my life brighter, who flips it backwards and brings back the color into it. Someone that I still don’t understand but am willing to learn as long as she will let me.

She blinks and clears her throat, shifting uncomfortably under his warm gaze. He puts down his hand and smiles at her even more.

How about that? Does that answer satisfy you?

Uhm, I don’t know. I mean... yes, I think it does.

She takes a deep breath and looks at him, eyes narrowing and prodding his chest with her finger.

But it also proves something that I have known for a while now.

It’s his turn to shift as he tries to keep the same facial expression on as before.

Oh?

Oh, yes. It proves to me once again, that you are just as insane as I am. Probably even more. I bow in respect.

He exhales with a shade of relief that he cannot hide.

My master, I am nothing but a humble shadow of your reflection.

He says, mimicking her ways, and she smacks him over the arm.

Hey, don’t do that. That’s only meant for pros. And with a big sign stamped on it with the words: don’t try this at home.

He shrugs with a smile.

Charlie, I’m serious. Act nicely, or I will replace you with a newer model that soothes me pretty good too.

He furrows his eyebrows, not sure if he understood her correctly.

Excuse me?

Her expression changes as if she just said something that she wasn’t planning to say, but somehow it slipped out anyway. Her lips part into a small “o” but then she quickly snaps out of it.

Well, uhm... You see, the thing is...

It’s apparent, that she’s trying to thread lightly for some reason.

Well, let’s just say that if you are my morphine, this little thing works like really good ibuprofen. It won’t stop the pain, but it will calm down the symptoms.

How does that even...

Work? I have no idea, Charlie. Lately, I’m learning that it all leads to the just-right kind of energy, whatever that means. We all have it, but it’s not all heaven to choose from. Honestly, a lot of people should simply have a sign on their foreheads that states “choose wisely”.

He shakes his head slowly, trying to move past her specific sense of humor and to whisk out some information that’s actually crucial at the moment.

She soothes your pain.

Her stare is tired, but then, unexpectedly, she smiles the softest smile he had ever seen on those lips, which causes a lot of reactions that he’s trying to block for his own sake and sanity.

Yes, she’s a little ADHD treasure to be around with.

The tone is gentle and loving, and it shocks him beyond compare as he has never heard her voice do such things. System overload; his mind screams, yet his body is hardly moving. System overload and the smell of wires burning. He’s no longer even sure what he should feel or think, any logical functions failing him miserably. He must be lost in his thought for a longer while because eventually, she waves a hand right in front of his face making him snap back into reality.

Charlie? You okay in there? I hear consternation and loud thoughts all the way here and all the way back to China.

No, I’m alright. Just processing. I’m... I’m really glad that she helps you, it’s just all still surprising, you know? Not all of us have such a strong personality to gulp in the supernatural like a bunch of tic-tacks as you do.

She tilts her head slightly and looks at him thoughtfully, with a defeated facial expression that somehow is very calm.

I do what I have to do, Charlie. There’s no other way around it.

Silence fills the air, so eventually, she adds as if to push it away.

I fit in with what I have, with what I have gotten myself into by all the bad choices I have made.

He doesn’t say anything to that, and she takes his hand, wrapping it around her wrist. He squeezes it automatically and gives her a tired smile. After a moment, she exhales, relieved, the lines on her face smoothing out once again.

Why didn’t you just call me? Why did I have to find about it from your best friend when there was no other option to go with it?

She looks up at him, but the eyes don’t reach his, guilt and pained notions marking her face.

Look... in my head, I felt I was doing the right thing. I thought that you needed rest from me. Because who wouldn’t, right? Eventually, I tire everyone out, Charlie. I didn’t want you to be one of those people. Not yet.

And you thought it so strongly that your friend had to steal your phone while you were sleeping? When you were so tired from exhaustion that you probably wouldn’t hear anyway?

There is sharpness in his voice again, mixing itself with hurt and the feeling of betrayal. And he knows that she can hear it as her whole body flinches from it, hands trembling as she sinks deeper into the sofa, becoming suddenly very small.

I meant well.

Her voice quivers, and then something happens, exploding like fireworks in the molasses-thick blackness. Blackness laced with ice and rusted blades, tearing her foundation piece by piece. Something he never expected from this strong, stubborn woman that wandered every day to hell and back. And yet it’s there. She breaks in front of him like a thin twig after winter, curling into a pulsating ball of everything. The quiet sobs coming straight from her chest as if her soul was howling into the air around them. As if she wanted to spit it out of her lungs, coughing out pain and loss. Without thinking he wraps his arms around her tightly, pulling the shaking body into him and never wanting to let go.

I’m s-sorry... please... you have to believe me.

She sobs into his blue woolen sweater, and he strokes her back soothingly, hoping to inhale all of her pain. Loosening the weight that she seems to carry around with her wherever she goes or does.

Hush, you know I believe you, silly creature. You know that.

He whispers the words into her hair, his lips brushing against it while he breathes in and exhales her as if oxygen that he never expected to need. Never expected to want. After a while she seems to calm down, her breathing more steady.

So, are we going to survive this?

He asks with a smile, sensing that she is more in control now. She nods against his chest, the voice muffled a bit.

Yes, we are.

He can feel her smile as she stirs and wriggles herself awkwardly from his arms, moving away a bit and wiping out her eyes in an embarrassed way.

Look at me, falling apart like some drama show heroin. All we need is now is nostalgic music in the background, and we are home. God, how do you even put up with me? Mmm, I must be a sight for sore eyes right now.

She groans and looks up to see and sighs, her eyes meeting Cara’s and battling some quiet fight with her that he wasn’t allowed to hear.

Don’t start.

She says and huffs. Crossing her arms, then grabbing the remote control and turning the TV on. The child complains quietly, and she automatically turns the volume down without looking at anyone.

Oh, I will start whatever I want, you freeloader.

Cara crosses her arms as well and lifts an eyebrow challengingly, though her tone is light and doesn’t really match with the words.

Well, that freeloader does free babysitting, so don’t complain.

Oh? And who is exactly taking care of who in that scenario? Because it seems that my daughter is calling the shots here, wouldn’t you say, honeysuckle?

He lifts his eyebrows and watches Nora send her friend a dirty look and then shrug casually.

Hey, she can even be my keeper, for what all I care. But let’s face it, it’s giving you the free time for your art. And that’s what’s really important to me, not much else.

He watches the two women carefully, not sure if he should be amused or quietly elope at the first convenient moment. He decides to debate about it for now. Cara’s eyes soften and she nods.

As long as you are here, honeysuckle.

And do the dishes in the meantime?

Cara winks at her, making a gun gesture at her.

Bull’s eye, you get me so well, love.

Comes with years of mutual therapy, babygirl.

Yes, eloping would be the best option here. He thinks and smiles at them both until Cara’s eyes land on him, a finger pointed accusingly in his direction.

So, you’re him, the one that pulled her out of the gutter of misery. Mmm, you got some balls on you, boy. This one is a challenge. But in her favor, I will say she is pretty low maintenance, not something that you can say too often about a woman.

Charlie’s face covers heat, and he clears his throat, trying to control the sudden cough.

Aww, he’s shy. Not your usual type, huh?

If you weren’t the mother of the child I love without boundaries, you would not leave to see another day.

Well, then it’s probably a good thing that you fall in love with this particular gene pool so much.

She points to herself with a small smile.

Anyway, I’ll take it.

Her attention turns back to him.

Don’t worry, Charlie. As long as you will make sure she is well fed, she won’t chew your head off.

Yes, I have learned that by now.

Cara’s eyes smile at him.

Good, because she’s worth it.

She says, and then quickly clasps her hands with energy.

Now, I will make us some more tea, and we can get to know each other better without all the high gloom in the air and Elle’s natural gift for dramatic situations.

She disappears, and I am left without any clear thought in reach.

Ignore her. She tends to say whatever comes into her mind once she likes someone. No filter quality. Mmm, definitely not for everyone.

No, not for everyone. But durable for me. I have had plenty of experience with her kind before.

She stares at the TV and smirks, pleased.

Good, practice makes perfect.

Nora?

She furrows her eyebrows and turns towards him, obviously sensing the change in the atmosphere.

What?

Next time, before you assume again that I need time for myself. Ask me, okay? I don’t want to lose you and be too late, just because you thought you knew what I needed.

She swallows and then gazes back at the TV, nodding once.

Alright, from now, I will ask first.

He feels her walls closing in on him and takes her hand gently.

All I ask is that you communicate with me. So I can have a lot more days with you to come.

Her chest starts to rise and fall with speed, but she doesn’t say anything, just squeezes his hand very tightly, fighting her emotions but letting him know that she understands. That’s all he needs right now. All he needs.

_____

https://theprose.com/post/230936/with-all-my-senses ( the beginning )

Previous chapters :

39. https://theprose.com/post/421941/missed-realizations

40. https://theprose.com/post/427675/of-monsters-and-living-things

41. https://theprose.com/post/437586/those-deeply-rooted-ways

Teddy Bear Day

Care Bears Share Your Bear Day

National Wiener Schnitzel Day

Today is leaning toward bears. One could say today could be a "beary" nice day. But would bears like a Wiener Schnitzel?

Teddy Bear Day

Come on, admit it. You had a teddy bear when growing up. I did and not ashamed to say so.

A Teddy Bear is a special friend to children all over the world. He's cuddly. He makes you feel secure in an otherwise insecure world. He's lovable. Your Teddy Bear is both a companion and a comforter. And, he's not afraid of the dark. He'll keep you safe.

Spend the day and night with your teddy bear . Cuddle up to him. Talk to him. And do all of your favorite things together.

Parents and adults: No child should grow up without a teddy bear. If you know of any kid without one, use this day to buy a teddy bear for them.

As we become adults, some find it difficult to give up our teddy bears. We feel there is no reason to give him up. Some adults have their teddy bears around all their lives. Its perfectly normal—and okay.

Have a happy Teddy Bear Day!

"You're braver than you believe, stronger than you seem,

and smarter than you think."—Winnie the Pooh

Care Bears Share Your Bear Day

Care Bears are on a mission to spread caring and sharing around the world, and encourage fans to spread caring, sharing, love, friendship, acceptance, fun and happiness to those you love every day.

The Care Bears toy line was originally introduced in 1983 to caring fans everywhere. In the last 10 years alone, 90 million plush bears have been sold at retail.

Care Bears are all unique and each one has a specialized belly badge that represents his or her duty and personality such as Tenderheart Bear, Harmony Bear, Share Bear, Cheer Bear and Grumpy Bear, among many others. They live in a far-away place in the clouds called Care-a-Lot, part of the Kingdom of Caring.

At their core, the Care Bears have heart, and are all about love, caring and sharing. The Care Bars are also big supporters of charities around the world that help families in need including the United Way, Operation Smile and many more.

The Care Bears hope to generate national support for a movement called #ShareYourCare that they hope will inspire people to spread caring, sharing, love, friendship, acceptance, fun, happiness, compassion and philanthropic generosity not just today, but every day of the year.

National Wiener Schnitzel Day

National Wiener Schnitzel Day is served up every September 9. Contrary to what most Americans know, Wiener Schnitzel isn’t just a chain restaurant. In fact, a Wiener Schnitzel is a veal cutlet coated in bread and then pan-fried. This renowned dish is considered an Austrian delicacy in its beautiful capital, Vienna.

Wiener Schnitzel, (again, the dish, not the restaurant chain,) is so iconic that there are copycat recipes all over the world. For example, in America, there’s the ever-popular chicken-fried steak and in Japan, tonkatsu, a breaded and deep-friend pork cutlet. But you haven’t lived until you savor an authentic dish of Wiener Schnitzel. There are lots of pretenders to the throne but for the real deal, head to Austria. If you do a culinary tour of Europe, put this incredible dish — Wiener Schnitzel — at the top of your bucket list.

A man goes up to the counter to order Polish sausage,

The cashier asks, "Hey, are you polish?"

The man then responds, "You think I'm polish just because I ordered a Polish sausage? If I ordered a wiener schnitzel would you think I'm German? If I ordered sushi would you think I'm Japanese? If I ordered Pizza would you think I'm Italian?"

The cashier responds, "No, it's just that this is s hardware store."

More Strange Holidays Coming!

The mirror tells you the truth,

no matter what you pretend to believe.

You see eyes alive and bright,

the mirror reflects age and sadness.

You see a face free of wrinkles,

the mirror shows every line like a roadmap.

You see a face holding dreams and hope,

so does the mirror.

The mirror cannot make those things come true.