the motion and interaction of erratic things
Part 1
truth is not fully explosive, but purely electric
you don't blow the world up with the truth
you shock it into motion
― Criss Jami, Healology
But some machines aren't that good at lying.
He comes over barely two hours later, probably seeing through my bullshit attempt at seeming okay. Thankfully, I manage to get off the floor before that happens, wash away the cuts in the shower, then quickly put on a pair of black sweatpants and throw on a long woolen cardigan over a grey cotton t-shirt before the cold reaches my bones. And somehow, through all those mundane motions that feel like impossible tasks, I push away the pain that radiates from my knee - it takes a lot of deep breaths and sucking air through my teeth, but I do it. Unfortunately, a dozen other places that cause me to flinch every few seconds are slightly harder to discard. It takes all of my willpower not to scream out like a possessed person, pick up a nearby chair and smash it through the closest window. My irritation levels are so sensitive and sharp that the ability to ignore the urge sends a sense of pride into my worn-out form, giving me some strength to keep going. I don't find enough energy to clean the entire wreckage in the kitchen, and end up focusing only on getting rid of the biggest pieces of ceramic, glass, and whatever else is littering the kitchen floor, as well as swiping the stuff from the counters. It's the last thing I do before covering myself with the thickest blanket I own, and then passing out on the sofa.
I wake up to the feeling of light pressure and warmth radiating from my thigh. For a moment, with a fuzzy mind, I wonder if maybe I hit myself there by accident during my happy moment of sociopathic pleasures, but then dismiss the idea as I come to the conclusion the sensation is not unpleasant. With blurry vision, I look up and narrow my eyes, not sure at first what I'm seeing - and when I do, a smile creeps on my lips as I realize it's actually reality. My gaze wanders to Charlie's face as he stares at the TV, the sound turned off and its lights filling the room with an almost ghostly silver-blue gleam. He seems to be lost in thought, as if he's somewhere far away, much further than just the length of my sofa. I look down at his hand and feel heat spread through my veins as I realize it was his fingers I had felt before resting on my leg.
Suddenly I'm very aware of my body, my skin, and how my lungs fill with air, causing the chest to rise and fall; my eyes are unable to move away from his profile, gliding against the delicate bump on the bridge of his nose, the curve of the lips, and the shape of his jaw. I sense every breath that circulates through my system as my stare moves to his shoulders, mesmerized by the tiny dust motes flickering with warm, golden light against the edges of his beige and brown sweater. I think he senses a slight change in atmosphere, and his head turns towards me - instantly, my body stiffens, the blood under my skin seeming to freeze like the surface of a lake when winter becomes too harsh to handle. The sensation of being electrocuted fills me to the very last atom - a feeling of being caught on something I shouldn't be doing taking over as I clear my throat, which unfortunately sets the razors in it into motion. It's not a pretty sight.
Christ, are you okay?
I lean over the sofa, choking and looking like a dammed soul fighting for its last breath while grabbing to the edges of its liferaft. He leans in closer and pets my back a few times. I nod, not trusting my voice, and lift a hand dismissively as if silently letting him know the show was over. It was embarrassing how unreliable my body was, how it openly showed him how weak I'd become.
Yesterday really messed you up.
He says in a low voice. I hear many layers to his tones but choose not to comment on the understatement of the year. I sit up and rest my head against the back of the couch, gazing absentmindedly at the ceiling.
Yesterday, this week, the last two years, a whole lifetime. You choose. There is no wrong answer to it.
He sighs, and we sit for a moment in silence until I feel warmth expanding in the tip of my fingers, gently pouring like warm liquid through my hands. I exhale with relief and gaze at him with a tired smile as he moves his thumbs against the palms of my hands and then suddenly stops. I gaze at him questioningly.
Your bandages. Should I take them off for it to... work better?
No, not necessary, leave them. It will be a good reminder to stay away from any Hannibal Lecter-themed basements in the future.
That's not amusing.
What can I say; I find dark humor entertaining. The last refuge on the stormy waters of my beautiful existence.
He lifts an eyebrow.
Well then, at least we can be sure that your sarcastic self has not been harmed in any way.
He becomes serious again and then lets go of my hands, turning his head towards the kitchen - something unsettles inside me unexpectedly, my fingers going cold in just seconds, and there is this strange side of me that wants to grab onto him, making his hands touch me again. The notion feels greedy, desperate, ravenous - beyond my control. Air catches in my throat, and I hold my neck tightly as if that could stop the next wave of coughing. It helps a little, though nothing can stop the fear and doubts that spill out of me in constant waves. Could I ever harm him if the need for his touch, the remedy effect he had on me, would become too strong? And if he no longer wanted to be a part of this? Would I become frantic and cruel like the monsters that occupied my head? You're losing yourself in the madness, child. Soon there will be nothing left - a voice whispers, making me cringe as I realize the words could be more than true. A little mantis and her prey. The voice mocks, taunting me with pleasure. I look up, and Charlie gazes back at me with a smile, somehow oblivious to the turmoil that's taking place inside my mind, and then points to the area behind him.
Should I even ask what happened there?
His voice might seem amused to anyone else, but I know how worried he was under the light tones. I feel my heart rattle in my chest; it sounds like iron elements banging against rust; my eyelid twitches slightly from the sensation.
Mmm, realizing you suffer from amnesia and mental illness can apparently have that effect on certain individuals. But maybe it's just me mastering levels of denial to perfection. Out of sight, out of mind, right?
What do you mean exactly?
I can practically taste his concern on my tongue; the rust in my chest makes the flavor bitter.
I was fine at first, as much as one can be in this situation, and then it struck me that I had pretty much forgotten it all - only having fragments, but everything in between was faded, rubbed out with an eraser, or covered with a thick dark veil.
I gesticulate with my hands, trying to find the right words, watching his eyebrows lift higher with each second.
And when it started to hit me back all at once, I... it just... it was too much. Everything became red, and I couldn't see past the rage. I saw nothing else, Charlie... nothing.
My hands lift in the air and stay there helplessly.
An outlet for all that pressure; sometimes anger is necessary, Nora, even if the effects scare us.
He says it calmly, but I also sense that the situation pains him.
You don't seem to be too alarmed by what you just heard.
He exhales slowly.
I have seen a lot in my life; medical practice makes you look at things from a different perspective - trauma is never easy.
Trauma.
I repeat the word slowly as if trying to dissect it piece by piece.
Are you telling me I might have some form of PTSD?
He nods, and I do the same, not really surprised, more like defeated by it. Just another thing to add to the list of enjoyment. I don't ask him more questions on the subject; there isn't that much to add - even broken things had fitting names for their problems - definitions, and elegant words to describe why strong people would eventually become shadows of themselves, fragile eggshells, crumbling on repeat every new day from even the most subtle triggers. My life had become one big trigger, and I feared the moment when the explosion would be too devastating to recover from - all I could hope for was that the shards and pieces would never cause him too much harm. Without saying anything, he wraps his right arm around my shoulder and pulls me in; I smile and let my body rest against his and mold itself to its shape. It feels comforting, warm, safe as if nothing else could ever break me again. I knew it was a naive notion, but it also felt good to let myself give in to it, letting my mind and body rest even for a little while.
We sit there, not saying much, just enjoying each other's company while something trivial and uncomplicated plays on the TV. I try to collect such memories with him as much as possible because I don't know how much more there will be. I let the gratitude towards him flow in my tired veins and feel myself relax, slowly drifting into another nap as my eyelids become too heavy, the body sinking so deep that it feels like immersing into the depths of my personal ocean. It feels heavenly until it doesn't. I wake up sometime later, more confused than before, not entirely sure what jerked me up so abruptly; I blink a few times and look up at Charlie.
Everything okay?
I nod slowly and move away from him as if I was waiting for something or someone, an invisible intruder that had no shape or form but was ready to attack at any moment - it was a disturbing feeling that I could not shake off. I take several deep, steady breaths as the pain in my knee decides to remind me of its presence; my face scrunching from the pulsating ache radiating so much that it feels like it's located right in the core of the bone, spreading and infecting every tissue in sight. I suck the air through my teeth as countless stings attack my skin; all the cuts from this morning waking up to life, blazing, and seeming to open up again. I feel drops of blood staining and sticking to my clothes, praying and hoping it's only happening in my paranoid mind - even psychosis seemed better than an unknown host attacking my flesh without permission. I swallow hard and gasp in disbelieve as the no longer existing bruises on my neck appear to bloom against my throat like deadly, beautiful flowers, unfolding their black and purple petals, as if poison ivy that outstretches forward like weeds down to my collarbones - wrapping themselves around them as if luscious green vines and yanking me up like a ragged doll.
Nora?
I hear his voice and shake my head, too scared to open my eyes. I don't have the slightest clue what's going on. It's nothing I have ever felt before. This thing, this overwhelming sensation of drowning in everything. Every pain, ache, scar, every bruise, and damaged tissue coming back to life all at once. A rotten soul stained by all the darkness of this world - I think to myself and tremble. Did you have fun pretending you could make it out of this alive? It must have felt good to act like you're like everyone else. My breathing speeds up as I struggle to push out the buzzing words, fighting against any new sensation. I hold on to the couch as something much worse comes back to me. The thing I thought started to heal.
No, it can't be.
I was doing better.
That monster had become smoother, easier to bare.
The pressure on my ribcage grows, invisible iron hands twisting around them with such power that I can almost feel the bones there crack. Snap like a twig, bend your bones for me, I need to make a fire. My heart feels like it's being strangled with grief, causing my eyes to sting as memories push themselves on me; an ache so familiar that somehow it felt like home. A home you loved and cared for - but that chose to rip you apart nonetheless, its walls crashing in on you, leaving you among its ruins. It's just in your head, it's just in your head. I repeat it like a mantra, fighting to hold onto the logic that was telling me this couldn't be true - but it feels so physical, so real that I cave under the pressure that turns oxygen into something dense, unclear, like drying concrete that hardens and conceals any human form, filling my ribs until all I become is a live wall of sorrow and pain.
The empty gap in my chest left there after an invisible bullet, with all of its sharp metal edges and haunting images, waking up to life, something attacking me in such a way like it wanted to claw out of me. My whole body trembles as if I'm lying bare in an open field of snow, nothing protecting me from the cold or the wind that blows recklessly and without mercy. The image is so powerful that the walls, the furniture, and everything around me disappear, even him. Don't let him disappear. No, please, not him. That finally jolts me back into life, the thought of a new loss that I could not handle yanking me back into reality - for now, at least. I didn't know how long I could hold the void back. With the last remains of sanity, I force myself to look at him, wanting to anchor myself to his presence, to my center; he was the only gravity that could keep me in place. He looks back at me with pure terror, and I gaze back at him with the same fear in my eyes. I start to breathe faster, the invisible metal arms tightening their eager grasp. Why didn't you stay in the snow, child? I gave you everything that you could ever want there. Peace, calm, the final surrender. I gasp, and the pain kicks in again; quick, sharp, oppressive, aimed to kill, to finish the job.
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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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51. https://theprose.com/post/514578/a-little-game-of-hide-and-seek
52. https://theprose.com/post/526170/walking-on-eggshells-and-ash
53. https://theprose.com/post/553492/those-whispers-under-the-wooden-boards