The only presence I wake up with is my glacial, grey sheets, dressed in splatters of white, and my dried bag of flesh and bones. The mere sight of food makes me wants to rip my stomach off and crush it with my bare, bony hands, so I nourish myself with nicotine. It dries the tears faster. My head is like a disorganized symphonic orchestra; only replace all instruments with punches of steel. It takes my feet a long time to reach the floor. It’s so meticulously clean that my feet became ice skating blades. I look at my closed door with empty eyes, asking myself how I’m going to open it. Do I want to open it, though? The ground’s grueling hands imprison both of my feet, paralyzing any attempt to move a single muscle. I’m not fighting it, I let my feet drown in it until it reaches my chest, my neck, my hair…
My cell phone rings: it’s Celia. She always calls me in the morning to ask if I want to go shopping with her or to that restaurant where we would often go, whether it be occasional or simply because we wanted to sit around a table dressed with mouthwatering food that would bring a smile to both our stomachs.
“Celia, you know what I’m going to answer. What do you not understand when I say “Don’t call me”?”, I responded with exasperation.
The only response I receive is Celia’s silence and an enduring sigh followed by: “What the f**k are you doing to yourself? Listen, I may not be in your position but all I can say is this: if you keep locking yourself from everything you will bring yourself to your own fall and I won’t be there to help you. It’s your fucking life we’re talking about, so please, I beg of you, don’t die.” She hangs up.
I put the phone down and quietly stare at it. It’s curious how people close to you function:they want the best for you, they want you to be happy, they want you to keep moving on, and enjoy life and all its beauty and whatnot. They especially want to hear “I have to get my sh** together”. See, in this sentence there’s already a problem: it’s the verb “have”. And people, Celia included, expect that just because they love you and you love them back, you OWE them this: to stop focusing on “negativity”.
I can’t stop focusing on this. I don’t want to stop. A part of me thought of calling her back to apologize and make an effort and another just wants to scream that I couldn’t care less if she wants me to be happy. The reason why I’m not offering her my smile is because I can’t form one any longer. “You seem pretty gloomy these days, it’s been a while now”.
A fu**ing. while.
She doesn’t understand. She can hear, but she doesn’t listen.
So I didn’t call. After all, who wants to spend a day with a dead body? Because this is what I am now in the shadow of his agonizing absence.
I don’t want him to be at peace.“His spirit and love will always be here within us”. WHERE IS THIS LOVE? I can’t feel it, I can’t touch it. All I hear is the sound of glass shattering to the ground, every single day. All I feel is my stomach growing heavier as the days go by.
When a fragment of your heart is burned to the ground, who wants to live on with the remaining, stabbing flames?
“He is in a better place now”
“Do you think he would want to see you in such a state?”
“Think about the happy moments you two shared together”
“You are a strong woman, you’ll get through this”
Doesn’t this one book describe it as being the place of “no mores”? All those feelings, that would twist these knives in our soul, heart and body in a dangerously slow process, will evaporate the second we step into Heaven? Isn’t it also where the soul can no longer be tormented by the daily struggles we faced and rest peacefully? Possibly. See, the truth is that I don’t want him to be at peace, I don’t. I want to feel the warmth of his body wrapped into mine; his delicate, translucent hands caressing my hair as though it were silk; I want to laugh until my stomach explodes with him, cry whenever I need to…
My cell phone didn’t ring this morning. Good.
But for the first time, I walked out of my room and my eyes stared into my living room with bewilderment. I had forgotten how it felt to be serene. You would be surprised at how much peace this wind could bring me. I look at the emerald-colored vase my mom bought me for my birthday, and found it decorated with flowers: snow roses smiling at me, with its flakes falling down on the kitchen counter. I pitch in the vase and carefully place the rose on my heart.
The cemetery was as dusty as my heart was, the freezing wind scratching my skin and an army of gray souls crying.
As isolated as I thought I was, she was standing there.
She was standing still, right in the gap between the grave and I. She wore a long black cottoned jacket that reached her bare, almost transparent-looking muscular calf, leaving her sculptured ankle alone to breathe. Her skin was so pale it seemed as if cold had never left her body. The longer you looked at her, the more you could see the cheekbones almost crawling out of her face. When you looked into her eyes deep enough you could see an ocean of misty blue with a glimpse of thunder, woven as one. Her lips were drawn with a brush of dusty grey, as if death had made its last touch by sealing it with a kiss. Although it was attached, her ebony hair was falling out like autumn leaves. The jacket made her look like a condemned bird inside a cage shedding tears of desperation. I tried not to twiddle my thumbs, nor nervously bite the right corner of my lip. Silence was creeping in as the wind was dangerously hissing through my ears almost digging out any form of sound from it.
FUCK! My heart incinerates as I grasp it harder. I closed my eyes so violently I thought I was going to shed tears of blood, every single inch of my organs grew heavier, harder, almost melting as my body closes on itself. Within seconds, I brutally fall on the ground almost breaking my wrist. My heart was in my mouth as I faintly scream while my burning hot tears drown my face. My agonizing body was entrapped in the hardened, glacial stony ground, every single organ was deaf to the desperate messages my brain was sending them. Vocal chords were on the edge of absolute explosion as my body was emptying out my tears. I was only capable of letting out a faint, infant animal cry. The burn spread all over my body, giving birth to this shrieking, monstrous pain. I couldn’t move an inch, nor could I even twitch my eye, fearing that any micro movement could lead my body to be skinned with agony.
She approaches my crooked body as darkness penetrates, violates it. My head was too heavy to lift up; I was blinded by my overflowing tears and deafened by the silence of my cry. I cannot hear a thing, if not the erring sound of a knife slowly, sensually slicing my chest. I surprisingly feel cold yet soothing hands touching my shoulders before caressing my jaws. She delicately lifts up my drenched face and I feel her gentle lips pressed against my disgusting, glowing forehead. I hear her inhale deeply, my heart soothes little by little as she freshly blows on my face. My tears disappear, the burns are washed away by the lyrical sound of this breeze, I timidly open my eyelids. To my surprise, the woman is now crystal-white almost blinding. Her delicious warmth and love progressively enters my body as it embraces me.
For the first time in a long time, I found myself breathing. And held myself in my arms, not out of pity. Because I wanted to. My bloodied knees and hands weren’t screaming of pain anymore, my blood stopped boiling, it was as quiet as the morning sea.
I turn my head towards the grave on which was engraved: Hey Jude, don’t make it bad, take a sad song and make it better. I draw a smile on my face while reading and as the woman gracefully dances its way towards the entrance of the cemetery, I look up to the sky. And all I see is an ocean of smiling clouds that dance their way up to the dazzling stars.