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Time, it hides and tells so many things,
It surprises us, shows facets outside of our actual goal.
It can neither be foreseen nor controlled,
It surpasses all human thought.
But it holds many a joy in store for us,
Which, like a flower in spring, cries out for the dear sun.
~♥~
Soft drizzle softly pattered against the unpolished windowpane. The clear, rough-sounding noise of a pencil sliding across a sheet of paper was the only thing that could stop the regular drumming and rushing of the water drops. The light of a single candle, whose flame was gradually threatening to go out, gave me, just by its majestic glow, a certain warmth and contentment that I had been missing in my life for a long time.
Bored and with a glimmer of tiredness in my eyes, I looked at my hand, dirty from the lead dust of the pencil, and paid only vague attention to the small sketch. After all, I knew only too well what motive it revealed and how deeply this very motive hurt me and broke my heart into shards. A depressed sigh left my dry lips before I purposefully turned the picture over to escape the pain I found in it.
"I should have known," I whispered to myself, ruffling my tousled blonde hair and finally letting my head sink into my supporting hands. "It was predictable, wasn't it? It was so fucking predictable...Why did I even take that risk when I knew how much it would destroy me?" I knew the answer, but I didn't want to admit it to myself at all. It seemed so ridiculous, so incredibly reckless and naive, that I wished I had never let it get this far. But no matter how much I would have wished and prayed for it, I would have been sent down the same arduous path over and over again, putting my actions and steps in iron chains and barely allowing me to make any progress.
Because at the end of the day, I would have chosen it again. At the end of the day, I would have put this burden on my shoulders once again and welcomed this agony. Because behind this ocean of pain, this flood that paralyzed and submerged my body, a spark of contentment and hope, a protective island, was waiting for me that would free me from everything.
I reminisced again, recalling events from old times. Times that went by so carefree and carefree and now reached into the present. Times whose moments I wanted to keep in my heart like a precious treasure. They made me happy and yet, like the thorns of a wild rose, they made my insides bleed. For even these small details of my life revolved around the one reason for my suffering; around a person on whose side I was breaking apart while desperately trying to keep them from falling apart. We were both suffering. We both had our reasons, though I doubted he perceived mine.
I shook my head. I was getting too lost in my own self-pity, when his welfare should be my top priority. I had become too self-centered and selfish, hadn't I?
Sighing, I rose from my seat, ventured a quick glance out the window, and recognized the dark storm clouds that covered the once brilliant blue sky. It had been raining for days now, and it didn't look like it was going to stop anytime soon. Perhaps it was the cool rainy days that made me feel especially melancholy with their dreary sight.
They came to me with images. Images that, with their bittersweetness, recalled both the beautiful and the terrible. Beautiful, like a common search for a shelter during the frequent spring thunderstorms. Terrible, like the many arguments we had accumulated over the years. I remembered both well, every beautiful second of the time when we were children, but also those terrible moments that were like hellfire on earth for me.
I remembered my childhood well, especially the part I got to spend in France before moving back to the UK. I had been around seven years old when I met my new neighbourhood in a foreign country with a language I didn't know. I hadn't understood a word my parents said to these people. After all, I was still a small child and French was unknown to me. I had felt hopelessly lost, even pretty much like I do now, and was fully dependent on my parents for help. But then I met this boy. He had also been seven, had been playing with a ball in the garden of the apartment complex, and had discovered me exploring. He, too, had initially approached me in French, but when he noticed how unsettled I was wandering around all the time, he suddenly switched to English.
I smiled faintly.
Even if his English sounded pretty broken and expandable at the time, I had been more than happy to have found someone to talk to. The blond boy eventually turned out to be Francis, whose apartment was right next to mine, so for better or worse, I saw him every day. We learned a lot from each other. While he helped me out bit by bit in my new everyday life and taught me at least a few words and phrases of his language, I was the one who introduced him to English. It had led to us spending a lot of time together, perhaps even becoming good friends within a few weeks, unable to imagine being without the other as time went on. Francis had often defended me against the older neighbourhood kids, whose daily taunts were based on my background. I had never understood it as a seven-year-old, much less realized that this might have been the reason I had difficulty connecting.
It was only in retrospect, as a young adult, standing here like this in front of the battered window, that I noticed the possible clues to their behaviour. I noticed them and immediately found them more than absurd. Why was one cast out and looked at askance if one's origin did not match the country in which one was now growing up? Why did people judge someone before they even knew them? Why were some people so hateful and saw only the things that seemed negative to them when there were positive things?
I did not know. Not even now was I sure I understood. However, one thing always remained clear to me. That neighbour boy, Francis, who had sustained me then in the darkness of my disorientation and had not rejected me at the drop of a hat, had illuminated, shaped and coloured my angst-filled life. He was there when I needed him most...but, was I at that moment?
My gaze darkened and I turned away from the window.
I had tried. I had really tried, even though my mind wanted me to know from the first second that it would only end in misery. I wanted to help him; maybe I had even done it without being fully aware of it. For he, too, was miserable for a long time.
I glanced wearily at the clock, read off the time, and noticed that it was already four in the morning. Shaking my head, I ran a hand through my hair and made my way to the bathroom. I needed to get my mind off things and hopefully let all my worries wash away with a bath.
***
The hot water burned just pleasantly on my reddened skin, the inch-high foam covered my pale body, and the sound of the faucet being turned on triggered calm and balance in me. I felt the gentle, inconspicuous waves crashing against me, imagined I heard the screeching of the seagulls, and wished for a moment that I could walk along the English coast again.
It was moments like these that took me out of my grey everyday life and allowed me to keep a cool head at all times. Moments when I could just brush off all the worries that made my life unnecessarily difficult. I was free. - Free from my inner demons, even if only for a limited time. I could breathe deeply, simply forget, and keep this small spark of momentary contentment to myself. I inhaled deeply, virtually tasting the heated air on my tongue, and in seconds dipped my head into the water. Embracing warmth, safety and a trance-like state subdued my body as well as my mind, pausing it until I was completely lost in the sensual weightlessness of the water. I lingered in this state for a few seconds, letting the sensation of the increasingly urgent oxygen take hold of me, and eventually resurfaced. Blond strands stuck to my forehead like wet tentacles, so I brushed them back with a single hand movement. I exhaled and let my lazy gaze glide through the steam-filled room; past numerous deodorants, the odd razor and bubble bath bottles, on and on, to the top shelf of my bathroom cabinet, which revealed to me a shred of black felt along with beautiful feathers.
I grinned wryly as I recognized the old, feathered hat in it that I wore to a school play eight years ago. It was already a bit dusty, but nonetheless it still looked powerful and special on me as it did on the first day.
I let myself sink back into the water, my head still fully in the performance. It happened the summer just before I moved back to the UK with my parents. My school had come up with the idea of better illustrating some historical events through drama, and I was actually surprised at how much fun such a time-consuming project could be. Memorizing my script was a crick in my neck but putting together a costume and rehearsing together on stage with props, as well as the performance itself, gave me a joy I couldn't even decently describe. The spotlight was on me, the flashes of smartphones beamed at me like a sea of stars. My heart had hammered rapidly and feather-lightly against my chest, and an automatic grin drew itself on my face in the heat of the moment, which I could hardly suppress. I paced the floor with pudding legs, had memorized my lines again in fast forward and watched Francis - who was my opponent - stride towards me with the same confident grimace. Just before we finally faced each other and found the blazing fire of heartfelt motivation in each other's eyes, my heart stopped for a quick moment and time literally stood still. My stage fright seemed to have frozen like a block of ice, I had swallowed my nervousness, any background noises blurred and wandered into a fictitious other world. Because in this moment, everything was unimportant. In this moment, there was only Francis and me. Francis, me and the fighting spirit to do his best and outdo the other. Mockery and scorn and a pure, brotherly rivalry were reflected in his royal blue eyes, and I was convinced he would find the same in mine.
I smiled saddened yet relieved.
I had felt more sublime and at ease then, despite the pressure that was on me, than ever before. A feeling of deep connection that stalked me like a creeping cat assaulted me with the swiftness of a wink and drew me under its hopeless spell. A spell that perhaps had more meaning than first thought.
Slowly the room filled with bright sunlight, small streaks of light painted themselves on the bathroom floor and it became increasingly warmer. Perhaps it would soon be five, I thought, already holding the shampoo in the, from the water shrivelled, hand. So, I still had time to take a short morning walk before I went to work, which is why I hastily washed my hair and left the bathtub as quickly as possible. But my head was still stuck in the troublesome past, replaying old experiences, and letting the bittersweet nostalgia sprout inside me.
As I rubbed my hair dry, I reflected on my teenage years, which brought up one phase or another that, in retrospect, I was ashamed of. I remembered the many pranks, my lack of motivation for anything, and the more frequent fights I had shared with Francis. Even the mutual taunts, after we had nearly fought other students to the point of hospitalization, were not absent.
I giggled. It had been a long time since I had last chuckled so carelessly to myself, let alone felt good in any way. The fact that I was not yet completely denied the ability to laugh about the past reassured me immensely. So, I still felt emotions other than uninspiring emptiness and sadness. They were weak and seemed to be still too partially subject to the long anaesthesia, but they existed. They had not disappeared. They had chances to survive. And it was this very knowledge that there might still be a spark of hope for me that kept me on this cruel-wonderful world of loss and lies and trust and love.
It was a vicious cycle; it was like a game. - An interplay of light and shadow, the two sides of the same coin that could not exist without each other. Suffering and love - as opposite as they seemed - they went hand in hand with each other.
The burning pain of having lost something; this emptiness that lusted after the soul and ate up a person's personality from the inside out like a hungry wolf, they were both like hell on earth. An emotional hell that drenched your life in a bland greyness and left you to starve miserably in the shelter of your own walls until even the last drop of sunlight, however tiny, extinguished before your eyes.
I gasped. My breathing became heavier and more erratic; my heart pounded at top speed. Stress gnawed at my nerves, and I wished I had instantly fallen into a time-limited state of unconsciousness. I swallowed and thumped my chest. I struggled to find calm and swallow the suffering that had come up one more time, but it refused, and the memories came rushing at me in full colour.
Jealousy, realization, anger, pity, and despair...those five things had thrown my previous life off course, had reshaped it, and had propelled it into a deep, black hole, with no means of escape.
The jealousy when Francis introduced me to the delicate yet impulsive wallflower Jeanne, got engaged to her and eventually married her.
The realization of having feelings for someone who was unattainable, who could have easily rejected me.
The rage that flared up in me when I broke up with Francis because of a heated argument, breaking off contact and suppressing any thoughts of him.
The pity I had felt when, a year later, Francis wrote to me, wracked with nerves and completely exhausted, that Jeanne had perished in a fire, begged my forgiveness, apologized for everything, and finally, as the desperate, broken wreck he had been at the time, received my help by traveling to France.
And the bitter despair of learning first-hand that I had never gotten over him and was subject to the constant fear that I might have been nothing more to him than a poor substitute for his wife, while he played with my feelings, possibly unconsciously, locking me in my self-created cage of doubts, inhibitions, and fears.
And now here I was. At home in England, fled from my best friend as I could no longer withstand the pressure...as I could not easily digest our last heated conversation.
Quietly, I began to count. "One, two, three, four...," I hissed, glancing up as I inched back toward balance. "Five, six, seven, eight," as I finally calmed down and walked out of my bathroom with a clear head.
It was only a matter of time from now on until I could free myself from this knit of my own discord and let my worries sink into the deepest depths of the sea.
***
Icy wind, whistling through the narrow streets of the city and carefully fluffing up my hair, whipped my face with its frost and coloured the tip of my nose as well as my ears in a vivid cherry red. The cold numbed those parts of my body and caused a gruesome stinging in my throat, so that in time I regretted not having taken a hood with me. Breath clouds rose to the sky, which hid its once clear azure colour behind a thick wall of grey clouds. My footsteps left a rhythmic clacking sound and seemed to be the only audible noise besides the roar of cars whizzing by at this hour of the morning.
I had decided to take a quick spin around the old town. My freezing, red-flecked hands were in my jacket pockets, my gaze was on the ground rather than the beautiful surroundings. And what happened to my thoughts? They were once again attached to the Frenchman, whom I did not want to let go of despite all the pain and doubts. I could not and did not want to let him go, get over him, or simply forget him. He had become too important to me. He had shaped me too much. He had always been there for me when I needed him, unlike me. Every time I went out of my way to help him, it ended in chaos. It made me wonder why Francis hadn't cut off our contact much earlier. And it surprised me even more that he sought my help, of all people, when he needed to pour out his grieving heart.
But I was also surprised by my own spontaneity. I had allowed myself to write with him, to re-establish contact, and had let any resentment toward him evaporate. I had travelled to France in all seriousness, had visited him, and had been deeply shocked by his mental state, which, moreover, was also reflected in his appearance. He had been a wreck, completely at the end of his rope and sunk in the deepest sorrow. Francis must have loved and missed Jeanne very much, and I had decided to support him to ease his grief. I went to the cemetery with him, made small, simple trips to distract him and after many weeks and many failed attempts, he had opened up to me again and my heart leapt for joy when it saw the spark of hope flash in Francis' eyes.
The corners of my mouth twitched upward briefly.
From then on, everything just seemed to get better. Francis laughed more, awakened from his sleep of mourning, and forged ahead valiantly until he was almost back to his old self. Of course, I was happy and with each positive event my constant worry about him diminished...However, I had no idea at the time what fears would come my way. We had grown closer. Perhaps even already too much, so that it gave me concerns. I would be lying if I said that I had not enjoyed our moments of togetherness. On the contrary, for me they had been something special, something that I would have wanted to experience again and again...It had made my heart flutter, filled it with joy and happiness, until that day when my doubts gained the upper hand.
For what if Francis saw in me only a substitute for Jeanne?
That question had shattered my newfound world of happiness with hopes of reciprocated love into a thousand shards. I only wondered this question wherever I was...Whether I was at home or staying with my friend, it was an endless vicious circle that drove me to sheer madness.
For I had entered his life at the time his love left him.
Because I had given everything for his world to turn to the positive again.
Because I...let him become dependent on me, even if it was only for months.
And maybe the feelings he might have had for me were only born out of need. Out of need to love again; to have someone with him again. I loved him and I wanted to be loved back, but...I didn't want to be loved as a substitute, but for myself; for the person I was....
Listlessly I paid attention to the traffic light, waited until it turned green and crossed it quickly.
"Damn!", I thought, and picked up my pace. That last heated conversation between us, just before I left, had hit me the hardest. I only vaguely remembered it. My anger at the time had clouded my vision and deafened my ears. Most of it was banished from my memory and no matter how hard I concentrated, it was never enough to see everything clearly. I had confronted him with my excess feelings, had poured out my heart and sorrow to him amidst forced cries and sobs, and had rejected any well-intentioned words. I wanted out. Out of myself, out of this world, out of all the confrontation. At the same time, I had completely forgotten what....
I faltered and instantly stopped on the spot as if struck by lightning.
What...he told me then.
In shock, I put my hand over my mouth, my breathing stopped and my limbs were suddenly paralyzed.
I remembered. Suddenly it became clear to me. Everything seemed to make sense, all the pent-up negativity that was spinning around me like a mobile seemed to stop. It was as if a heavy coat I had been wearing for hours had been lifted from my shoulders. This relief, this confusion, within a few seconds delivered me defenceless to the outside world and forced me to find a self-chosen way out. His last words, Francis words, I could hear them; I could actually understand them! And that realization, that said phrase, hissed past me like an icy breeze, grazing my ears and tickling the back of my throat.
"I wouldn't have even known how to survive if it hadn't been for you. I would have perished, perished. You helped me when I needed you. It was you, not Jeanne. I have always seen you as you and never otherwise because you are you. And I love you for that, Arthur."
And I ran. I ran into the unknown, with clarity at my back. I regretted my disappearance, but accepted and wanted forgiveness. I shed my grey world, letting the bright, vivid colours burst through from my formerly stony heart until they made my view of the world colourful again.
I ran on, passed the beautiful Thames, reached a narrow sidewalk, and slowed down. My newfound gaze focused on the heart-warming morning glow, and I savoured the moment as if it were my last. This sudden change of mood pumped adrenaline through my body like crazy, making it hard to be still. I wanted to scream, I wanted to embrace the whole world, I wanted to...apologize to Francis once and for all and start all over again. One more time...
I turned away from the view with a slight smile, already leaning towards moving on. But then...I froze. For I saw a man in the distance whose stature was equal to Francis. It was the same pointed chin, the same chin-length blond hair, and the closer he came to me, and the more I lost myself in the blue of his eyes, I knew it was Francis himself.
I held my breath.
And maybe...just maybe I should start just embracing this feeling in my chest.
~♥~