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She looks up at the ceiling. She is 31 today. She remembers that today, something special will happen. She remembers that today is her birthday. Why… doesn’t she feel happy about it? She has made it another year. Another orbit. But all she feels is a numb kind of sadness. In fact… she remembers now. She remembers the diagnosis. The day it all started…
___
One year and a half ago…
She woke up. She felt nauseous, sick, and couldn’t find it in herself to be awake. So she went back to sleep.
It was just a cold. Or the flu, or something. She could afford to rest for a day.
Just one would be fine, right?
She woke up again. It had been an entire day.
Maybe a strong case of the sickness. Yes, that was it. Next week, she would go back to work, contribute, and help her friends.
She heard whispers of conversation outside the door of her- their room. “Rarely ever curable…”
“No, it’s happened before…”
“Medication…?”
“One of the conditions, yes…”
It was another day. She didn’t eat. She didn’t feel hungry enough to.
A week passed, according to her calendar. Time moved weirdly. Her manager had given her a paid month off to heal.
The month passed. She felt worse. There were cables plugged into her arm.
Creak…
The door opened. He came in, and told her to drink something. She listened, because she trusted him . “You got laid off.”
-
No.
- -
No!
- - -
Nononononononononononononononononononononono
“I have to work harder now. Of course, I will. For us. For you .”
She nodded back, guilty. “I…” She couldn’t speak. She was paralyzed. But he understood. “Me too. But, I have to leave. The work pays more there.”
-
Why did this have to happen now?
- -
When I just got my life together?
- - -
When I finally got to be valuable?
She nodded softly. “Understood.”
“I’ll be back soon. For your birthday, to celebrate it with you.”
“Good…bye.”
“Goodbye.”
___
It has gotten better. She takes her medication, and gets up every day, as if maybe, it is just another day before the diagnosis.
There will never be such a thing. Never again.
But just because she is alive, doesn’t mean she is alive. She doesn’t feel, or only feels sadness, or hate that can only go to herself. She is losing what makes her human.
Pathetic.
Why is she like this?
Numbness Corruption.
A terminal illness that eats at her emotions, and empathy.
That will eventually leave her as a psychopath.
A burden that takes too many people to carry?
Depression.
A mental condition that is linked to her illness.
When she doesn’t feel numb, she feels sad.
Why?
I never asked for any of this.
She shakes the thoughts away. She will feel more today. Because today is the day he will celebrate her birthday. She feels a small sense of happiness. Somehow. Through everything.
And so she gets up. Slowly. Tentatively. She follows the schedule. Medication. She eats. She drinks. She tries to be alive . Because. She has to try at least. For him.
Hyacine Her therapist recommends her to pick up her old passion, her old job. Not for work. For herself. Because she likes it. Because it makes her feel something.
She has forgotten that it was once something for herself, and just herself.
So she does.
She walks because there is someone today to be proud of her. To the dusty room, with the fabrics, needles, threads, and the sewing machine. No one has touched it. A relief. She starts to create.
Tribbie Her old teacher’s voice finds its way to her. “Agy, you’re… here.”
“…” She doesn’t respond. She doesn’t know how to. But… today is special. She tries. “Yes. My therapist told me.”
“I see. I… won’t distract you then.”
“…Okay.”
Tonight. When is tonight? Weave. Thread. Needle. The seconds tick by, and she tries to focus on the dress. Patterns. Intricacy. Detail. The minutes tick by, faster. Stitch. Cut. Measure.
Suddenly, time passes differently. Every hour is a blur, instead of the painful, lonely hours that stretch on and on. She focuses on the dress. It is her anchor. Maybe she can do this everyday. Maybe she won’t be a burden anymore. The weakest link. Maybe he could say those words more often.
She rarely uses her phone. Or any electronic device. Or much of anything, really. But today. She has to be alive.
Missed messages.
Missed calls.
Did they miss… her?
Did she… deserve to be missed?
They probably do. Maybe Tribbie Teacher lets them in, when my thoughts are blurry and time is hazy.
Who knows.
Tonight draws closer. She realizes. What should she say? She thought all about it last year, last birthday, she remembers. She ended up saying nothing. This year will be better. She will respond more, and feel happy, and be alive .
She looks at her clock. She woke up in the morning, which means it has been five hours. It is three p.m.
Surprisingly, the door slams open. It is not tonight yet. Cipher . The catgirl. “Look who’s awake. Some miracle I wasn’t aware of?”
Guilt. She has ignored everything outside her small bubble of a world. She should have been there for everyone.
Instead, she is a stupid useless burden, with nothing to her name.
“ Ciphy , you sound like a jerk!” Tribbie Teacher interjects. “But Dei, Phai and I are also glad you’re awake.”
She is thankful. At the same time, she feels she deserves it. Being judged.
What right did she have to live comfortably when everyone else had to work?
“I made you a cake.” Says the most talented chef, Mydei.
“ We made you cake!” Cipher and Phainon The rest chorus in.
She accepts the cake, and starts to look for the fridge, relying on her muscle memory. She reflects. Today feels normal. As close to normal as she can make herself feel, anyway. Like any other day.
That’s what makes it the best day since last birthday.
They stay for a while. It had been four hours, then they left.
It was nice.
They were there for her. No matter what.
She should repay them.
But she can’t. She can’t get out of the house, because she doesn’t have the strength. She can’t be there for them, because her motivation is empty.
She can’t do anything for anyone.
What was the point? Of. Her. Even. Existing?
The bell tolls shatter her out of the thoughts.
It is seven p.m.
Which meant…
Click.
A familiar pattern of footsteps approaches, and stops by her bed, where she sits. And he sits.
Beside her.
And she waits.
“Aglaea.”
Her name.
His voice.
Saying her name.
The tears fall. Slowly. Dripping down her face like rain. “Anaxa.”
“I missed you.”
“I missed you too.”
All of a sudden, she is back to herself. Back to that strong leader. “You absolute idiot.”
“Indeed I am. Your absolute idiot.”
“You know, I feel better today. Wonder why?”
“Tribbie told me that you started sewing again.”
“Hah. Who knows, maybe I can work again soon.”
“That would be nice.”
“What’s my birthday gift this time?”
“It… may not be, uhh, the greatest, but I tried okay?” He hands her a handmade bucket hat. It is crocheted, to a normal eye, honestly, it looked fine. It was made out of deep green yarn, and the stitches were slightly inconsistent. “Is it… okay?”
“Sometimes, I worry about myself, but then you speak. Obviously it is amazing.” She reassured him, laughing a little. “You made it yourself, even though you have very little time because of work.”
“Aw, thanks.”
“You’re so dumb sometimes.”
Anaxa leads her to the small kitchen, where a party is being thrown. “For you,”
“HAPPY BIRTHDAY AGY!”
The night sparkles. Stars scatter, and the colours of space show. It is beautiful. It is not sad, or cold, but genuine, and warm.
Right.
Behind her tongue, the words tumble. The words that hurt. That hurt yet, she longs for them. Because. They are real. Genuine. Warm. Because she can say them and it will make things better.
He says it first.
“I love you.”
A tsunami crashes against her heart. Her heart aches. The words are filled with love, joy, sadness, longing, happiness, anger, comfort, loneliness, nostalgia and every emotion she can think of. All in those three words.
She still remembers the first time he said them to her.
___
Fourteen odd years ago…
It was a summer night, stars pulsing, and the moon high in the sky.
They were having a picnic, at the odd hour of two a.m., wrapped under a blanket, eating the least horrible of their collective homemade food.
She was listening to the night.
The subtle melody of crickets, wind chimes in the distance, the shushing of the wind. And… that soft, sleepy, ‘I love you.’ that came out of nowhere. It felt so natural, so correct, so right .
The warmth was unlike any she had ever felt before.
___
She says it back.
“I love you.” It feels empty and hollow compared to every other time she has ever said it. Still, it’s the least she can do.
They stand there. Separated by everything that had happened. Will happen. Won’t happen.
“See you next year.”
And in that passing moment, they reunite.
Briefly.
Then set off again.
___
It was her birthday a month ago. She is 34. Sometimes, she makes clothes. Even rarer, sometimes, she finishes them. Rarest of all, sometimes, she sells them. Her emotions have been coming back, slowly. Her life has slowly been getting back together. Still, it feels as if she is forgetting something.
It dawns on her.
She forgot. How could she forget? Why did she forget? What kind of unworthy horrible person would forget this?
She calls for Tribbie.
“Agy, are you alright?”
“No. I’m not. I have just realized that I am the worst person to ever exist.”
Tribbie frowns. “Who told you that? They should mind their own business!”
“Me.”
Tribbie clasps her hands. “You are not! Never, ever tell yourself that.”
“But I’ve forgotten. I’ve forgotten. What kind of partner does that? Forgets their partner’s birthday?”
“Um. It’s next week…?”
“Exactly! I forgot about that day. For half a decade. I forgot his birthday for half a decade .” She cups her head in her hands. “How horrible am I?”
“Oh dear.”
He won’t return on his birthday, he never does. It is always her and never him . She sighs. What did she ever do to deserve someone like him?
Why are they both too selfless for each other, yet so selfish?
Usually, she wouldn’t bother going outside. She can’t bring herself to spend unearned money. However, in recent years, she has been accruing wealth. It is enough for a perfect birthday treat.
It is done. A table at a fancy restaurant, booked five months in advance.
Hopefully he likes it.
She returns to the weaving room, determined to make the perfect birthday gift. She shuts herself in her room, and gives herself a pep talk. You can do this.
She cuts each piece of fabric, meticulously, sewing each one together, before stuffing the stuffing in.
A knock sounds at the door.
“Hello? Lady Aglaea?”
“Castorice? What do you need?”
“Um, sorry to interrupt, but it’s seven a.m. I think you should go to bed.”
“Is it really?”
“Yes, I just got back from my graveyard shift.” Castorice yawns. “I don’t understand how you stay up this late without even getting tired.”
“Whose shift were you covering then?” She teases.
“Cipher’s!” Castorice answered dreamily. “Wait what?!”
“Alright.” She agrees, stifling a yawn. “I’ll go to bed.”
The next day, she goes back to inspect her work. The plushie is a ‘dromas’, a fictional animal, like unicorns, or something. It resembles the build of a brachiosaurus, but plumper, and with more stone parts. She starts to add more detail. Stone horns that curl like a goat’s. A saddle with plenty of bags, embroidered with green and gold leaf decorations. And finally, custom cloth details she designed herself. She is satisfied with the result. Staying up for twenty hours was worth it.
One week later…
She is pacing in the kitchen. Panicking. “What should I do, what should I do, what should I do?!”
Tribbie, being sleep deprived, responds blunter than usual. “Agy, please. Just pick up your phone, and call him.”
“But what if it’s awkward?”
“Just… do it already!”
The rings don’t last for long. “Hello?”
“Heyyy. Um. Happy Birthday!”
“Oh, it is my birthday today. How did you remember?”
“I’m really really really really really really really really really really really sorry… I didn’t mean to forget, it’s just that I… I can’t say anything. It’s my fault and-”
“Hey, hey! Stupid people beat themselves up. You had so much to deal with these past years, I can’t blame you.”
“Yeah… I made you something.” She picks up the dromas plush, and holds it up to the camera. “Do you like it? It’s my birthday gift to you.”
“…It’s perfectly accurate. That’s impressive.”
“So you like it. Also, there’s going to be a surprise when you come back.”
“ Oh? ”
“It’s a surprise!”
“Well, I guess I’ll just have to wait, huh?”
“It’ll be amazing.”
It starts as a check up, a way to catch up. Eventually, every month, they call. She looks forward to that day every month.
“I love you.”
“I love you too.”
___
She is fully functional now. As of her 35th birthday, she can make her own money again. Which means that he can come back home.
As she drives over to the airport, she wonders if she should tell him… but then, she wipes the thought out of her mind. There is no point thinking about it.
The present should be enjoyed.
At least bitter sweetness tastes better than pure grief.
___
Seven months later…
A checkup is unnecessary. She feels it. How ironic. It may be the last thing she feels. No, there is one last thing she will feel. Pain. In both senses. She doesn’t think she has enough time to write. So she opens her desk drawer. Inside there is a small dagger and a note. She had prepared this long ago. She opens the note, and before she can hesitate, she holds the note in one hand and the dagger in her other. Quickly , before she wants to wait.
-
She.
- -
Stabs.
- - -
Herself.
It’s fatal. She’ll slowly bleed out. But hopefully not before seven, when he comes home.
She wants to say goodbye. A final one.
It has been thirty or so minutes according to her clock. To her it has been thirty years. She has to battle the illness. She cannot die yet. She has to endure. Because that’s all she was ever for. Enduring, helping, moving life along. She would sacrifice herself for any of her friends. Yet here she is, listening to herself. Letting her own desires get away, instead of taming them, overcoming them.
Yet as it struck seven, no ‘ click ’ not even a sign of footsteps.
She is running out of time.
I want to die human. I want to die like a human. I want to die as a human.
-
Stab.
- -
Stab.
- - -
Stab.
- - - -
Stab.
Oh so beautifully, her bed is stained in blood, and her thoughts betray her. She wanders back in time, in the few minutes she has left.
___
I remember the first time you gave in to me. Allowing me to call you by a name not your own. It must have seemed to you out of respect, but it meant so much more. You gave in to me. You, who was proud, and determined. You. I thought I was delirious. But you caught on quickly. Through that twisted logic of yours, you reciprocated.
I remember our useless arguments, fueled by more than rivalry.
I remember your sneaky confession, so nonchalant, as if that was that. As if you had not brought years of denial to an end.
I remember my old self, helplessly denying herself.
I remember when I accepted, my lovelorn heart spewing out poetry, messy, undefined, yet full of feeling.
I remember, yet my feelings are fading away. I remember, yet I am doomed to forget.
Mourn me, not for my death, but for my loss of everything else.
Please.
I love you-
___
Darkness. A welcome darkness. She has endured enough. She has been strong. And in doing so, she is able to move on.
To the next life, a happier one.
I am sure we shall meet again there.
___
He gently opens the door.
And sees her , Aglaea, lying in bed, eyes opened and blank. The blood stains her clothes, seeping into the bed. In one hand, a dagger, in the other a note.
It feels wrong. Opening her hand, still warm and lifeless. He reads it.
____________________
To whoever finds this. Well, I know who will find this.
To my dearest Anaxagoras, you know my condition.
Have I told you my death wish? I wish to die, while I still feel emotion in my heart. I write this as the doctors tell me to tell you to come back. I will lose all emotion soon, in a year, they say. I can continue living, this is not a fatal disease as you know. But what is living, when I am not ‘human’ anymore? When I am unable to love you?
That’s not living. That’s surviving. That person would be a shell of me.
Just know, that...
My death is of my own volition. It’s not your fault.
I will always love you.
____________________
Grief. Can not possibly describe this feeling. It feels too empty. Too quiet. Lonely. His heart doesn’t rip itself open because it has already been shattered. His instincts conflict with every other part of his body.
You must survive.
What does life matter if she is not here to witness it?
Survive. Stay alive.
Why should I live if my life is not intertwined with hers?
You must stay.
How do I move on when I know she had regrets?
Live.
I can’t. I can’t! I can’tIcan’t Ican’t Ican’tICAN’t
Endure.
Why should I even care anymore?
For tomorrow.
Tomorrow never comes, don’t you know? It is always today and today and today and will always be today and today and today. Ahaha.
It will always be a better day.
I don’t care! This world is too unfair. Too horrible to fix. Ahahahahahahahahahhh…
Live. Stay alive. Survive. You have to.
Why shouldn’t I die? All I was ever worth has been torn away by this cruel world.
___
It feels dizzy, freeing. The knife slashes open skin, easily as butter. Blood runs down his body, warm and comforting. It makes his heart ache less.
He has never felt more alive.
-
Cut, slash, pierce
- -
Slit, slice, stab
- - -
Incise, gash, maim, mangle, rip, tear, maul, shred
- - - -
Gouge, hack, butcher, rend, rupture, cleave, sever, split, wound
Blood is spilling from the wounds he inflicts, but he doesn’t care. Let it.
He will die, certainly, but he shuts himself back into his memories, of a better place.
___
I used to think all love stories were silly, craziness hidden under ‘love’.
I remember how you proved me wrong.
You strode into class, wearing your wealth on your sleeve, eager to prove yourself.
You did. A natural rivalry formed between us. I’m not sure when that rivalry became something different, but it did.
I began sneakily seeking you out, challenging you to silly things, like who could pick the best blueberries, or who could set the best picnic for the other. Why you accepted, I didn’t know.
But I feel glad that you did.
Even though your life has been cut off.
Even though mine is about to, also.
I still remember every moment.
You would still love the world along with me.
I can only still say that I love you.
I mean it.
Every time I said it.
I’m sorry.
I love you,
Always-
___
A brief reunion. Too short, for how long it took.