Taciturnity.
1/1.
I always wondered where he went. Sometimes I wish I had the bravery and the courage to just find out, but I was too scared. Raw fear overtook my body and coiled itself tightly around me, like rope, whenever I thought of it. Three years and I’m still wondering.
Walking alone through a world that seems so bleak now, so dull. It feels like nothing matters anymore, like every day is just another one that must pass before I get to go somewhere. Anywhere.
My house is still the same as it was three years ago. The same peeling white paint that’s yellowing around the edges of the ceiling. The same dreary brown carpet that covers the floor, smelling of cat piss. The same rooms, with the same puke yellow drapes across the frosty windows.
I could describe that house all day, point out every flaw it has within its foundations. Ever since the day he left the house stayed the same. I haven’t the heart to change anything. I still follow the same routine everyday too.
I used to have some motivation, something that willed me on through the darker days. But now my light has disappeared so far into the darkness that I can’t retrieve it. I’ve tried, weakly, but I have.
Sleep is now an old friend that I welcome warmly every night. Fantasy is also a good friend. He helps me, y’know? He helps me follow that small but frail string that’s slowly leading me through the darkness. He’s quite slow though, it feels like we never get anywhere. Sometimes he leads me in circles. It doesn’t bother me much though.
I still work at the same place, doing the same thing every day. No one takes any notice of me anymore; I just blend into the background, overlooked like a lone weed in a garden full of roses. I like to think I used to be one of those roses.
I’ve stopped wishing. Actually, I stopped a long time ago. After the first five months. The sheets on my bed still smell faintly of him, his musky scent is woven throughout every fine fibre of the cotton, as if they were one.
In the dark corner of the small room I sleep in there’s also a pile of his clothes. They’re dirty and have been lying there solemnly, collecting dust, for the past three years. They seem to have a character of their own now. I’d never move them, let alone wash them. They’d be unhappy with me.
I always buy the cigarettes he loved so much. I remember watching him inhale the smoke, watching it twist, swirl and coil in delicate strands as it came out of his mouth, his nostrils. But I never smoke the cancer sticks like he used to. I don’t dare bring one of those small, thin sticks to my own chapped lips. Instead, I light them like incense, allowing the smoke to spread throughout the house, coating every object with the familiar smell, forever reminding me.
There’s a picture of us hanging on the wall too. It’s old though, starting to curl at the edges inside the black wooden frame we bought at some markets about four years ago. Sometimes I stare at our smiling faces and wonder what thoughts were running through our minds at that exact moment, what sounds we were hearing, what things we were feeling on our skin and what emotions were controlling us.
But it’s okay. Really, it’s fine. I have my memories. I let them play in my head, like a dusty old video player that only plays the same thing over and over again. Complete with the fuzzy specks of black and white that plague the screen.
He opened my eyes. I never saw the world before him. Now my eyes, my lazy and blinded eyes, are closed again; seeing is a luxury. No one sees the world properly all of the time, I’m glad I got to see it, if only for a little while. To see the bright colours of everyday life, the pulsating reddy-orange of a bustling market, the soft greeny-blue of the busker’s music, the nice mauve of people’s emotions mixing together to make something so beautiful.
He taught me to put a colour to everything. But I don’t see it anymore. It’s there though, in my memory somewhere. But I can’t open the heavy wooden door to access those files. They’re locked away safely in the back of my mind. That door is almost, in a way, keeping me safe from myself. I think.
I’m quiet now too, almost silent, just suspending in a deep, dark blue ocean with only muffled sound. It’s quite pretty actually. It makes me smile.
The muscles in my face forgot how to bend and shape themselves to curve my mouth into a smile for a long time. But bits of him brought the action back. Just little bits that I find, see and hear everyday. Floating back slowly in small clusters.
Being numb is an odd feeling. Like, when you just can’t feel anything. No pain, no joy, no love, no hate. Just…nothing. Numbness is what took over after the initial pain. It coated me like a second layer, a second skin, stretching and binding itself over every inch of my body. Sometimes I wish it would go away, that I could feel again. But I know I couldn’t handle it. The raw emotions would race back, engulfing me in their clawed grasp and they’d never let go.
So, when I retrieved the blank envelope from my old, rusty mailbox I was still numb. Still indifferent to the fact that someone had put a pen to paper, sloppily stuck it in an envelope and sent it to me, yet hadn’t bothered to put their name or a return address. What did it matter, for it was only a blank envelope. It was what the envelope, so torn and old, contained that was special.
The loopy cursive writing on the small slip of paper inside the envelope was so significant. It sparked something. I don't know what it was, but it was something. Whether it was because I knew it was his writing or maybe I’ve just been empty for so long. I’m not sure but it ignited a small, vibrant flame within the depths of me. It burnt brightly, warming me from the inside.
I’ll always watch over you, baby. I’ll always be there. I’ll always be with you.
Then I saw the date, in the very corner of the yellowed page, dated about three days before I never saw him again. The flame was extinguished, like putting a snuffer on a candle that had burned wrongly. The warmth receded and that small flame, which only burned for such a little time, was gone again.
And I was still the same person.
Walking alone through a world that seems so bleak now, so dull. It feels like nothing matters anymore, like every day is just another one that must pass before I get to go somewhere. Anywhere.
My house is still the same as it was three years ago. The same peeling white paint that’s yellowing around the edges of the ceiling. The same dreary brown carpet that covers the floor, smelling of cat piss. The same rooms, with the same puke yellow drapes across the frosty windows.
I could describe that house all day, point out every flaw it has within its foundations. Ever since the day he left the house stayed the same. I haven’t the heart to change anything. I still follow the same routine everyday too.
I used to have some motivation, something that willed me on through the darker days. But now my light has disappeared so far into the darkness that I can’t retrieve it. I’ve tried, weakly, but I have.
Sleep is now an old friend that I welcome warmly every night. Fantasy is also a good friend. He helps me, y’know? He helps me follow that small but frail string that’s slowly leading me through the darkness. He’s quite slow though, it feels like we never get anywhere. Sometimes he leads me in circles. It doesn’t bother me much though.
I still work at the same place, doing the same thing every day. No one takes any notice of me anymore; I just blend into the background, overlooked like a lone weed in a garden full of roses. I like to think I used to be one of those roses.
I’ve stopped wishing. Actually, I stopped a long time ago. After the first five months. The sheets on my bed still smell faintly of him, his musky scent is woven throughout every fine fibre of the cotton, as if they were one.
In the dark corner of the small room I sleep in there’s also a pile of his clothes. They’re dirty and have been lying there solemnly, collecting dust, for the past three years. They seem to have a character of their own now. I’d never move them, let alone wash them. They’d be unhappy with me.
I always buy the cigarettes he loved so much. I remember watching him inhale the smoke, watching it twist, swirl and coil in delicate strands as it came out of his mouth, his nostrils. But I never smoke the cancer sticks like he used to. I don’t dare bring one of those small, thin sticks to my own chapped lips. Instead, I light them like incense, allowing the smoke to spread throughout the house, coating every object with the familiar smell, forever reminding me.
There’s a picture of us hanging on the wall too. It’s old though, starting to curl at the edges inside the black wooden frame we bought at some markets about four years ago. Sometimes I stare at our smiling faces and wonder what thoughts were running through our minds at that exact moment, what sounds we were hearing, what things we were feeling on our skin and what emotions were controlling us.
But it’s okay. Really, it’s fine. I have my memories. I let them play in my head, like a dusty old video player that only plays the same thing over and over again. Complete with the fuzzy specks of black and white that plague the screen.
He opened my eyes. I never saw the world before him. Now my eyes, my lazy and blinded eyes, are closed again; seeing is a luxury. No one sees the world properly all of the time, I’m glad I got to see it, if only for a little while. To see the bright colours of everyday life, the pulsating reddy-orange of a bustling market, the soft greeny-blue of the busker’s music, the nice mauve of people’s emotions mixing together to make something so beautiful.
He taught me to put a colour to everything. But I don’t see it anymore. It’s there though, in my memory somewhere. But I can’t open the heavy wooden door to access those files. They’re locked away safely in the back of my mind. That door is almost, in a way, keeping me safe from myself. I think.
I’m quiet now too, almost silent, just suspending in a deep, dark blue ocean with only muffled sound. It’s quite pretty actually. It makes me smile.
The muscles in my face forgot how to bend and shape themselves to curve my mouth into a smile for a long time. But bits of him brought the action back. Just little bits that I find, see and hear everyday. Floating back slowly in small clusters.
Being numb is an odd feeling. Like, when you just can’t feel anything. No pain, no joy, no love, no hate. Just…nothing. Numbness is what took over after the initial pain. It coated me like a second layer, a second skin, stretching and binding itself over every inch of my body. Sometimes I wish it would go away, that I could feel again. But I know I couldn’t handle it. The raw emotions would race back, engulfing me in their clawed grasp and they’d never let go.
So, when I retrieved the blank envelope from my old, rusty mailbox I was still numb. Still indifferent to the fact that someone had put a pen to paper, sloppily stuck it in an envelope and sent it to me, yet hadn’t bothered to put their name or a return address. What did it matter, for it was only a blank envelope. It was what the envelope, so torn and old, contained that was special.
The loopy cursive writing on the small slip of paper inside the envelope was so significant. It sparked something. I don't know what it was, but it was something. Whether it was because I knew it was his writing or maybe I’ve just been empty for so long. I’m not sure but it ignited a small, vibrant flame within the depths of me. It burnt brightly, warming me from the inside.
I’ll always watch over you, baby. I’ll always be there. I’ll always be with you.
Then I saw the date, in the very corner of the yellowed page, dated about three days before I never saw him again. The flame was extinguished, like putting a snuffer on a candle that had burned wrongly. The warmth receded and that small flame, which only burned for such a little time, was gone again.
And I was still the same person.