Fifty Two Weeks

I think I have done something. I think I have done something awful.

But I can’t remember, I can’t remember things properly: everything is disjointed and all these mangled pieces are scattered in the darkest recesses of my mind, scampering forward enough to unsettle my conscience but hurrying away before any sense can be made of the blurry shapes and indistinct screams.

I am scared of what I did. I am scared of myself. I am scared for her.

She is sat next to me at the moment. Her eyes are set intently on the screen, stretched wide to envelop all of the motion and colour. Hey eyes are so beautiful; they are dark, dark, swirls, the edges rimmed with a collar of thick lashes. Sometimes when she is curled up with her head nestled in the crook of my shoulder, they brush up against my neck, a soft reminder that she’s there.

Her hair is pooling on her shoulder and her lips are slightly parted as she gazes over the heads of the rest in the theatre. Her lips are the deepest red I have ever seen anyone’s to be, they are that dark crimson of berries when they are not yet entirely ripe: the most beautiful moment of their life, the moment just before they are plucked from their stems.

Her fingers are tracing patterns on the scratchy material of the arm rest, the slender tips barely touching the surface before she suddenly tucks her hair behind her ear, curling closer in her chair towards me, her eyes never leaving the screen. I could watch her forever and I would never tire.

And then, as I am watching her sigh deeply and contently into me, her knees tucked up close to her chin, I realise suddenly:

I am in love with her.

I blink in surprise before I stare at her in wonder. How had I not realised I loved her before? Surely it must have happened the moment I met her?

Ilana.

Even her name is beautiful. Ilana.

Why can’t I just have this life? Why can’t I just fall in love with Ilana? Why can’t I just be happy?

I want Ilana, that’s all I want.

But what if I don’t deserve her, what if I don’t deserve to be happy? What is it that I’ve done? What is the terrible, terrible thing that I’ve done - the thing that keeps skirting around the edges of my memory; the thing that’s darting in the corner of my eyes?

I keep having these bursts of disjointed scenes that run behind my eyes: echoes of voices, shadows of figures falling to the ground...

What did I do? What did I do?

I look at her face, her beautiful, beautiful face, entirely unaware of the ideas and horrors that are racing through my mind, of what sort of monster is sitting next to her.

Suddenly a chilling thought passes through me causing my heart to stop dead as my blood freezes in my icey veins.

What if I hurt her?

Is it possible that I could hurt her? I would never do it willingly; I would never do anything to hurt her if I could help it: I would sooner rip my lungs out through my throat then prick her with a needle.

But what if I couldn’t help it? What if I do it as if in a dream, unaware and unable to remember?

What if she becomes nothing more than the echoes and shadows that are plaguing my thoughts at this very moment?

No, I would never hurt her, I couldn’t hurt her, not Ilana, it would go against every fragment of my being; my hands would turn against me and strangle me before I touched her.

“You okay, Evan?” her lips brush softly against each other as she speaks: the film has ended.

I quickly collect my thoughts as I stare up at her dark, dark eyes, “Yes, I’m fine.”

“Great, let’s go,” she smiles that smile that burns stars and freezes oceans as she interlaces her fingers through mine and pecks me on my lips.

No, I could never hurt her.

Could I?