30
CIARA
“Good morning, Mom.”
“Good morning, dear. I’m off to work, but there’s some hot tea ready.”
“Thanks.”
“So, have you got a tour today?”
“Yes. I start at 2:00 p.m.”
“And what are your plans this morning?”
“You don’t have to worry about leaving me alone.”
“I was wondering if you felt like doing a bit of painting…” she tries cautiously.
I know why she’s doing it. I’ve been back home a month and I’m slowly trying to take up my old habits. Last week I went back to school and today I’ll be going to work. Not that I really feel like my old self, but if I don’t take action, I’ll just go on mooching around the house in my pyjamas, with swollen eyes, stewing in my own juices.
I don’t want this to become a new lifestyle. A continual way of thinking that doesn’t let me move forward.
What happened with Mark is terrible, impossible to forget, but he can’t touch me now, thanks to Aaron. And that’s what feels the worst about all of this. The thought of him and what we won’t have again.
I told him that I can’t love him and the moment the words left my mouth I knew I had broken him permanently, because he had just begun to start trusting me, being sure of my feelings for him and allowing himself to let go, and then I slammed the door in his face.
Despite the fact that I feel a need to have him here beside me, to smell him and caress his lips against mine, I know I’m not able to let myself go now and to give him all of the love he needs.
Because only God knows how badly that man needs to be loved. He’s got a desperate need. And I can’t be that person, the one who helps him keep out of the dark because now I’m the one in the darkness and I don’t want to drag him down with me.
And yet, I miss him, like I’ve never missed anyone in my life. Something that makes you feel empty and arid as if there were no liquids running in my veins and all that remains is muscle and bones.
It hurts. More than anything. To love and not live that love out.
“Don’t wear yourself out,” my mother calls before kissing my forehead and walking out the front door.
I smile at her from behind my cup of tea, then I decide to take a shower and get dressed and maybe have a walk, so as to take advantage of this mild weather.
I’m not afraid of leaving the house or running into people or being alone. I’m not afraid that something could happen to me at any moment. The only thing that scares me is what I feel: nothing. I don’t feel the colors, the music, the sun on my face. The desire to want to surround myself with all of these things. I just want to be alone without having to show everyone what I no longer am.
I leave the house wearing black leggings and a dark colored T-shirt that reaches down to my knees. I put on a sporty hat to protect me from the wind and a light jacket in case of rain. I’ve got my usual gym shoes and a fake smile ready to go. Not a trace of make-up on my face to hide the sleepless nights and rivers of tears I have cried.
I take a long walk in St. Stephen Green, and find a spot in the green where I can enjoy my only company: a sandwich and a drink. I sit on the grass next to a small lake and share my lunch with the resident ducks. I sit in silence, just listening to their squawking and begin to feel a little lighter when my cell phone rings.
I dig around in my huge bag and almost miss the call searching for it.
“Oh, hi Patrick,” I tell him when I answer.
“Hi. I was about to hang up.”
“Couldn’t find the phone in my bag.”
“Where are you?”
“Out.”
“Alone?” I hear the worry in his tone.
