Chapter One
Istudy the dead child, her contours, the black and white colors emphasize her statue-like presence. She has this serene expression on her face that I envy. It’s a peace I haven’t known for some time. Her long, black lashes rest against the porcelain background of her skin. Part of me longs to be in her place—an eternal beauty, without sorrow, just... surrounded by silence. Frozen forever in an untroubled slumber. I get off the couch, leaving behind an imprint of where I sat on the mossy-colored velvet fabric. I know that the longer I look at the photo, the more my longing turns into a burning desire, to join the little girl in her eternity. I glide the tip of my finger over the worn edges of the paper. Time is a cruel and silent unraveller. I carefully put the photo back into the weathered and battered photo album. The cover of the album is silken, with baroque ornaments—reminiscent of the Victorianage—embossed on the velvet. Despite no longer seeing the girl's features, my mind drifts off, and a hollow yearning creeps into my thoughts, nestling there. It beckons me, but I push it aside.
The idea of death is one of tranquility, something I seek. The concept of wanting to take my own life is not new to me; it’s almost a comfort that I have carried with me my entire life. An escape that’s always ready, if I ever wanted to take that leap. Literally. But my mother would never forgive me, for that matter. Truthfully, I’m not even sure if it’s death I crave, or just a way to silence the turmoil of voices that I house inside my mind. Yet, as of late, it’s becoming increasingly difficult to control them, as they grow more intrusive with each passing day. If it weren’t for that buried doubt, salvaging my mind when it slips into the darkness too deep, I would not be here anymore.
It's not that the whispers never win; their slithering words are full of convincing poison. It’s hard for me to ignore the noises that bang on the inside of my skull. I’m just a mere human, and a fragile one at that. The scars on the inside of my arms and thighs are living proof of that—a map that has faded slightly into oblivion, leaving only the outlines, a trace in case I change my mind. A path that’s still visible for me to wander onto, even when I sayno.
Occasionally, I stand in the kitchen, with a knife in one hand, the sharp edge of the blade pressing into my skin, blood swelling, but I do not yield. As time passes, and the scars become less visible, I feel the itch to mark them once more. Though, I prefer to do so when I’m in the shower, the razor blade stinging into the tips of my fingers as I hold it too tightly. It’s the coloring of the water seeping into a deep pinkish hue that wakes me from my daze. I do my best not to give in, but honestly every day is a battle I’d rather lose than win. It’s just that one fine thread that prevents me from passing the veil, that lingering doubt in my mind, if this is truly what I desire.
It's lonely, though. No one seems to understand my thoughts, nor do they want to listen to me, truly hear my words. If I do ever muster the courage to share some of the pain I experience, I’m told, ‘Don’t be so dramatic, Clara.’ It hurts. It really fucking hurts. My mother would even use my full name, Clarimonde, her words stern, to emphasize that she did not want to hear what I had to say and didn’t tolerate what I was trying to tell her. Perhaps she couldn’t bear the thought, but in the end, it’s always I who pays the price for her selfishness. She has no idea how much it pains me to listen to those words. It’s an ache that festers, one I will never heal from alone. I weep in silence, by myself, during the day and at night.
It's not just when I’m around my family. Even in friendships, I often feel like I’m just the friend who’s always there. None of them considers me their confidante, their best friend. I’m never placed first, if anything, I’m an afterthought. People enjoy my company on the surface, as long as I don’t get lost in my strange interests, but I’m not anyone’s favorite person. I’m a shoulder to cry on, the one people call when they need a favor, a filler for a party, yet no one’s there when I need them. My cries silence into an empty void. It’s a harsh truth I started to accept a few years ago. That was also the moment when I began to withdraw from social gatherings, which, in painful confirmation, showed me that I was not missed. If anything, I am easily forgotten, but it didn’t bring me relief.
I feel a tear crawl out of my eye, a silent drop of mourning for a life that was never there. All of it is a facade to conform to societal demands. A makeshift way to pretend that I fit in—a pretty girl with equally pretty friends.
We did mundane things like shopping and going out for a cup of fashionable iced coffee, even though I hate coffee. No one cared; it was the norm, just what you did with friends. All it did was make me feel empty and drained while I sipped onsome raspberry-lemon juice frappe latte, whatever. It made me want to puke. They’d squeal over a celebrity I did not recognize and frown at me when I showed an old, brittle church made of human bones that I wanted to visit. My friends would scoff and make fun of me, and I’d laugh along with their mockery, saying through gritted teeth that I was joking. Ignoring the cavernous loneliness I felt, while people surrounded me. I’d rather drown in emotional rot while in solitude. Cutting off those meaningless friendships at least brought me that… seclusion. Because, if anything, I was just a temporary person in everyone’s life.
I smile. Life is cruel, especially when we surround ourselves with people who make us question our autonomy. If we can never truly be ourselves, then what is the point of friendship?
The only place I truly felt I belonged was online, yet it brought a different kind of aloneness. A sense of belonging that would keep itself at bay, a distance between those who understand and me. It was a different kind of frustration. It made me want to take the kitchen scissors and draw a new map on my skin; a nascent route made of scarlet lines that resembled another disappointment. I was able to withstand the desire… Most of the time anyway. The crusted blood on my skin tells a different story.
I was at my lowest point when I met him… His words cut through me like a sharpened blade slicing through the surface. It was akin to what I had planned that evening, carving my skin into oblivion. To drown in my own blood. My mind was made up, no longer able to withstand the voices, to fight the endless thoughts. Life is a merciless master, and I am nothing but its weak servant.
The tub was topped with steaming, hot water, and oil made with white lilies, known to be grave flowers, which I considered fitting, filling the bathroom. Next to the tub, a clear,glass vase holding the large white flowers—my own graveyard bouquet. I sat on the edge, the porcelain cold against my bare skin, when I flicked open my phone for one final doom scroll. A beckoning I could not resist. It was his message that pulled me back to the realm of the living. I had confided in him how the constant crushing emptiness was taking its toll. I no longer had the strength to pretend, feeling like a burden on my family because of my peculiarity. His name is Casparus, but he’s called Jasper in regular life.
Solitary is but a choice. You are enough, and if you let me in, I’ll show you your true beauty. You have captivated my mind by being you. Clara, I want to understand all of you, absorb your thoughts, and bask in all you want to share with me. Would it be strange to say that I love you?
It was he who watered my wilted form, regrowing the shriveled petals one by one without me realizing. We had found each other online, a miracle on its own. Every day, he’d reach out to me, and we’d talk endlessly about our interests, our dreams, about life. His words became my oxygen, a need, but the dependency I built made me worry he, too, would never consider me a true friend until that message. The one that made me drop the knife.
That night, I did not press the blade vertically against my wrists, and I did not slice through my veins. The water in the tub stayed clear, instead of turning into a watercolor painting of reds.
No longer wanting to burden those around me—my family, my so-called ‘friends’—each of them had made it crystal clear that my suffering did not fit into their lives, to the point that I was ready to leave this earthly life behind. Prepared to succumb to the suffocating voices. And although his words over the months were of friendly love, I felt like a shackle around his neck, a weight to Jasper. I decided that night I’d end it all. Nolonger would I inflict my sorrow onto them,on him, until that fatal message of his.
I glance at the slender dagger, the brown leather hilt, its blade glinting like frozen moonlight. I bought it at an antique store down the road. Thrifting is one of my favorite activities. The melancholy of the past calls out to me. After purchasing the weapon, I sharpened it with a whetstone. Simply touching the tip would nick my skin. Watching the blood bloom into a small crimson well was a favorite pastime as I dreamt of Death’s icy embrace. My vision of my last breath was that of romance. I’d be surrounded by pure stillness as I entered my future, becoming a corpse: nothing more but a stolen breath from the abyss.
I had envisioned being found at some point. My body bloated, the lilies withered, the water cold. Because it would take days, perhaps even weeks before someone would come looking for me. It was macabre to realize, but the moment they would enter my home, the smell of rot and decay would welcome them. Part of me hoped they’d feel the guilt, the regret, but deep down, I know none of them will ever feel like that when it comes to me.
Jasper unknowingly gifted me a fragile revival, my soul’s second awakening. His confession of love opened up a different kind of anguish; he captured my heart and imprisoned it. There was no escape; my heart was a bird that had its wings clipped, unable to get away. But it didn’t bring me fear; it brought me comfort. I didn’t want to leave; I wanted to stay his captive for all eternity.
But we were apart.
Chapter Two
It’s been four months since that dreadful night, and although Jasper is there for me, I still can’t help but occasionally nick the tip of my finger or trace a line on my thighs. Watching my own deep red blood trail on my skin fascinates me, and the iron taste is exquisite. Jasper knows. I don’t keep secrets from him; he made me promise to always share what’s on my mind, and when I do, he listens attentively. My mother doesn’t know about him, no one does. I’ve given up trying to express my feelings or share my life with others. No one cares. She seems content when I tell her everything is fine in my little world, because in the end, that’s all she truly wants to hear from me. So, I lie. I lie about having friends and about what I do, while in reality, I sit alone on my couch, sipping on tea and talking to Jasper or texting him.
The other day, he said he wants me to move in, and even though that means moving eight hours away from my family, I said yes instantly. I rarely see my family anyway, and if I do see them, they make sure that I know I’m the black sheep. As long as I nod, and give a hint of a smile, my family is happy. My sister is their pride and joy.
It’s been a long time since my heart fluttered with happiness; it’s an emotion I barely recognize, a sad truth in itself, but it’s something he managed to awaken in me. It’s a feeling I want to capture and seal away in my heart, or bottle up, so no one can touch it or take it away from me. Happiness is a fragile thing, and I’m terrified of losing it, now that I’ve seemed to have found it.
An actual smile spreads across my face.
I stand outside as the barren wind and heavy raindrops find their way to me, slamming against my face. I stand on the pavement with my life packed into several cardboard boxes, all wrapped in grey garbage bags to protect from the rain, and a large, black suitcase. Some of my furniture that I desperately wanted to take is already on its way, such as my velvet couch. The taxi van will arrive at any moment, so that I can follow suit. Jasper paid for the entire move, ensuring I would travel to him safely and that my belongings would remain unharmed. I try to gaze into the street, my eyelashes glued together due to the downpour, and my hair is wrapped around my head, as watertries to invade my coat. I cross my arms and bury my face deeper into my thick woolen shawl that’s covered in small droplets. I should have bought an umbrella, I think to myself sourly.
The grey clouds that cover the sky turn a darker shade, and I hear the whip-crack of thunder not far away. Lightning follows shortly afterward, and I chew on my lower lip. I crave this kind of weather — relentless rain, loud thunder—but not when I am standing outside. I want this when I’m safely cozied up inside, under a blanket with a book in my hand. Finally, I hear the grinding of wheels on the asphalt, and I glance at a dark blue van with tinted windows that comes to a stop in front of me. A tall, lanky man gets out and opens the backseat door for me. He wears a jacket, but I notice his polished shoes. I don’t know why they draw my attention; I guess part of me is surprised at how neat they are.
“Miss, my apologies for being late—the weather and traffic everywhere, it’s a nightmare. Please, get in the car quickly. I’ll carry your things inside.”
He ushers me in, and I feel relief as the rain no longer pounds against my head. I take off my soaked coat and shawl and set them aside, hoping they’ll dry during the ride. My driver quickly packs up my belongings, carefully placing each item in the back of the van as if they were made of glass. He closes the rear door and heads to the driver’s seat. Once seated, he turns around and smiles at me; his teeth are bright white, and one of his canines is golden. I hold back a frown at the sight of it.
