Page 32 of Sinister

Apart from that little indulgence, the past weeks have felt rather grey.

In the mornings, I try to put together a creative portfolio for my applications to design schools, and by the late afternoons, I am yawning and longing for sleep.

My body feels heavy, and soreness takes root in my limbs and torso.

While I’m being miserable like this, my phone buzzes with a message from Amelia.

Hey, Petra. How you feeling?

I had shared with her a little of what had been happening with me: the tiredness, the odd dreams, the hole in my heart that gaped wider each day.

Like the best friend ever, she kept regular tabs on my moods and physical well-being. Earlier, I would have thought all of this sweet.

In my current state, I feel somewhat irked. As if her concern is forcing me to put on a façade that tells her I’m fine, even though I’m clearly not. And what stops me from being honest with her? I have wondered the same and have come up with no answer.

Truth be told, Amelia has always been my rock, but ever since that night with Sin, I’ve been holding back.

Because now I had experienced something that couldn’t be shared with someone else; I had neither a coherent memory of the whole event nor the suitable words to articulate it.

This thought niggles at me as I start typing a response but stop midway, unsure of what to say.

Just then, another message pops up.

What’s up? Everything cool?

Yeah, sure. Why?

Not the most elaborate of responses, but it was better than not responding at all.

Nothing. Just, feels like you’ve been avoiding me lately.

I can’t blame her for feeling this way. But did she have to insist on knowing anyway? Yes, we took pride in how vulnerable we dared to be with each other, how we entrusted each other with our tenderest jealousies, our tiniest perversions.

But did she have the right to demand any confessions when I was in such a mess? It feels like too much; it feels unfair.

Still, I try to remain courteous as I text back:

I’m fine, Ames. Just been feeling off lately.

Almost instantly, she replies:

Off how? Talk to me, Petra. You know you can, right?

I take a deep breath, trying to stem the burning ire that rises in my throat, blocking my actual passageways. A dull ache persists around my temples as I write back:

I know, Ames. It’s just . . . a lot.

A lot how?

She messages back almost immediately. Already the conversation has been taxing, so I almost put the phone away at this point. But it buzzes with another message from her.

Are you shutting me out, Petra? Was it something I said?

The frustration in her words finally sparks something in me. Or maybe it’s one of those unpredictable swings in my disposition, the rapid to-and-fro across the full spectrum of human emotions that has lately inflicted me.

Whatever the reason, I snap at the most caring person in my life so far.

It’s not that simple, Amelia!