She was growing restless – he could tell by the way she shifted in her spot, the way her eyes were either left unfocused or drifting from place to place with no apparent pattern. He had to remind himself then, that she was not really herself, that there were chemicals intoxicating her brain, and that perhaps this was not who she was, or perhaps that this was who she truly was – behind the walls that we all build in order to protect ourselves and in result distance ourselves from the world, from people, both right and wrong. Defence always came at a high price, and he often wondered if it was ever really worth it. His train of thought was interrupted when he noticed she had stopped fidgeting and was now looking at him, pupils blown so wide that they seemed to nearly swallow the irises entire, and he found himself feeling so utterly bare before her, like for some reason she could look inside him, like she was truly seeing him. For that reason, he did not move an inch, he did not breathe, he just… sat there, back rigid and hand gripping the armrest with white-knuckled ferocity, scared that she might lose interest and look away if he shifted. “Yes.”, he said, voice slightly cracked, rough around the edges, “Yes you are.” Even himself, he could not tell what he was referring to – her naiveté or her beauty – perhaps she was right, perhaps they were essentially the same thing, one could not exist without another. He could not see her beauty, for he was blinded by the brilliance underneath. “But beauty is such a fragile, ephemeral thing. Aren’t you afraid? Aren’t you afraid you’re going to lose that naivety inside you, and see the world how others see it? I think I lost it long time ago, there’s no innocence left here.”, the tautness left his limbs, but there was vigour in them now, and he turned slightly in place, elbow on the backrest as he spoke, quickly, as if afraid the words might dissipate from his mind and he won’t get to tell her his thoughts, “Maybe there’s only the internal world, and sometimes there are people in life who come inside and destroy it, ravage it, intentionally or not, and then there are some who water the gardens of our thoughts, and we let them in. Except once destroyed, we don’t dare to trust again, and we start to live in the external one where everything is colourless and cold and shallow.” Was he high? No, not possible, he hadn’t taken anything in weeks. So what was this strange outburst of jumbled thoughts that escaped his lips, and who was this girl listening to it?
Sometimes he wondered if he was really not broken. With time, it became hard to convince himself otherwise when the world had claimed he was a shattered excuse for a person. They treated him like a broken thing, and in time he started believing them. He got used to those loud silences that had always ensued after someone realised they have been insensitive, to the way women looked at him like he needed to be repaired and they were the only ones who could do it, to the way men gave him sympathetic glances when inside their mind they were just glad it wasn’t them – he got so used to that that perhaps sometimes it felt as if that was the truth. Except it wasn’t. He could feel her eyes upon him, and he looked down only to find her observing him – like she was trying to tell apart what was on the inside and what was on the outside, like she didn’t see the cracks. “You’re the first one to say that.” He wanted to say something else, to elaborate – but nothing came to mind, and perhaps it was better, because there was a silent, genuine thank you in them, and in the way he said them. It was the movement of her hand, and the proximity that startled him, and he sucked in air, suddenly acutely aware of her presence. It felt strangely warm, and he could nearly feel her fingers against his skin despite them never making the contact, as if there was energy in them that awoke a craving deep within him, an intellectual desire expressing itself in the physical. He wanted to lean against her hand, suddenly and inexplicably, and this feeling manifested in the way his skin prickled, and his fingers dug into the leather of the couch. It was only when she moved it away that he dared breath, that he could stop staring into her eyes like the rest of the world around them was just a blurred, irrelevant background, and it was only now that he was able to process her words. “But what if I don’t want to heal?”, he asked, voice coming out in hushed, breathy tones, the lingering effects of holding his breath. He did not feel like looking into her eyes now, for fear of being too bare, and instead he cast his eyes down onto her hand and he found himself pulling it a bit away from his chest, enough to be able to place his palm against hers, so only the fingertips touched. She had very small hands, he thought. “What if I want to bruise myself, and wear those bruises as a reminder?”, he moved his hand away then, and looked up at her, “I think that should be my punishment for everything that I’ve done – I don’t get to move on. Because what if I change myself, what if bruises fade and I hurt someone again, if I fuck up myself and someone else again? Daisy and the kids will never get to heal and grow and live, so how is it fair that I, the worst of them, do?”
He knew it was selfish, this martyr act of his, but this truth was hidden deep within his subconscious and on the outside he was stuck in that dreadful loop of repentance and guilt, from which he would not allow himself to get out of because he felt like he didn’t deserve it, like he wouldn’t be able to appreciate the next chance he was given. Perhaps, he was not broken, but he was damaged – and how would it ever be fair to let someone love that, to love his toxic nature? He was a selfish creature – he desired love but feared it, tried to punish himself all while looking for imitations of love on every corner, in people whose touch he craved on purely physical level, in alcohol and drugs and distractions. And none of it reached his mind, none of it touched him inside – always leaving him inexplicably alone even if he was surrounded by those pale imitations of tenderness. No loneliness could compare to the loneliness one felt when surrounded by people, none of which touched him the way Daisy did, with her kindness, or David with the normality he offered. It was all animalistic, carnal – none of these people knew who he was, none of them wanted to know. He wondered, often and not without a drink in hand, whether either of those people were his soulmates, or if he just romanticised them inside his mind to the point where he convinced himself they were. He wondered if there was someone out in the world who could truly offer him that, and to whom he could offer himself, and if it would be fair to let them inside the darkness of his own mind, knowing the danger that was his instability. “And you?”, he asked suddenly, bringing back into focus her eyes, wide and large and so piercing he almost let his gaze falter, “Do you let yourself move forward? Be strong? Heal?” It was a counter question, a cheap shot made in panicked spur of the moment – he had not been expecting her to want to know, and it scared him. It always seemed so distant and improbable, when he considered it, the thought that one day someone might wonder – and so he was caught off guard, torn between the need to tell her, to have her understand, and fear of what exactly that meant. What if she stayed? What if she listened, and understood and believed and stayed? It was a strange feeling, the dread of losing someone you didn’t have, someone who could touch and reach him in in a matter of a few minutes and a few right words, knock down his defences like they were cardboard, and the terrifying thought of hurting that same brilliant person with his… whatever strange emotion inside him it was.
Perhaps it was a bit selfish, or at least it might have seemed that way, but it felt good to hear those words leave her lips. He couldn’t think of the last time he had ever made anyone feel safe, and it was a good, warm sort of feeling, and he lowered his chin to look at her, the girl who offered to listen – not for the story, not for her own curiosity – but for him. “Very well. I trust you.”, there was simplicity to these words, uttered quietly and while looking her in the eye, but there was also a weight to them – they were such a rare occurrence on his lips, and he hoped she was aware of that. “I’ll skip the majority, but I will tell you that I knew love before I met Daniel, only I cast it away because I was so afraid of it, of what it meant, and the power it had over me. With Daniel, it was a very basic story, a relationship like any other – which mean it was very strange to me because I never let myself be normal before – I used to be decadent and wild and empty, and Daniel made me feel like a person again, like I was more than just a pawn in my grandfather’s chess game. And I loved him.”, a pause filled the air, and Chris swallowed, turning his head to look away, as if that would help contain the feelings, “I had my masters before I was 30, and this meant that soon I could become a candidate for the Senate. I had it all planned, you know, I proposed to him a week before, told him the flat would await us there, a life. Except one morning I woke up to an empty bed, save for a note that ‘Sorry’, and the ring beside it. He ignored my calls, my visits, any attempt of contact I tried to make – I was told he left for Stockholm, and I would’ve gone there had life let me – but I was forced to go back to New York. I had to present myself as the New York’s darling, a perfect Astor heir, and as you probably know, I did exactly that. I had no time to mourn, so I didn’t, not in the conventional way. To this day I have no idea how mother kept my indecencies under wraps – the drugs, the alcohol, the sex. I was so empty, so numb that to the outside world I appeared perfect. And nothing could replace him. I could have the most expensive ecstasy given to me by the most beautiful of models, and I couldn’t give two shits about that because all I wanted was to have him come home and hug me and watch TV with me. But he didn’t. And the worst part was – I had no idea why. Why did he leave me? Was I not enough? Did I ever mistreat him? Was there something I could’ve done to stop him from leaving?” He interrupted himself then, mid-speech as he noticed that the small body next to him was unusually warm, and he reached out to place a hand on her burning forehead. He had gone through the experience enough times for it not to surprise him, but that did not mean it didn’t worry him – she was burning up, as would be expected, but she also refused to take water, and he did not like the way the paranoia had crept into her eyes and into her movements before. “Do you trust me?”, he asked then, slowly and quietly, lowering his hand from her forehead to her cheek, turning her head gently so he could look into her eyes, “Do you trust me that I’ll just stand up and go over there and get you a bottle of water and come back in three seconds? Is it okay if I do that?”, he moved slightly to the edge of the seat, but his eyes were still patiently trained on hers, one hand placed across hers in act of reassurance, “You’re safe here, it’s only us in the room and I’ll lock the door if it’ll make you feel better. And then I’ll tell you everything. I promise.” A smile was on his lips then - a kind, genuine one, and he looked at her as if her trust in this moment would mean the world to him, as if there was nothing else in the world he’d like to do more now, than get her that water and talk to her, make sure she is alright and safe and that she feels that way. Perhaps had anyone been looking, they would’ve thought he was talking to her as if she were a child – but that was not the point behind his actions, behind the calming cadence – the point was to mollify her thoughts, to let her know she was safe, that he was not going to leave her, not now and especially not when she’ll be coming down from the high.
