I stood in front of her. I stared right into her eyes.
As if I was desperately looking for something.
I noticed how less she blinked. I noticed those scars and those chapped lips.
I observed how those auburn tresses, that used to be slicked back in a pony, were now tangled, dry and wild.
I sensed that feeling of contempt. She used it as a weapon, like a defence against her own despised feelings. It was difficult to understand her reason of misanthropy.
I searched. And searched a little more. I wanted to be able to fill her void. I wanted to make her feel comfortable, in this world where there isn’t any place for those you are different. For those who dare to be themselves.
But I didn’t know how. I didn’t know how. I think this helplessness was pretty evident on my face. She recognized it too. She walked away, sat down in one corner of the room.
The farther she went, the farther I went from her. I wanted to minimise this distance, but she pushed me away, each time. She couldn’t possibly bring out the grief inside her bones. Yet, her anxiety seemed constant, for a reason neither of us knew so well.
She misses the good days. The less complicated days. The time, when she was happy and could talk coherently. She cries for hours. It broke my heart to see her that way.
Tears trickle down my face. I felt how tired she was, of getting fucked over and still having to smile, to pretend that she’s alright. I wish I knew how to comfort her. I tried to reach her, but couldn’t.
I tried to talk, but something inside her, wouldn’t let me.
I wanted her to see the profound meanings of life. I wanted to persuade her to appreciate those dark circles underneath her star-studded eyes. She had closed herself. She didn’t see those scars to be beautiful. She hid them instead.
She lifted the empty beer bottle that lay beside the bed, swinging in her fist. She was unsolicited, it made her so angry that she wanted to permanently destroy me.
She swung the bottle, and hit the floor. Neither of us flinched. There were glass pieces everywhere. She was still holding onto the end of the bottle, in her fist, and it was now full of blood. She was inside a vertigo and I was a part of it too. Years of repressed anger was now clenching that bottle in her hand, and without another thought she pierced that into herself, taking me down with her. I, with a gasp full of exorcise, was drowning in her blood.
She made me tear myself apart as she was torn apart between excruciating pain and death itself. I couldn’t help her out, but knew, that was the very end of us.
We, who felt different and segregated, like the reflections in the mirror, were one, when she gave up. Requited or unrequited, I wasn’t a reflection anymore.
She carried so much anger in her heart, that was enough to light up a city. Yet, the city lit us up instead.
And I? Well, I was merely a reflection, the vertigo, that whirlwinds in her head.