Speechless

The past couple of days have been eye-opening, and as much as I needed that, I'm still not so sure that I'm happy about it. Things are starting to scare me more and more.
Talking to David last night... I can't even explain it. It's like he cares so much about me, and I still don't get why. I feel so unworthy of it, and since I do, I'm afraid that it's going to stop at some point, because maybe he'll see that I don't deserve it, and then I'll just... start to crack.
It's crazy because when we were talking last night, I realized that I don't want to put up some flawless facade around him. I'm so tired of everybody seeing the me that I try to be, I want someone to see who I really am. But there are parts of this mask that I don't want to remove, or can't. They are there just as much to hide me from myself as they are to hide me from others. There are some pieces I don't want to see, or acknowledge. I always feel like there are some deep dark secrets underneath my core, and I guess in a way, David scares me, because if anyone could unearth them, it would definitely be him.
He mentioned last night all he wanted was to see me happy: truly happy, or at least content. Because even when I was smiling and talking to other people, he could see some disturbance in my eyes. Undercurrents. And he said he sometimes thought that the only time I would ever possess that serenity would be at my funeral. What freaked me out is that I have had those feelings so many times, I just never wanted to admit them.
It got to the point where I didn't know what to say. But I knew if I tried to open my mouth, to let some of the raw emotions that were consuming me out, I was going to break down. And as much of me as David can see, I don't want anybody to see that. I guess it's part of the mask again. I feel like I have to be strong, I can't let anyone see any weakness. I can't let myself be vulnerable. Because every time I show that side to somebody, I end up hurt and alone. And after this last time, I don't know how I'd handle it. Especially from him. But still, I wanted to let him know how I felt in some way, but something was holding me back. And I resented that stubborn part of me so much when he said "Sweet dreams," and hung up.
...
Needless to say I cried myself to sleep.
I feel like he's ripping me apart. Like I'm this old, screwed up, falling apart, ruined building that he's tearing down brick by brick. Like there's a maze inside, with absolutely no way to the heart of the building, but he's slowly changing that. But maybe I need this. This structure has kept me safe in some ways for so long, but at the same time, it's crushing me. Any moment it could collapse. Maybe after he tears me down, I can build myself up better.
I realized something though. I wrote a short story a couple of days ago, entitled "With a Smile." I think the little girl is me. My inner child, or whatever. Always reaching, never grasping. Nothing for her, until the end. I think it is that child that is hidden in the center of the building. Who I am right now is this strong dark being I made to protect that piece of me. But a building built on a bad foundation will fall.
It's bad, but at this point, I would be glad to have what the girl has in her last moments. Even if it's at the end for me, or beyond. I want peace of mind, if even for a second.
I want some pure happiness.
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"With a Smile"
It was gone the minute it returned. Or maybe it was never even back. Her arms extended, she reached out her fingers, expecting it to brush the tips of her tiny, innocent hands, but, alas, she was left bereft. With a sharp intake of breath, she stretched out her arms a little more… but no. With a sigh, and holding back tears, she let her arms fall back to her sides, and dropped her chin to her chest. It was like this every time. She turned around, and walked away from the edge of the orphanage roof, back towards the center, back towards the door that led downstairs. With every descending step she took, she felt another piece of heaviness enter her heart. Her room looked even more gray than when she had left, the bed more stiff, the sheets more sparse. When she looked in the mirror, her pallid skin looked more grimy, her colorless clothes more worn, her jet-black hair more stringy, and her body more hungry. Everything was more dark, desolate, dreary, every time she missed it. She rubbed at some of the soot covering her hands- the only thing she achieved was smearing it more. She went to sit on her bed, and didn’t even flinch when a roach crawled out from under her blanket. She picked at her fingernails for a bit, but then glanced up when she saw a glimpse of orange out of the corner of her eye. She looked up to see a butterfly perched on the mirror, perhaps drawn in by its own reflection. When it flew off, she was still gazing absentmindedly at the spot where it had been, not noticing at first where her eyes rested, being lost in thought as she was. When she did come to, she was looking straight into her own eyes, as always, a startling blue, but they were brimming with tears. She screamed in outrage just as the tears spilled over. Her fists clenched, she ran at the mirror, beating it as hard as she could, until the spider-mark cracks webbed their way across the mirror, and all the shards fell to the ground. She sank to the floor, sobbing, not even noticing the tiny pieces of reflective glass embedded in the gashes in her hands and wrists. However, after several minutes, she did notice how cold she started to feel. Some last animal instinct in her drove her to stand and make movements toward the bed, and blankets, however thin they were, but she stumbled and fell to the floor. She lay there, gasping for the breath that would not save her as she finally noticed the blood dripping sluggishly, half-heartedly, from her cuts. She felt like her heart wanted to pound, but simply didn’t have the motivation to anymore. As she closed her eyes, she felt its presence. She didn’t need to see it: she simply reached her hand out, and finally, finally, made contact. But it was even more than she could ask for- not only did it touch her fingertips, or her hand, but it enveloped her. It was everything she had ever dreamed of, and ever lacked. But now, with her last breath, with her hand falling back to the floor, nothing else she had suffered mattered or existed. “Her last moments were happy,” they said, “she died with a smile on her face.”


Copyright © 2008 Julie Pyle