Totally not crammed. Totally edited.
81 Days
2nd of September
Today, the amaranth bloomed. You drag me to the top of the hill, kiss me and whisper for me to stay, right here under our tree. With my heart still, you go down. You run against the wind, shifting through the sleepy, red plants, each step softer than the last. There is an illusion of a glow about you. Your white dress flows behind you as you dart through the field, hair streaking through the twilight air. Then, you start dancing. You waltz among the leaf blades. The moonlight around you flickers, swirling with you as you sift through the grass. I can see it in your eyes, or rather, how they are closed. You don’t want to stop. This is your paradise, and you don't want to leave. On stage, with a script, you dance with all you know. Here, you dance with all you are.
My chest feels heavy. It’s like you hypnotized yourself. This is something I’m not supposed to see. This show is intended for only the stars to watch. Then, why, I ask myself, who am I for you to choose to behold? You get to the cliff to the far end, and you keep moving, the moonlit sky at your back, my heart in the front. I feel like you’ll vanish. I don’t know why, but I feel like you’ll fade away with each dash and each twirl, slowly melting to the wind. It’s as if you’d grow wings, and fly off to the midnight. So I reach out my hand to grab you before those wings could rise up, before you leave me with nothing but a trail of feathers. I almost call to you, but I stop myself, or rather you did, you and your trance and your madness. So, trapped in this prison of inaction you locked me in, as I watch you dance alone, I drop to my knees. You start to laugh. At that point, I let my tears fall on the dying flower below me, wishing, ever so desperately, that someday, you’d dance with me, and take me to wherever you truly are right now.
3rd of September
I went to the kitchen to make you some eggs. Midway, I realize that we were out of salt, so maybe, just maybe, or maybe I’m just trying to convince myself, that this was the reason why I sprinkled my tears over the pan instead. What’s wrong? You ask behind my back. I turn off the stove them drop the ruined eggs into the trash bin. I turn around to meet your wide open eyes and answer your question. Me, I reply.
5th of September
You screamed for me from the living room. You waited for me so we could read the letter together. I almost slip on the way from the shower. Your fingers slide over the glossy wax and you touch it the way you hold my hand, like it’ll shatter into a million pieces if you do so too tightly. I could see your eyes reflected on the theatre company’s seal—they sparkle. You squeal before I could finish reading. Well, I didn’t need to. Your kiss already told me what it said.
8th of September
It was too big, it didn’t fit! B---- said. Everyone laughs, including you, as you gulp down your 5th bottle. I could tell you got some in your nose. You nudge me and smirk. That’s what I said the first time, you whisper then giggle, except it wasn’t a whisper because everyone in the table heard you.
12th of September
It is 4 in the morning. Wake up, you say, shaking me. You might as well splash my face with water. You’re in your attire. You’re even packing the costume already. The audition is not until afternoon, I reply. Doesn’t matter, you say. It does, I snap back. Fine, I’ll go alone. You don’t. I didn’t let you.
13th of September
It’s exactly 12:01 AM. We are still here in the parking lot. The theatre is closed and empty. You didn’t want to leave it, and I didn’t want to leave you, so here we are, after all the judges, all the other performers, all the better performers, you say, for the 31st time, have left long ago, the shards of your dreams with them. I’ve been counting. I never liked numbers too much, but when it comes to you, I count. You were about to say it for the 32nd time, but you don’t. I didn’t let you.
After a long quiet, you reach out your open palm. What? Money. For voice lessons. You laugh, tears still drowning your words. You don’t need voice lessons. You are joking, I know. But I actually wish I had enough to give you.
14th of September
I am stroking your hair. You are watching Zoella on your phone.
17th of September
You weren’t touching your plate. You were just fiddling with the spoon and fork, and this doesn’t make sense since I made curry for tonight, but what really bothered me was that you were dead quiet.
Hey, you start to speak, much to my relief, but the tone of your voice instantly cancels that out. There’s a walk-in at St. Maergery’s next week, you continue, and I try to smile at you, urging you to go on because I didn’t understand why you were down. You finally return my look. There’s pain in your eyes. Audition’s cost---, you stop, just as I put down the spoonful I was about to shove in my mouth. Cost what? It took a few moments before you replied, but when you did, you started crying. I went to you then embraced you then kissed the top of your head. Okay, I said. Okay. You try to suppress a whimper. You don’t have to, you never had to, you cry. I want to, I reply, my face still buried into the scent of your hair.
21st of September
I could hear you from the shower. You’re reciting your lines to me in an accent you’re not supposed to be using. Do you not see, bravest queen? The winds are unrest, and the skies cry for your vengeance. Shut up, I scream back. It’s Jamaican, you say. No, it’s not. Violet isn’t Jamaican, anyway. I’m the actress, you pout. I do what I do with the role. Then you laugh with that laugh you have that pierces with such softness.
26th of September
The moment you heard those words, you looked at me with that firm face you always have when I say something that tears down your shields, when I break you apart because I know I need to. I lock down your gaze. I won’t take back what I said. Then, your face softens, and you smile at me. My chest sinks. That moment, that split-second when your face transforms from strength to weakness and back—I want to capture it. I want to freeze it then hang it in the walls of my mind, in a frame, together with all the other empty frames that were meant for the eternities I failed to keep. You kiss me. Thank you, you said. For reminding me. I don’t reply. My head is still reeling.
1st of October
You enter the room wearing your shirt and nothing more. You close the door then go to me. You stare at me. Your eyes are dreamy—just the way I like them. I stare back. You put your hands on my shoulders, and rub them. You push me down to my knees, and I don’t resist.
3rd of October
You’re not letting me finish my sentences. You keep trying to force all these words and blame down my throat. Your eyes are different when you’re angry at me. It’s like someone splattered paint over them and they change into this weird hue.
I don’t want to scream at you, but I do. You don’t want to hit me, but you do.
I hit you back. I don’t know what happens next, but, like always, we go our ways—you to our dead garden outside and me to my room, as if we split the house into two and drew borders by writing all our curses to each other in crooked handwriting.
I cover myself up in blankets, trying to breathe as heavily as possible. It’s the only way I can stop the rage from pounding my head.
4th of October
It was 3 in the morning when I felt you lie down beside me. We were waiting for each other to make the first move. But no one did, because we looked at each other at the exact same time. I could tell your eyes are tired and still moist. We put our heads together. Sorry, we tell each other.
9th of October
I wake up with your hair sprawled over my face. However, I don’t move, and I don’t want you to move. Your hair smells deeply of wilted flowers drenched in rainwater, and I stay there, feeding my obsession, my addiction to you. I get lost in the scent and I’m startled when you begin to move. You inhale for a long while and you tense up your body as if to stretch it without actually getting your arms out. After, you let all the air out in a paced, soft breath—the same way when you blew a bunch of lavender petals from your palms to my face. You face me, then, slowly, you open up your eyes. I stare into the infinite shades of the blacks, the blues, the greens, the violets that pool them.
You stifle a laugh. You apologize about where your hair is, but I tell you that it’s all right, that I like it there. You raise a questioning eyebrow, but this time you fail to hold in the giggle. You call me a weirdo. I tell you you’re right.
No words follow. We just stay there, your eyes locked to mine, our breath mixed with the first rays of sunlight, your hair still scattered across my face. I move a few strands—just a bit for me to see you more clearly, but not enough to weaken the smell. At one point, you hold my face, and I rub your waist.
You whisper that you can’t hold it in anymore. It was my turn to laugh. You laugh back, peck my lips, sit-up, hesitate for a moment, kiss me again—this time, fuller—then rush for the door at the back of the room
.
I watch you as you almost trip. I watch you as you shut the bathroom door close.
I stare at the ceiling, trying to catch the last trails of your scent.
12th of October
I’m at the sidelines of the gym, munching on one of those cheap, tasteless energy bars as I watch you practice. It’s the only lunch I can afford, but I’ll get you something more. You need the food.
You nod profusely to the director—like a little girl trying to minimize the consequences her father would give her after she did some wrong. He tells you for the 8th time today to be at the very edge when you do the twirl. There’s something in his face that tells me he won’t have enough patience to tell you for the 9th time.
15th of October
I look up to you as you move, stray hair strands glued to your face with sweat, chest heaving, voice producing ragged breaths and sweet moans. I’m almost there, I struggle to tell you. You bend down to kiss me. You whisper, it’s okay, I’m on the pill.
17th of October
It was dusk when I woke up to you knocking on the door. You had this smug look on your face when let you in. You head straight inside after giving me something. It was a ticket for your show next week’s. I can’t help but have this big dumb smile on my face. You actually got me front row tickets.
20th of October
I sit there on our bed, watching you go back and forth from the dresser to the mirror, trying out all these sets of clothes then asking me if you look good. I’m not sure if you’ve noticed, but I keep spouting out the same answer every single time: you look beautiful. And every single time, you reply with a laugh and a “oh… how about this one?”
At one point, I start feeling bad. There’s this odd weight of guilt in my chest as you keep repeating the process. Do you not feel good enough? Do I need to say something different?
I call out your name. You stop, abruptly—almost as if on cue—then turn to me and smile. Yes? You ask.
The smile catches me off guard. Maybe you’re not distressed after all, and I’m just over thinking.
23rd of October
It’s 2: 51 AM. I’m sitting up on the bed, watching you sleep, my back to the wall. Your body heaves, slowly, in sync with the soft breaths you make. Then it stops. I gasp and try to lie down, but panic holds me there. R----? You say, still half dreaming. I shut my eyes and pretend to be asleep. I know you’re awake, annoyance in your voice. I just went to the bathroom, I excuse, poorly. You tumble over so that your face is right above mine, your eyes gazing with a focus I only see on stage. Then it softens. Can’t sleep again? You whisper. I don’t know how to react, but you already knew the answer. Slowly, you lower your lips, then press it to mine. Your hair cages our two faces, and its scent is addicting. Thank you, I whisper back. I guess that was all I needed to fall asleep.
24th of October
It’s time for you do the finale twirl. You go the edge—the very edge. You fall.
I catch you.
I can’t feel my legs.
25th of October
You’re still in your dress as you hold my hand. I try to speak despite this sharp lump I feel in my throat. You’re pinching the serum in my hand, I tell you, forcing out a smile. You apologize and try to laugh, but you’re still crying. I tell you a joke. Now you actually laugh.
27th of October
The doctor calls you out, and after a few minutes, you come back in. You’re rubbing your arms and your eyes are cast downward.
The doctor said--, you stop. Your eyes close as if something sharp went in them.
You go back out and get the doctor to tell me instead.
29th of October
The lights on the ceiling are too bright. It’s almost blinding, I want to tell the doctor, but I can’t. The pain is too much as the metal cuts in, so I have to gnash my teeth. My top teeth slide off and I bite the side of my tongue. Blood bursts out and it hits the doctor, causing him to make an error with the blade.
I scream.
I want it to be done. Not because of the pain. I just want to see you again.
21st of November
We were walking down the street, alone among the bustling city. I stop. Something in me just made me stop. It wasn’t the crutches, or the reality of the amputation, but I just had to stop. I try to walk again, but my feet won’t move. You keep walking a bit, but then you stop as well once you realized what happened and look back at me. I look you in the eye, irises as full as ever. I don’t know why but I start to call out your name. You stare at me like the lunatic I am—you know that’s why I loved you. You always knew how stupid I was. I keep repeating your name, each time softer, more desperate than the last. You rush to me, then, I do what I always do when I don’t know what to do: wrap you in my arms.