A look inside the soul

Chapter 7

I reach the floor, pull on the handle, which triggers the bit of emotion that's left.

I pull again.

Still closed.

So I gently take out my keys, swallowing the urge to to throw them with all the strength I have left.

Instead I open the door, wait for him to say something if he has to, but when his time runs out, I close it right behind me in a silence that crushes me even more.

I don't take off my shoes. Don't drop my bag. Don't take off my coat. Don't move around.

I just sit with my back to the door.

The silence of the apartment is swallowing me whole. Deepening every sense I can feel. Since every single thing from the outside contrasts with what's inside, meaning nothing, it is easier to distinguish. To feel. It is stroking my skin. Wrapping around me.

I stare at the poorly lit living room, the night is spread everywhere, leaving some parts impossible to see.

He accompanied me home, like the gentleman he is.

After the incident, my panic attack slowly turned into something else. Deep silence. As if I was being muted.

I became a total mute. I couldn't let any word out. Not that any would want to come out anyway. He talked a bit, until he realised that I wouldn't say a word more. Even if I wanted to.

He proposed to take me home since he deduced that I would feel threatened and in danger coming back home alone after the scene.

His presence had absolutely not a single effect. It would have made no change wether he'll walk with me or not. It would have not changed the way I was thinking. The way the images where doing a synced never ending loop.

Never. Ending.

Bending, catching, hearing, then fall. And blood in the mean time. From his head.

I bent, caught, heard, then see him fall. And blood in the mean time. From his head.

The sound it made.

The silence of the room is enough to let it play back. I didn't know blood had a sound.

His body collapsing. Lifeless. Without any struggle.

The way I used to know his voice is fading. I can only remember the begs. The whimpers. The gunshot.

I'm in a shock state. My body reaction is quite normal. Numbness is normal. Straight thinking and memories is normal. It is a coping mechanism of the brain to compensate with what happened.

But why can I not get a sole sound out. Why isn't it reaching my throat and mouth. Why doesn't it get out of my lips. Why doesn't it feel the urge to come back as much as the memories do.

Why do I feel the need to round myself in a corner and find some peace of comfort that I have never been craving before. I need, comfort smoothing the numbness away. Comfort that I discovered just now. I have never felt it. Never know I could crave it. But nothing can provide it. Nothing seems to give it. Not even my hand stroking my thigh manically. Like a madwoman.

That is when it unlocks.

The pressure.

The sentiment.

Tears.

First filling my eyes, and when these cannot contain it any more, they roll down. Racing one another. Attempting to take the emotions out, but we know damn well that these were buried in too far long ago.

Through the years.

When I slowly, year after year, watched my mother and her fucked up tendencies to disappear, run away then come back as if she didn't just crush my trust hours ago.

And also my father.

Who I love with every part of me but hate so so, so much.

He could have made an effort in not manipulating me in order to comfort himself. He could have just asked for that comfort.

I swipe away a tear, and thoughts at the same time.

I won't betray myself. I won't disgust myself.

I made myself a promise, that I will not break. I will not let myself relapse just because of some fucked up trauma that I, yes, did not completely heal. But I am working through it.

And now is not the time to weaken all the progress I made.

So I stand up, and get to the fridge to bring myself the sole source of comfort that I can get.

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I get out at my stop, which I haven't done for two days.

Two days of recovery.

I thought it would be the right thing to do.

I was half right.

I took two days off to let myself time to recover, but I just can't stay there like the most depressed person ever, eating anything and everything and waiting for absolutely nothing.

So I decided to go back to uni today.

Oliver texted me the next morning after the incident happened. He asked me where I was, I didn't respond at first.

Then I remembered how stubborn he is, and if I didn't give him an answer he'll get it by himself by coming at the apartment. And I don't want him to see me binge eating or whatever this shit is called.

So I told him I was sick.

He didn't believe me though.

So I told the half truth.

That I witnessed an assault in the street. That I had trouble sleeping.

It's not exactly the truth. But it's a part of it. The tobacco guy did get assaulted.

Oliver proposed to come see me, or asked if I needed anything but I said I was fine and that I'll be back soon.

So he eventually let go.

He still texted me though.

And now here I am entering university heading to my class.

I paid for university, I'm not going to skip it just for some incident.

I'll get it together.

My eyes fins Oliver in the auditorium, and a thin smile spreads on my lips.

As I join him, his does too.

"I completed my part of the project." I announce, getting out my stuff.

"Oh, great,"

As I glance at my phone, I freeze, catching the date.

The end of the month is approaching.

I should start to withdraw the money.