'Cause I Like Him Too Much

Chapter Forty-One

 I felt my cheeks becoming moist with sweat while I watched the whole bunch of letters I used to keep burning in the low flickering of flames inside the metal drum. Every word etched by the ink; the inscription of him that signified his “endearment” for me, seeing all the black marks being consumed by the slow inferno  lessened in some way the sharp barbs that were pricking my chest through.

 Better see them turning to dust and ashes than to shelve them as if they are my beloved valuables which now made me comprehend that they are only trash, meant to be disposed. I rendered my last look on the smoldering huge tin of rubbish, I craved to forget that I had read and cherished those. They brought me nothing but hurt. For that reason, they should be erased in my memory, how I wished refining everything would be easier. I came back inside the house, going straight to my humble sanctuary without bothering to respond to the current environment that surrounded me.

 Now they were starting to wonder what the matter with me was. Why I had embraced a cynic behavior, why I had succumbed deeper in the sickness that started changing me into someone inexplicable.

“What’s the problem, my child?”

“You know, you can always tell me about it. Getting that burden of your chest may help.”

Or sometimes I sensed her getting fed up with my turbulence.

“I’m getting more worried about you, Hannah. You’re gaunt like an ill kitty! Why can’t you tell me what’s wrong with you?!”

 These lines, I heard them often from my all-concerned aunt. I wish I could tell her with no difficulty. But that wouldn’t be possible.  I went into the lavatory and stood in front of the mirror at first, to take a look at myself. Aunt Anne was right. I seemed like an emaciated kitten. Pale face. Pallid and heavy eyes. The visible bulks that adjoined my shoulders became more visible. The top part of the mirror turned misty as I exhaled some air. I began to take my clothes off, having my eyes drawn on the hanging little chain around my neck as I gazed at my bare flesh.

That necklace.

 The tear-shaped silver pendant.  Quite beautiful, but it was strangling me. Reminding me how treacherous the giver had become, and how I took the desperate measures to cope with the anguish he had brought to us. I undid its lock, taking it away from me and put it in the shelf so I could give my weary body a long bath.

 I stepped inside the shower curtain and turned the faucet on. As I let my hair become wet by the running water, I hissed, feeling the sting of the fresh wound I carved on my palm the day before. ‘Twas the very first cut I made in my whole life. Should I say that the devil made me do it? If it was the diabolical one, I wouldn’t just slash it; maybe I would give up and lose my breath completely. Maybe I would end everything right now.

But no. I won’t. I can’t.

I won’t do it. Ever again.

 All may perhaps had become worst than ever, but I wasn’t alone in this race. If I quit, what about the tiny seed that kept growing inside me? I could not just let it die, it got the right to have life and live like everyone else. In order for it to survive, I must hold on and be strong.