Lies took the elevator.
Truth took the stairs.
Both arrived and met Revelation.
Jane killed a family in a car accident. Depressive and accustomed to self-harm, she decides to go back to where her life toppled upside down. Jane doesn't know what to e...
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Ten hours and fifty-five minutes later, I step off the BA 330 and pass Incheon Airport customs.
On autopilot, I walk to recover my Hartmann suitcase and put on my shades; it's not that I wish to play VIP or something; it's just a simple assumption I'm not glam.
These last few years in England's rainy capital didn't give my skin a bonne mine aspect; with my ten hours flight, my face feels and looks like a deep-fried dumpling. Even with the glasses on to cover my face. I lower my head and hurry down to take the metro.
I walk into a 7-Eleven, hesitating to get a T-money to pass or use Samsung pay. The cashier, bewildered, watches me make a u-turn and strut out without buying anything. I made up my mind; I opt for Samsung pay, swipe my phone, and take the airport line to Seoul Station.
The warmth of July and the humidity already makes me giddy and sweaty. It's not because of the weather but panic strikes as I realize where I am and what I'm doing.
What am I doing?
Why did I come?
What did I expect to find?
Deep down, I know what I hope for, but I can't have it.
Forgiveness.
No living being can forgive me for what I did.
The only thing legit about my existence is I'm as broken as shattered glass. It's something I'm conscious about and with which I must live. So no, I don't expect to be mended; I want to sleep for four hours straight without waking in the puddle of sweat screaming like a banshee.
Poor Abby, she lived through hell with me. The last three months took a toll on her with the stress of not being able to have a baby and all. I can't believe Abby can see herself as a mother when she has a mom like Rebecca and a sister like me.
God forbid such a conception within me. I pray every day I'm sterile; someone like me shouldn't endeavor into childbirth. I will not be a replica of Rebecca; being a mom is beyond me because I don't know how to transmit motherly love or how to love.
I mean, my mind does not hold one image of Rebecca hugging me, teaching me how to ride a bike, or even reading me a bedtime story.
I'm 20 and utterly clueless about the concept of love; the other issues in my life take up too much cerebral activity for me to ponder about the feeling.
To love or be loved, before any of that happens, I think one has to love and respect themselves, which isn't my case.
When I think of myself, nothing positive comes to mind; even hating myself sometimes feels like a luxury. No, I'm indifferent to my person. It's practical when I'm hurting myself. I just don't give a shit.
