Of Mochas and Macchiatos

twenty-nine. broderie anglaise

I awake sometime around three. For a few minutes, I sit up in my bed, ears pricked, alert, trying to ascertain what exactly broached my sleep. A few hazy images of the tumultuous sea flicker in my mind, and although the nightmare is probably the same as always, I strain to remember all the little details. But the moment is lost, and the dream washes away, so very like the waves on the shore of the beach of my dreams. Of my past.

For a while I just lie there, staring up at the ceiling. And then I tumble out of the bed and sit by the window, gazing at the city as it slowly wakes up while the sun ascends from beyond the horizon. Although Elio is supposedly long gone, I still occasionally feel a prickle of fear when I walk the streets by myself. But I try to shove those feelings away; it helps to think of Rafe clasping me, telling me that I am safe; it's like wearing a cocoon that will protect me from the harshness of the world. I suddenly feel like waking him, telling him this. But it is not really the sort of thing you talk about. And it would just make things awkward now that we are no longer together.

Trying to be as quiet as possible, I slide into my leggings, lace up my shoes and make my way downstairs. I pass the piano, trailing my fingers over it gently. I'll have to play it one more time before I leave. Although I know that I will probably be always welcome to come in and play it, I feel like it breaches some kind of unspoken rule of exes to hang out with them or near them incessantly.

The air outside is crisp, but not cold. The delicate smell of blossoms caresses me and I find myself sighing heavily, breathing in the natural perfume of Astoria, and yet I long for a different scent. I start to run. The familiar ache settles within my muscles like lead, and I experience that same feeling that screams at me to stop. As always, I ignore it. Keep my arms moving in time to my legs, my movements almost mechanical in their familiarity and yet fluid, conforming to some kind of a subconscious metronome.

Eventually, the smell of flowers in the air fades, not so much that it disappears but to an extent that it seems to mingle with the smell of salt. The scent of the sea. My footsteps, which have grown heavy, slow down, and suddenly I am walking, pushing through the depths of the forest. Sitting on the precipice of the cliff. Logically, I know that it is so dangerous to be sitting here, with my legs dangling off the side. And yet, some kind of primal urge within me suppresses all rationality. The siren's call of the sea draws me close. Sings to me. Beckoning me closer.

For all of its virtues, Astoria -unlike Reeves- does not have a beach. And so the closest I ever get to those vicious waves is at the edge of the forest. At what feels to be the edge of the world.

It seems that almost every time I approach the summit, the sea, the source of my nightmares, something tugs me away from the edge. Usually my phone. But my phone isn't with me right now. I left it in bed, tousled amongst the sheets. There are no distractions today, and I stand as I feel the scream of the waves grow louder. Louder. The wind stirs gently and the morning sun glimmers on the edge of the waters. It's truly beautiful. The perfect moment to step forward and let myself topple.

And I almost do it too.

But then I yawn. My body so overcome with tiredness, the action is involuntary. And although my mind is so hazy, it snaps me out of stupor. Makes me think of that conversation I had with Rafe, what feels like an eternity ago. About sleep. Then I remember my exchange with Gareth about the links between broken DNA and sleep deprivation. The thought of my friends is sobering and suddenly fear grips my heart and I feel truly terrified. I am so close to the edge that a sudden gust of wind could send me over. Hastily I step away from the tip. Stumble back into the forest and then my mind is clearer.

Why do I keep doing this? Why do I submit to the call of the sea, like a lamb to the slaughter? A part of me wishes to dismiss my curse as false, contrived, a mere fantasy. But I know that such thoughts are irrevocably wrong. My curse truly does exist. And as predicted, all those that love me will soon fall. Myself included.