The Periods of Being

Chapter XVI

Chapter XVI

    Mark always drank his tea cold, but he never liked it to come cold. Always hot and then cooled off over time. "It tastes different," he would say each time she asked why he didn't have them bring it cold. The teacup next to her bed is cold by now. She can't tell how much time has passed since Julie left, but she can tell by the touch of the cup. It's ice-cold, reminding of her of the bathroom floor. Beneath the covers, she is sweating, but she does nothing to help herself. Feeling the heat is better than enduring the chill of loneliness.

    Nighttime should be about her sleeping and forgetting, but all she can do while she lays on her back, staring up at the ceiling, is stress and remember. Her mind is untamed, and each memory that comes through she can't stop nor control. She would rather remember the light memories like Freya told her to, but her mind picks the memories she wishes to forget. The days she stayed in bed rather than spend the day with him. The nights where she stayed in the library to read while he went to bed because she was scared to sleep or couldn't sleep. Her mind is her enemy— even at her lowest point.

    She holds her breath and starts to count down the seconds, seeing how long she can endure the pain in her lungs. It's a game she used to play when she couldn't sleep. It keeps her thoughts at bay and her mind busy with counting.

    One...

    Two...

    She gasps for air. She hasn't done this in a while. Her lungs burn from the crying and the sickness that still hovers over the bathroom. If she searches for the smell, she can smell it faintly. It causes some stomach acid to rise into her throat, but she swallows it down. She tries to hold her breath again, but she adverts her eyes toward the cup of tea that settles the room in the aroma of comfort. It reminds her of Mark. Warm memories circle around her as she focuses on the tea. Then the memories drift toward her sweetly.

    "Tea in bed, you next to me: it's all I'll ever need," he rejoiced as they laid in bed. It was after dinner and they were all dressed for bed, laying down next to each other. He was sitting up with his tea and taking small sips. It took roughly an hour for it to cool down enough for him. She was tired and wanted to insist for him to turn off the lights so they can sleep— or kiss before sleeping.

    She smiled at his remark. Her cheeks redden with love.

    "I'm the luckiest woman in the world for you," she squeezed his free hand and glanced up at him to stare into his wide, handsome eyes. She would do anything to look into those eyes right now as much as she did then.

    "As I'm the luckiest man in the world for you," he echoed back to her. She was always the lucky one. He understood her when she didn't ask for him to. He loved her when she didn't have enough love for herself. He filled the gaps in her heart while he allowed her to hold onto his with so much trust. How many times did she crack it without knowing? If he was here now, she'll break it. She already broke it. The pieces were left in Garthen, hoping to be sewn back together when the owner came home.

    She brushes the dream-like memory away. Her heart hammers in her chest at the reminder of the happiness and the feeling of the warmth in her cheeks with the sweet words he used to say. The sweetest being I love you. How long has been since she has heard him say it?

    Too long, she concludes.

    She longs to hear it from him. Hearing it from him has a different effect than her family's. With family, they have to love each other. With people— with couples— they fall in love with each other. In that fall, there is a different feeling that comes with saying the three words. It is special. It is the art of light. It's true Heaven.

    The next time she'll say I love you to him will be at his funeral to an open casket and then to a gravestone marked with his name, date of birth, and date of death. Her heart stops for a split second at the thought of not being able to ever see his eyes light up and a smile spread upon his lips at her words. She'll never be able to see him smile when he is on top of her and then kiss that smile with a passion that has died inside of her by his death.

    She curses the night for giving herself so much time to think about all of these thoughts and mourn. She should be able to slip out of her mourning when she takes off her mourning gowns, but she should understand better. Mourning isn't an emotion. It's a lifestyle. Crying is a past-time and sobs are served best hot and runny with snot and headaches. It's her life. People can see the mourning gowns, but they will never see what's hurting on the inside. The heart. The lungs. The shattering nerves that make one feel numb when they wish to feel something.

    She turns over to the bedside table and faces the cold cup of tea. Before she can comprehend what is happening, she sits up and turns on the bedside lamp. Her hand moves, without her permission, to the cup and her fingers curl around the handle. She holds it with care and diligence. The handle feels cold between her fingers, telling her it is indeed the temperature Mark would've drunk it. She had Julie leave one for him. After Julie left and she realized that she wasn't interested in drinking tea.

    She asked for the tea, she realizes now because she thought it might summon him. Like how a church summons faith and a white flag summons peace. A ghost of him was what she was hoping for, but she should've known better. The only ghost that showed up were memories, and she wasn't looking for that. She wanted to see him. She wanted to reach out to him. She wants him. Not the memory of him. Not the image that she has in her mind of him. It's not the same. It's not him. It's a paper-thin version of him. She needs his hugs and his kisses. She needs all of him and all that he used to give to her.

    She holds her breath again.

    One...

    Two...

    Three...

    Four...

    Mark...

    She gasps. Counting isn't working. She faces the cup of tea secured in her hands. She grips onto it with a tight hold. She doesn't want to take a sip. This is Mark's tea. It doesn't belong to her. She once took a sip of his tea to see what the joy of cold tea was to him, but it tasted cold and dry. It wasn't warm with comfort like she enjoys it to be.

    "How can you drink this?" She asked him when she tried it. This happened one afternoon in one of the drawing rooms. They were still in their day clothes, soon about to change into their evening attire, when they requested for tea. He waited the usual hour before sipping on his lukewarm— almost cold— tea and when it was ready, she asked to try it.

    She passed it back to him with a frown.

    "It's good!" He assured her by taking a sip. "Mmmm, yummy."

    She laughed at him then and now.

    "You're insane," she whispers to the cup of tea. "But I love you."

    The words I miss you catch in her throat. Her grip tightens on the cup at the choking hazard of the words. She swallows them down, but the words creep out of her eyes in the form of tears. The hold of the cup strengthens until she hears the clash of glass...Then the feeling of cold tea and a warm substance dripping from her palms and fingers. Her mind switches back into reality and she stares down at her hands in horror.

    Tea and blood don't mix. They fight.

    She springs out of bed, ignoring the clatter of glass bouncing on the floor. She tries not to drip her blood on the floor as she enters the bathroom and turns on the faucet. She lets the water run over the cuts on her hands, wondering if these fresh cuts will be seen as self-inflicting.

    Were they self-inflicted?

    She stares down at them. The cuts aren't deep, but they are not clean in the slightest. They are ridged and rough. The tea washes away easily by the water, but the blood keeps beading out of her skin.

    Were they self-inflicted? She asks herself again.

    It's a hard no with a soft yes.