Jovic sat on the windowsill of her room, which faced toward the rows of purple, red, blue, green, and yellow flowers. The flowers lush and verdant, in tranquility, and presently it's being watered by drizzles of water that fell from the open gray sky. In the upper room with Jovic, the rain fell in torrents. Cutting through the solemn of the room, the windows rattling from the wind. The garden view was beautiful; rows of different flowers were groomed and given great care. It was her mother's life's work. Jovic's mother spent hours on those green carpets, watering, and trimming every single one that got out of place. Jovic's eyes rested on the garden, but failed to see any of its color, her mind failing to dwell that her mother in all her stiffness was capable of great care.
Her mind was everywhere and nowhere. Reaching across different countries and waters. Different memories, not quite settling on any of them.
Some days played in a loop like this, her on the windowsill, gazing. Sights over there but nowhere, not focusing on any details that the outside world presented in its full bloom. It stared at the flower bed 0p, but couldn't process what lay before it.
Some days were like this; everything and everyone just background noise in her fumbled thoughts. Were just beats her ears listened to, doesn't report any feedback because everywhere had been numbed. Memories in her mind play in fragments like a broken video device unable to show the full story.
She caught herself thinking of William. The man she knew well. Why did she go there? No reason behind it. Maybe it was something of a happy memory she'd worked to create. He was making a comeback into her life. And this time, it was taking another route. This time, it was more than friendship. William had been a close friend and when he fled without a word. When he'd shut her out without hearing her side; not that she'd one—it was like leaving her out in the ocean without a boat or a lifeguard tower. And now he was back. Her feelings were still as it was—torn. Because what could she make of it? Has he suddenly forgotten why he ran? Has he forgotten the stories about her? Because it's a right-in-your-face kind of truth. Different gossip mills splashed out her pictures across social media and the good name she fantasized about maintaining was gone in the storm. It was bad enough that anyone previously seen in confidence with her was almost stoned and it almost turned into the Salem witch-hunt.
What did she make of this? She tried weaving a spell to avoid thinking of where this led, but her mind popped up the night she met him.
****
At her annual charity event, he was there. She had stopped her internal monologue with the feeling that someone was approaching. And sure enough, a handsome timid-looking man came towards her across the beehives at her party. He flashed her a smile, and she inwardly sighed. He was opposite her now and the expression on his face was ablaze—but never with lust— something she couldn't put her finger on.
There was nothing particularly special about him: he towered over most, then put his gorgeous looks into account. But there were many gorgeous men. Still, she can't tell why her eyes lingered on him more than necessary. There were plenty of handsome and well-dressed men under that roof that very night, but all stared at her hungrily.
Either for her wealth, her body, or the power she excluded. He was the only exception, and she was like a mouse seeing cheese. So she was eager to engage him among seas of men who will do anything she asked for; either by free will or by lack thereof.
She being tall didn't stop her head from lifting to meet his as he placed a hand above her head. And while it filled her with disdain, the demon, Lust came through.
He didn't say a single thing wrong. Not a single thing. Chipper than a child on sugar, which uplifted her spirits. He made her smile. “Yesterday I bought a suit,” William told her, while balancing her faint smirk with a smile, “today I am talking to the most breathtaking woman in the room."
Got her feet to do the dance. “I’d like her to dance with me." By the end of the night, they were drinking steaming hot tea in her room.
It was only once–the coffee, and though she wanted more and more, for him to use her as he had done that night, she settled for the friendship he provided.
Now, he wanted the same thing. And her heart wanted to beat for that. It does. But hasn't she changed? Why blink again?
Her thoughts won't settle on William's daring deeds. She tries to numb all those thoughts. Others had ran but his was heart shattering. Her glazed eyes looked into the horizon as the first tears pooled around her eyelashes. Sometimes, she can't numb it all. Her magic isn't a sedative, but she tries.
To feel is pain. To not feel anything, she weaves up spell after spell. It works plenty of times, and she doesn't feel the need, the urgency, to cry silently. Doesn't feel the need to claw at the roots of her hair like a feral mad woman, doesn't feel the goose bumps that rise alongside her fears. Doesn't feel the need to be touched and reassured. A hug isn't needed, a pat even. Doesn't feel anything. Nothing. Only glazed eyes and zombified brain.
The afternoon sky darkens further. The rain which drizzles outside continually hit her windows, creating a thum, thum sound which reverberated around the room. Her mind still in its space, smeared in a warped of red and blue. These moments were her little addiction. She looked forward to these moments: the zoning out. It has become her sort of default habit, to protect her against the pain that comes from thinking; none of her thoughts these past years were happy ones.
Thinking brings pain, which succeeds every time in taking her whole. It doesn't feel like drowning or choking. It certainly does not also feel like being crushed; a heavy object placed upon you, constricting every movement. Holding you down in the vilest way possible, its objective–to see that light slowly leave your eyes as you sink to your lowest low.
To her, this feeling of anguish she passes through can be likened to that of free falling. From the highest height you can get to, standing at the edge of the roof, you fall.
It's thrilling; the fall. The wind whips fiercely past your face, seizing your breath. There is no care in the world, not from the breath seizure, not from anything, because there lies the end. The end is not some faraway dream. Not some illusion you always like to imagine in your chaotic thought. It's staring right at your face, opening its grounds wide, to hug you like nobody has, to accept you. It whispers nothing but peace to you, telling you it's over, telling you that you are free. You'll be free from the cage of feelings and overthinking that you used to suppress. It assures you it's gonna be okay because, at that point in time, there is no turning back.
There is no oxygen left to breathe in. It's the chill that runs through your body now. The fire inside you has been extinguished. You close your eyes slowly and wait for the inevitable thud.
As she dreams of nothing and more, her glazed eyes were slowly focusing on deep velvet red ones and she no longer felt so numbed.
Probably.
