Charly's Language

Talk To Me

In the morning, I woke up in insufferable pain. I got up, quietly to not wake her up. I closed the blinds, covered her with the sheet as she was still shivering, and went to the kitchen, the thirst was killing me. Zoe was already there, having coffee, seeming ready to go.

"Hi," I said but she didn't respond.

"How is she?" she asked after a while.

"She is...I don't know...she needs to sleep."

"Adam, I know you think you can help her, but you can't. It's going to get worse. If you love her, you need to convince her to come with me, to get help."

"She won't listen, and I can't."

"You are just having fun, but she is vulnerable."

"Does this look like fun to you?" I pointed at my bruised trunk.

"Stop it now, before one of you gets hurt. She's not well."

"We've been together for two years. I just met you; I don't know you. And you want me to just...let her go?"

"I'm asking you not to be selfish. I don't doubt that you love her, but I don't know if you understand what she needs. You need to stand up to her, make her stop."

"I don't know what you mean. I look after her."

"No, you don't. You enable her, and when she takes it too far, she will hurt you and herself. You are the first man, the first person besides me to love her, and that's the truth. So just do it right, help her. If it is meant to be, it'll be, when she can deal with what's in her head. When she can stop trying to evade herself."

"She is not sick, she is just sad, she is hurt. She needs to be supported, not treated like a mental patient. That's just going to depress her more."

"You don't know what you are talking about."

"Well, neither do you. She feels judged all the time, even by you. With the things she went through, give her a break."

Fuming sparks flying in her eyes, she left. Never saw her again.

I thought I could help her; I really did. I believed after she told me, I could help her through it, keep her happy, listen to her, and support her. If I would've listened to Zoe, I don't know, things would've been different. I've never stopped to think if I was truly enabling her, if having me by her side made her believe she could do just anything. I really thought we were ready to leave the past behind, I thought loving each other was the cure, and was going to fix us up. Stupid me, for thinking I could help her when I couldn't even help myself. I was ignorant, but I loved her, I thought I was doing what I was supposed to do.

I was looking for her. It was late at night when I woke up in bed, alone. I saw the library's light on, I crept in noiselessly. She was just sitting on the old green leather sofa, staring at the endless bookshelves in that circled room, the big fireplace and a painting over it, of a woman that looked a lot like her. She turned her head at once, startled. I just sat next to her, taking her hand in mine.

"There she is," I kissed her temple. "What are we thinking about?"

"Nothing..." she sighed, resting her head on my shoulder.

"Talk to me."

"I...I don't know. I was thinking about...these books."

"What about them?"

"They were my toys. This was the only place he couldn't justify taking away. I had to study. These books were how I experienced the world, and how I got to know other people out there. I didn't know for a long time, they were fictional. Sometimes I would pick up 'The Treasure Island' or I would pick up 'Philosophy in the Bedroom'. He never checked what I read." She stood up, walking to them, running her fingers along the row. "The sexual stuff was... confusing. I only had this as guidance. There are so many in here, and I think I remember all of them. There is, for example, Old Gringo, a slave's story, when he had sex with a woman, he wasn't allowed to scream, he couldn't make a noise, none of them could. When he was finally freed, he screamed, but because he could, he wanted to know what it was like. It wasn't until much time later, when he slept with Misses Harriet Winslow, that he really grunted with all his heart, not because he could, but because couldn't do otherwise, the way he felt with her, he never felt with anyone." She kept searching with her eyes for more. "There are also many examples of failed fatherhood, perturbing some of them. I took from that that it was normal for men to despise their young. As the story of Cronus, the Greek god of time, so afraid his progeny would dethrone him, he ate every one of his children. Until his wife stopped him, of course. She cut his manhood, throwing it in the ocean, giving birth to nymphs and all sea creatures."