To my Dearest Friend

why do you make me hate myself?

Yves Montague

I don't want to look in the eyes that once were my windows to the world. 'I am worried about you Yves.' He tenderly touches a lock of hair that is hanging in front of my eyes, but the lock is as stubborn as my heart and falls back. I smile my smile full of sorrow, full of unsaid words. 'No need to be Cyril, I am perfectly fine Cyril.' He nods but it seems like he doesn't believe a word I say, well, I would not believe a word I say. I am lying through my teeth and not making an effort to make it any more believable because frankly I do not care.

'So you don't drink Absinthe' He asks in a tone as if he has found some kind of evidence. As if he has the right to judge me. I chuckle as I turn on the tap to wash my hands, the water as cold as I wish my heart was able to be. 'I never said that.' He smiles and puts his elegant hand on my shoulder, a gesure that would mean something very different if he never went to Paris. His touch make my muscles tense up as is they have been paralysed by the pain you feel after burning, it's as if his hand releases a paralysing fear and cold, a fear of being loved, or perhaps the frightening thought of renewed hope.

'Well, what about laudanum.' I feel tears appear in my eyes, how does he know? Akiva would never tell him, how does he know? Why do I need to be humilitated about something I am already ashamed of? Why does he need to agree with the notion that I should hate myself?

I take a deep breath before answering 'You don't know if I have ever tried that and even if I did it is none of your business Cyril.' I say sharply but still politely and calm. But he must see the unwillingness to talk about it from the very tone in my voice, the tone you hear before a voice breaks. Before a heart breaks, before hope breaks. He sighs 'I remember your fight with Frances about Opium.' He says. My throat feels as if I could throw up at any given moment. He knows all my sore spots and evidently he would not care to make them even more bruised than they are. I pull my shoulder back in a swift and stinging motion, resulting in his hand slipping.

My voice shatters, the voice that has been trapped inside of me for all these weeks. The voice I swallow away everyday, the voice that wants to scream in agony, the voice that has been imprisoned in isolation slowly losing its mind. The voice I am afraid of, because what am I if I can't be alright?

'Do not dare Cyril! You do not have anything to say about my life. Do not dare to care!' I say, my lips are trembling as his face comes dangerously close to mine. Everything feels unreal, I do not want this to be real, let this be dreams, delusions or torture. He begions to speak in a sickenly sweet voice 'I am your friend, it's my job to care for you.' The tears I have been desperately trying to lock back into their prison of silence break through and flow over my miserable and horrified expression. I want to say so much but half of it doesn't come through my throat.

It takes me longer than normally to find the beginning of a sentence that normally I would never finish, I am afraid to finish. 'Do not dare. Not you too! You do not get to mistreat me, hurt me a and abandon me and come running back to be the hero! I have seen this too many times. Not you too, My father is more than enough! You don't get to abandon me and care for me now! I will not be used for the selfish desire of caring for somebody, the selfish desire of empathy. I could drink myself to death and you would still not have the right to stop me! I do not need to be scolded not by you or by anybody else for that matter.' I bite my lip, hard enough to taste blood. I struggle to get the next words arranged in a sentence that is remotely understandable. 'Please..... you do not have the right to make me feel bad about what is necesarry for me to live in something that could be considered peace.' I am litterally trembling, struggling to keep myself from falling, To keep myself from collapsing just like my heart does. My mind and heart are both racing, not knowing what I should be feeling. Not sure if I am even really feeling anything. It's like I have been standing here in silence while imagining the things I said. He looks down.

'Yves, I have one question.' He looks at me, I nod gicing him permission to ask it. Hoping this one will be easier to answer. 'Do you still love me?' It takes me a few seconds to process that I have not misheard the question. Everything seems to be slowing down, my eyes hurt from the crying. I dont have any tears left, as if I am a cloud that has lost all it's precious water, condemmning itself to nothingness. And still, they flow down my cheeks, those miserable streams of water made dirty by heartbreak. Do I still love him...... I would kill for him....

I am forgetting how to breathe. How do you breathe, my chest hurts, as it's as if he dropped something on it, probably my own guilt. He has shattered my heart again. Why again? Was I not broken enough?

I can't keep this up. I collapse onto my knees in the on the cold hard bathroom floor. I feel as if I am near death. Breathing is not something that was taught to me how can I forget how to do it? I cover my face with both my hands, no one is allowed to see me like this, what am I doing? Get yourself together! Man up! Shame on you! I hear my father screams in my head.

But no matter how hard I try to recollect the shattered pieces of my porcelain mask everything  is pouring out of the crack, as if I cannot stop as a leaking ceiling in the rain, the leaking ceiling from the childhood mansion you have too much memories in to abandon, it will only get worse and you don't have the courage to abandon it. Why does he have to try to comfort me, I want to tell him to leave me alone so I can die in peace, without being as disgrace as I am now, weeping like a young boy who has just experienced he first part of cruelty of the world. I hate how he is comforting me I hate his warm embrace I hate his soothing voice in between the breaths I take in an effort to get enough oxygen.

I am rocking back and forth. How embarrasing, how I have never been someone who has minded reputation but this is humiliating. Why did I cry I should've walked away. I stand up, it feels surreal, as if I am seeing everything through an old dirty window. It's still hard to breathe. But humiliating myself is even more exhausting. I take a deep breath.

'I'll be back tommorow like we promised.' I say. He smiles and nod. 'Take care of yourself my sunlight.' I bite my lip. Do not dare Yves, do not say it. 'See you tommorow Cyril.'

We step into the cariagge. Akiva looks at me with a frown. 'Do you want me to ask?' he asks in his normal strangely soothing voice. 'Please do not.' I say. almost begging him, I don't want to rip open this fresh wound. My lip begins to tremble and I start crying again. The only thing Akiva does is put his hand on my shoulder. 'The heart is the organ that takes the longest to heal.' I lean on his shoulder.

I am finally alone in my suite. I pour a glass of absinthe and grab the bottle of laudanum. It's like I am on the brink of the death I so desire. I dont think I ever have drunk so many glasses of alcohol in one night. I am leaning against my bed. I am utterly confused by half of the things that have happened today. I feel like an empty vessel of myself, a house where a happy family once lived but the family grew apart, resulting that they are strangers now. I cannot stop crying. The walls are caving in in all aspects of my life, family, this, my mind. Why is my mind like this? I really thought I would be happy to see him but I am barely even breathing. My head hurts, my body feels like it belongs to somebody else, my face looks like I never existed and my soul looks like it's lost....... I am lost.