Try Again - Erkenci Kus AU

A Fresh Start

I ran. I didn't know where else to go.

Who else would I see, and to how many would I explain myself?

The ticket was blurry to me- the attendant waving it in my face as if I didn't have the capacity to hold it in my hand.

She slid it into my passport and gently pushed me forward, murmuring something my mind couldn't process. I picked up my small duffel bag-- blue, small white writing along the strap, and nothing more than a change of clothes and the cash I had gathered.

I walked down the dimly lit hallway, the August rain banging on the thin glass windows - violating its frame, demanding to be heard. I found my seat, tucked my bag away and faced the tight airline window.

I let my eyes scan every corner of the land just outside: the elm trees, well-paved struts, long cased windows, and large open fields- wildflowers - how I would miss those.

I closed my eyes, remembering the days we would run through the fields, the flowers kissing my skin, the light berating my eyes, a smile so big - my cheeks would tingle from the pain. But the pain was ok because we were ok; those days are gone. They have to be because the ones who love us aren't supposed to hurt us.

They scrape our skin and pinch our dreams.

They rattle our sanity and pull at our limbs, making us their release.

Do we have love for those we scare? Are fear and anger just stepping stones to the sanctuary of love?

All these thoughts I will leave behind because today is the last of that life.

The last of these fields, the last of the bruises, and the end of the agony- from today, I am not a release,

As the plane lifts off and heads into the sky, the cold air seeps in and dances on my arms. I wrap myself in the thin blanket as the last tear falls down my cheeks—the last tear.

Hours into my flight, I opened my phone to read the emails flooding my inbox. A new life awaits me, one in which I will be a foreigner trying to read the language. Aziz Bey writes to me gently and thoroughly. He outlines every detail of my arrival - my new home, new job, where I can buy groceries, the local pier, and a long list of people to accustom myself to.

Aziz Bey came into my life like an angel. I met him a few months back; I was attending a small gallery show north of the bay. He saw me alone and joined me, refusing to leave a young woman alone in a parade of men.

I walked into the gallery, a small pamphlet in my hand. In between other obligations, I was able to gather a couple of hours to explore this town. It was tiny, but each building was a testament to the beauty of the bay and the animals that bestowed its grounds. A famous photographer had a small opening that night, his name missing from the photos and the pamphlet. The curator said he insisted on keeping the opening about the local town rather than his vanity—a noble gesture.

The gallery was beautiful-- white walls extending 30' from the ground, a large skylight allowing small strips of light to seep in. Sharply angled walls held large printed photographs, each more intricate than the other. The camera's focus and the image's proximity were breathtaking. I stopped at one image; it was a small cub of a lion. The lines of its iris could be counted. The photo was stunning but had no name, date, or photographer.

That's when Aziz Bey saw me; he gently tapped my shoulder and asked if he could join my walk around the gallery. He worried about the drunk men who were watching me from the bar. He was a kind man with soft eyes like my father was.

We stopped at every photograph, spoke in hushed tones of the images and laughed at each other's jokes. As we sat down to have a drink, the sleeve of my dress raised, and Aziz bey saw the gash on my forearm. I played it off as a clumsy injury. His thin-lipped smile showed belief.

"Aziz bey, you have been a great tour guide; please add gallery tours to your business card."

" Oof, you flatter me! Sanem, my child, you remind me why I wished for a daughter so much, but my luck, I got two boys."

"Two boys? Are they here with you?"

"One is back home; the other is kind of here."

"Kind of." I looked at him with a question. He just laughed. The door swung open, and a pair of fierce eyes called me out. I nodded my head and kissed Aziz Bey's hand. He looked at me in confusion, eyeing the man at the door.

"Thank you for your hospitality."

He shook my hand and gave me a small hug.

On my way out, I bumped into a dark figure, a solid man. He stood tall, but I barely saw his face. Our lips grazed for a second as I fell into his chest. My eyes widened, I mumbled an apology, and I ran out. My lips tingled from the contact; his beard left a warm sensation on my cheek, and I could feel his arms on my back as I moved to the exit. I felt flushed, my heart beating out of my chest.

I reached the door and was met again with those two piercing eyes. He looked at me in frustration.

"My wife should let me know if she intends on leaving the house."

I apologize profusely as he pulled my arm to his large black car.

After that incident at the gallery, Aziz Bey and I had frequent run-ins. The local café, the library, and the pier. He was there with his son, who was in and out for work. We found joy in each other's company, and calling him Baba became a habit as the days went on.

Little by little, Aziz Bey picked up on my situation; he saw the marks, the scars, the messages- he saw through me, and like an angel from the heavens, he found a way to save me. He did. He saved me.

And with this last email, he handed me a new life - a fresh start.

I headed to the airline bathroom. A large splash of cold water awoke me from my slumber. I looked into the small mirror and began to study the face I had grown to resent. A young woman, just hitting her late 20's. My brown hair pulled into a tight ponytail, the waves now reaching my waist. My eyes seemed larger, my lips fuller, and I looked pale. I knew over the months, I had lost weight, but I didn't realize the colour that was sucked out of me.

I turned the faucet to its end -- another splash.

The cold water slapped me. I looked into the mirror again.

A fresh start Sanem--a fresh start.