Indelible (EN)

Chapter 7

There are difficulties in absolutely everything except eating pancakes.

Charles Spurgeon

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I can't get to sleep tonight. I think about my brother, wondering where he is, if he's all right, if he's alive. Is he spying on me from afar?

A few weeks after my father's death and my brother's disappearance, my mother was admitted to a psychiatric hospital. Unable to speak or feed herself. It was torture to see her like that, like a corpse. I had no parents, no family, anymore. Left to my own, Cassie's parents put me up, fed me and housed me until I was 18. If she hadn't been there to dry my tears and pick me up, I would certainly have become a much more unstable person than I am now. I tried to go back to school the following year, at home. I didn't go out anymore, no, I was far too afraid of the pity of the people I might meet. I didn't manage to pass my degree, but at the same time, I didn't really want to work for it. That wasn't a problem. My father's inheritance allowed me to live comfortably. I  ended up moving to another city when I came of age. Cassie followed me and we lived as roommates. She left me no choice, she was far too afraid to see the person I would become if I were left alone with my demons. I worked part-time as a waitress in a local bar to avoid spending my days doing nothing, but I was quickly fired when I hit a customer, who had groped my buttocks.

One afternoon, I set about painting the bedroom walls, but the pot spilled. The way the paint spread fascinated me. I began to paint pictures, spending days and nights at a time, sometimes without eating, drinking or talking. I let off steam on canvas, expressing what I couldn't say in person. Illustrating human or monstrous forms, portraits, landscapes or, at other times, simple jets of ink, thrown out in anger. They were dark, a mixture of black and gray. I loved these moments, when I could give myself up, to a canvas that spoke back to me and understood me, but I hated just as much to see the result of this conversation. It worried me, seeing how tortured my mind was. So I locked them in a room, so as not to see them, not to face my darkness. Once I forgot to lock the door to the room, Cassie stumbled upon them and expressed her desire to try them. She found them beautiful, just as much as they frightened her. The mixture of emotions felt just with drops of ink, the images the shapes could induce, the smells, the screams, the traumatic memories...

Three years later, she moved to another city, where she began studying art. I had taken an apartment close to her, the one I lived in above Léon's "Morning Stars" café. I moved out of there after someone followed me home at night and tried to force open the door. Panic-stricken, I moved to Puento, a rather lively neighborhood, where I now live. I had several locks put on my door and 3 cameras hidden in the apartment. I don't really live anymore, I just survive, afraid that the demons of the past will resurface and materialize to take me away. I'm sure my madness will take me away one day, which is why I drink so much, to immerse myself in a quieter world, lessening the pain my mind inflicts on itself every day.

We don't all react in the same way to the shocks we experience throughout our lives. Some hold out, others stop eating and lose sleep, withdraw into alcohol, work, drugs and sometimes resign from their own lives. But there's something you'll find in every damaged person: emptiness. Whether it's in their eyes, in their trembling voices or their sagging features. It's a mixture of cold, rage, wind, storm, hatred, lack, yellowed memories, resentment, sadness, gaping wounds, pain, betrayal, blood, indelible scars, self-destruction and so much more, feeding on an emptiness that swells to take up all the space.

My mother is still under the care of a psychiatrist, but she doesn't talk much any more, but it's a good start. I go to see her once a month; the center she's in is two and a half hours away, by the sea. She draws my tarot cards, a passion she took up a few years ago. She always sends me a photo at the beginning of the month of what she's drawn for me. It's become her little ritual, her way of expressing her care, of telling me she's thinking of me, her way of guiding me and telling me she wishes me happiness. A happiness I don't allow myself. The more the years go by, the more I resent not having the courage to avenge my father's death, nor the guts to seek out the truth. Does he resent me from where he is? I imagine he's not too proud to see his little princess living a life of debauchery. I'm so ashamed of myself that I haven't revisited his grave since his funeral 11 years ago. I also hate this fear, which paralyzes me from finding my brother. I'm afraid of the information I might come across while searching for clues, or even of learning that Aaron has passed away too. I feel like I'm letting them both down. Would he still tell me today not to go looking for anything, or on the contrary, after all these years, would he expect me to go looking from now on? So many unanswered questions, pleading the cause of my loss.

I head for the bedroom and lie down on my bed to get some sleep after this exhausting day.

08h00 -

My alarm clock goes off and I quickly turn it off and bury my face in the pillow.

- Just a little longer... I complained.

- Hello Ma'am!

Cassie storms into my room and opens the window to air it out. I moan as I feel the cool air creep under the sheets.

- Don't you smell something good? She asks.

A smell? What's she... Oh boy! My eyes widen and I get up from the mattress, running to the kitchen., closing

- Cassie... You're the best! I say, seeing the plates on the central island.

I sit on the stool in front of a plate of "Cassie's secret recipe" pancakes. They're all fluffy and look like Japanese pancakes. If you stick your fork in them, it'll sink in effortlessly. Crunchy on the outside, soft and fluffy on the inside. You can devour them plain, without anything, but you can also combine them with fruit or sweet or even savoury coulis. A real treat. What's that? I'm a woman, food guides us much more than men, you know. If there's one thing I regret, not living with her anymore, it's her homemade dishes, whether it's potato gratins, stews, fried chicken, lasagne, tomato/goat pies, brioches... There's a huge difference with the dishes I order online, or the instant noodles I eat very often, if not too regularly. I take the time to enjoy my breakfast with a glass of fresh milk. As I reach the last pancake, Cassie calls out to me.

- What's up? Aren't you going to tell me what happened last night?

- Nothing happened. I lied to her.

- You didn't even speak during those long hours? Who were they?

- Just a little. I replied, stuffing the last piece of pancake into my mouth. That was my neighbor, the one downstairs I told you about. I continued, chewing.

- No way? What a coincidence! What did you talk about? Tell me more, c'mon! she tapped her feet, like a whimsical child.

- Tattoos, pizzas and booze.

- I don't believe you. Are you gonna tell me you actually talked to this guy? Are you okay? Are you sure you don't have a fever? Are you sure you don't have a fever? She quickly puts the back of her hand on my forehead to check my temperature.

- Spit it out, I want to know everything. She continues, staring at me, her eyes sparkling.

I put the cutlery down on my plate, which is now empty, and take Cassie's plate too. I get up and put them in the dishwasher. I take a deep breath, my back to her, ready to unpack things for which I already know she'll overreact. I'm expecting screams, jumping jacks and onomatopoeia spoken far too loudly on this early morning. I turn back to her, already exasperated, and point to the living room, inviting her to sit on the sofa.I look at the clock, praying for time to pass more quickly.