• BURN ME •

• 4 •

Harder To Breath   ⁓ Letdown

Flame

A small smile flickers at the corner of her lips, tentative, fragile. "In that case... apology accepted." Relief washes over me, unexpected, almost overwhelming in its intensity. A reprieve. A fragile truce. I nod, a curt, jerky movement of my head. Stand. She mirrors my movement, rising from her chair. Wraps her arms around me, a brief, awkward hug, as close as she can get without bridging the chasm that separates us. I bury my face in her soft curls, inhale her familiar scent – vanilla and something else, something inherently, uniquely Sophia. And the knot of tension in my chest begins to loosen, fraction by fraction. Almost immediately, calm descends, a fragile, temporary peace. "Thank you," she whispers, the word barely audible against my chest. She pulls back, breaks the fragile contact, returns to her desk, the familiar, comfortable rhythm of domestic normalcy resuming. I leave her room, retreating to the relative sanctuary of my own. Jacket discarded carelessly over a chair, shoes kicked off with unnecessary force. I drift towards the bookshelf, a silent pilgrimage to a familiar sanctuary. My fingers trail across the spines, a tactile meditation, a silent conversation with ghosts. My mother's books. Literature professor. Words were her world, her refuge, her weapon. She read to me constantly, stories weaving a tapestry of escape, of meaning, of... something more than just words on paper. For me, too, books are doorways. Passageways to other realities, other lives, other selves. My fingers stall, hover over a worn, familiar spine. Romeo and Juliet. Her favorite. She must have read it to me a thousand times, her voice warm, melodic, infusing the tragic tale with a fragile beauty. Reading... it's a connection. A thread stretching across the void, drawing me closer to her memory. I pull the book from the shelf, the familiar weight comforting in my hand. Open it at random, let my eyes fall on the first words they encounter. Reading the opening lines, a ghost of a smile tugs at the corner of my lips. Romeo and Juliet. A tragedy of love, of passion, of fatal misunderstandings. Do I really understand it? This self-destructive, all-consuming love that drives them to such extremes? Why would someone choose death over life, all for... love?

Or maybe I just don't understand the concept of selfless love. Or maybe... maybe I just don't understand love at all. And maybe... maybe I just don't care to understand. Love. Pointless vulnerability. Dangerous weakness. Not for me. Definitely not for me. I'm just not made for it. Not wired for connection, for vulnerability, for... love. Protection. That's my only purpose. My only function. To shield Sophia. She's the only one... the only person who loves this sick, twisted heart of mine. The only one I'd trust with a glimpse into the darkness that festers within me. I wouldn't burden anyone else with this... brokenness. Sophia. She sees me. Truly sees me. The monster lurking beneath the carefully constructed facade. And she doesn't recoil. Doesn't judge. Smiles at me, as if I were... normal. As if my hands weren't stained with blood, real and imagined. As if I hadn't hurt anyone, hadn't broken anything. She's the only one who can soothe the savage beast that claws at the edges of my sanity. The only one who believes I'm not... a monster. Even when, sometimes, in the cold, unforgiving reflection of the mirror, all I see reflected back is... monstrous. She doesn't judge me. That's the miracle of it. I close the book, the fragile peace fracturing, dissolving under the weight of my own self-loathing. Sigh, a long, weary exhalation of defeat. Place the book back on the shelf, the familiar ritual failing to offer its usual solace. Head for the bathroom. Ice shower. Desperate attempt to shock the thoughts into submission. To numb the persistent, gnawing unease. Breathe in. Breathe out. The icy water slams against my skin, a brutal assault. My muscles clench, spasming, a violent reaction to the sudden, shocking cold. Gooseflesh erupts across my skin, a physical manifestation of the internal tremor. The chill seeps into my bones, a numbing, pervasive cold. Breathe in. Breathe out. Mantra. Repetition. Empty words to ward off the rising tide of panic. Ma wouldn't want this. Wouldn't want me to drown in this self-inflicted guilt, this self-destructive cycle of blame. I know that. Logically. Rationally. But logic and rationality are useless weapons against the irrational, relentless force of grief, of guilt.