FINGERTIPS ║ Larry Stylinson

28 ║ Mother Love

September 8th

In 1871, Arthur Rimbaud, a young French poet, had written "The Drunken Boat" when he was only 17, in which he had told "But, truly, I have wept too much! The Dawns are heartbreaking. Every moon is atrocious and every sun bitter.". If Louis had to pick only one quote to define the way he was feeling at that exact moment, he would choose those verses. He felt broken. His eyes were burning from all the tears he had shed. They felt like they were on the verge of exploding. His chest was heavier than ever and everything around him seemed suddenly boring and senseless. From the sun burning his skin too violently to the laughters of his sibling piercing through his eardrums too painfully. He wanted to fade away, to disappear into an insignificant heap of dust. He pleaded for the pain to abandon his body. He begged for his heart to stop aching behind his rib cage. Despite his thousands of silent calls to whoever had control over his destiny, no one had answered him, no one had showed him the way to take, no one had tried to guide him. It felt like insanity had taken over his mind and was holding his soul in hostage. It felt like his whole life was trapped in the grip of lunacy. Louis could not stand up, look at his reflection and recognise himself anymore. He looked, sounded and felt so different that it seemed he had become another person. Someone who had nothing in common with the one who had previously resided into this carnal envelope. He had kept his lips sealed for almost two long and endless days. He had wasted hours lying under his covers, tears streaming down his face and headphone plugged into his ears. He had tried to flee reality. He had tried to avoid the world that kept on turning outside his dark room. But despite the loud music hitting his eardrums, he could still hear life behind his door. He could still hear laughters, fights, stupid TV reality shows and all kind of conversation he wanted so badly to stay away from. But he couldn't run away from other's happiness that was filling his house. It almost seemed like joy had stopped behind his door. Too scared to come in Louis' private hell. Too afraid of facing the starving and rabid Cerberus hidden into the darkness of his mind, ready to jump at any potential saviour's throat. Because he couldn't be saved. He didn't deserve another chance to be happy. He hadn't protect happiness, hadn't stopped it from deserting his body, hadn't held it back from taking all of the confidence and sanity off his body. How could he escape his own mind? How could he make this murdering and torturing pain leave his heart? How was he able to fix himself? Fix his broken mind, fix his malfunctioning body. Would anyone ever be able to come to his rescue and prevent him from drowning into this ocean of pain? The same ocean in which he had been swimming around for months. He couldn't avoid his fate. That was supposed to happen. All of the pain hammering his chest and all of the tears setting fire to his blue eyes. All of the disappointment and all of the mistakes and fight and stupidities he had done over the last months. It was all planned and meant to happen. He wanted to put a stop to it, he needed to find a way to stop it from killing him. But it was like trying to stop a train going full speed just by standing on the rails. At some point it collides with your insignificant body and you're nothing more than flesh and bones scattered on the ground. So he laid in his bed because there was nothing more to do to prevent him from perishing.

He had fought with his mother, the woman that had always been by his side, supporting him no matter what. He had angered her, disappointed her. He had become the heaviest burden on her thin shoulders. He had also probably disappointed his sisters. Disappointed his step father. He had become the ugly duckling of his family, of his friends. He had hurt the person he cared the most about, physically and mentally. He had lost him, probably, and there was no point in trying to get him back because. It was too late to bring back the pieces together. He felt more alone than ever. Maybe it was for the best though. His loneliness couldn't affect anyone else than himself. The fact he was away from others was a way to protect them from him and his destructive behaviour. If he was all alone, there was no one to hurt anymore.
When Louis fell asleep in the middle of the day, his cheeks were still soaked with hi salty tears. His lids still looked swollen, but finally it was calm and quiet. The tiredness had disappeared, the heavy weight had flown away. He was finally in peace for a little while. He had been asleep for ten minutes when the door opened, the bright light from the hallway enlightened the dark room. Johannah observed from where she was standing for a while. She noticed he didn't speak up to yell at her to close the door and to leave him alone. She noticed he didn't try to lie about how he felt perfectly fine and how he didn't need her to check if he was still alive every hour. She also notice the way his small chest went up and down slowly under the covers so she silently stepped in the room and closed the door, plunging the room into its usually darkness. She wondered the last time she had had a real conversation with her son. It was probably before Ernest and Doris' were born. She felt guilty. She hadn't noticed how her son had been changing through the past months. But maybe she simply didn't want to accept her so strong son wasn't as strong anymore. She walked quietly toward his bed and she lifted the covers and climbed on the mattress, begging for Louis not to wake up. It may sound surprising or strange. But Johannah had always considered Louis like a baby. She knew he had matured, grown up and became an adult but in her heart he was still the small baby she used to keep against her chest. In the past, they were used to lay together and talk about everything, she was his best friend, his confident. She had was used to know everything about his life because he liked talking to her, he had always trusted her. So she just needed to hug her son, her first child. The one who taught her how to be a mother. Johannah wrapped her arm around his thin waist and she could feel his bones under his shirt. She found his hand and held it into hers. She shed some tears when she felt how bony his back was. Where were all of his curves gone? Where her healthy and happy son ran away? And when? And why didn't she realise sooner that her child was secretly broken inside? Why did she run away from reality, the sad and dark reality of what her son had become?