How To Move On

F L A S H E S (Part I)

I remember him in flashes. Much like broken film strips, sewn together by little bits of euphoria, longing and pain. He exists in patches of light and color, fading more and more as months fly by. It gets harder to remember the moments, to memorize them in full detail. So every once in a while, I sift through the colors, looking for a memory I could play on the blank-slate canvas behind my eyes. A movie of sorts. One that gets replayed over and over, which, I may say, is beyond my control.

Welcome to the broken cinema of my thoughts.

I imagine myself sitting in my own theatre room. There are a thousand seats, but I'm the only occupant. The seats are plush with tattered velvet; oddly reassuring for a vagabond in his own thoughts. There's a remote in my hand, and with it, I turn on the yellowing screen in front. It's probably getting old from all the memories that I keep replaying.

The cinema comes to life with a thousand little clicks and creaks. I really need to replace this rickety place. My memories flash through the screen, and I flick through the whole catalogue of them. I have countless ones of his embraces, each a different scent, a different occasion. They bring a lot of nostalgia, but they're the easiest to remember. Not much of a challenge. Then there are those of me comforting him in all our different places. The cafeteria, that old eatery a few blocks away, and a few others that I might have already forgotten. As I've said, I don't remember them all in full detail. I'm trying my best, though, so bear with me, if you may.

Other times it's him comforting me. Different feelings, different reasons. Like the time I sat on the floor, and there were what could have been a hundred people around me, but only a few saw my misery. I ran a handful of colored markers on the skin of my arms, a pathetic cry for help. And help they did. Help he did give me. Enough to have changed me so much, that I would never be the same person again. But I'm getting ahead of myself. We're not even at the prime of the story yet.

You see, I was a totally different person back then, specifically, around a year ago. A lot has changed in less than 12 months. I used to be a supersensitive person. I'd cry when my mother scolded me, I'd cry when I felt ignored. I cried when I didn't feel loved, both in the familial and romantic sense. I was a broken boy, a walking jar of shattered glass. And to my bewilderment, he was almost always there to pick those pieces up and put them back together. And I got used to him being there for me. And I for him. He broke, I rescued, I broke, he rescued. Like some clockwork routine cruelly set in motion.

So let's talk about one particular day, a very important one. Actually, it was a two-day thing, but the whole medley of events happened so fast that it all seemed to play on the same line.

My mother threw a lot of plates to the floor. I don't know if any of them broke, but I remember the sound of it all, enough to rattle my bones after each fall. She was screaming profanities into the house, and into me. She was angry at something I did, or something I didn't do, but soon after it was her being angry at everything I was. I had heard it all before, in many other circumstances that had led to that moment. But it was different, to hear it all at once. It did something to me, something horrible, something synonymous to your soul being sucked out of your body. I fought the tears, I prayed to each of them that they wouldn't fall. Not now, please, I pleaded. I can't show her how weak and battered I already am inside.

There came a point when she stopped. Like she had nothing else to say, or she ran out of it. She stormed out of the house, banging the door in her wake. And at that same second, my body literally fell to the floor in a crumpled heap. All that being stiff and holding it in was pouring out. I'm not exaggerating, when I say that I was lying on the floor, punching myself in the head, screaming to God, and asking him why he allowed it to happen. Why he had been so unfair to me.

I was alone, at home. With things you shouldn't be at home with, when you're as depressed and shattered as I was. Things that tempted you to do things you shouldn't do. Sharp things. So I was afraid. I was afraid of what I could do to myself, of what the hurricane in my head could have made me do. So I called him, crying still. I must have called him for not less than 10 times, but he never answered. He must have been busy, and I was growing even more desperate. So I called her, the girl who, at the time, was my closest friend.

She answered. I asked her to come and comfort me, even though it was a long shot, and an unprecedented thing for me to ask of anybody.

"Um, hi. Could you come over? I know it's kind of late, and you could be busy, but I just need someone to talk to. I'm... I'm afraid of what I could do to myself here," I said, in between sobs.

"You don't have to come over, though. But it would mean the world to me if you did."

"I'll come over. Don't worry. I just have to put on some decent clothes. I'll be there in 10 minutes. Wait for me," she replied. There was concern in her voice, but I knew that she understood.

The minute I saw her, I drenched her shoulder with my tears. I couldn't believe the retribution that God allowed me that day.

So we talked. On the rooftop of the tall building in our neighborhood, overlooking the tiny houses. She didn't say much, because she never really had a lot to say when she saw me like that. But it was more than enough that she was there to hear me out.

That night, he texted me. It was around an hour before midnight, but I was still in that place between being awake and fluttering through my dreams.

"Hey. I saw your missed calls. Are you okay? What's wrong? I know you wouldn't call me so much if it wasn't important," he said.

"I'm fine, I guess. But I wasn't when I called. It was... it was bad. Really bad. But it's hard to explain it here. Can I-can I come over, at your house tomorrow? I'd really want to talk about it. I know you'd understand me better than anyone else. I need your help," I told him.

"Sure. Just drop by whenever you can. I'm here for you."

So I went. I told my mother that I was out to buy some materials for a project (which is true), to which she replied in angry affirmations, kind of like an echo of what had happened the other day. I was more than happy to leave the house for a while.

The road to his house had become familiar now. The sidewalks, the alleys, all the roads that led to it was ingrained into my memory. I just kept walking until I saw him. And when I did, he caught sight of me and crushed me in the tightest hug. I couldn't breathe, but it was a blissful embrace. I needed that, after all that I had been through.

x

Proceed to F L A S H E S (Part II)