Breathe

Chapter 17 - Would You Like to be Freed?

Crrrricket. Crrrricket. Crrrricket.

Besides the roaring of a tabletop candle, all I could hear was that sound.

Crrrricket. Crrrricket. Crrrricket.

And as each cricket chirped, I could feel my sanity dwindle away. All I could think about were the thoughts that kept reemerging, kept coming up while I sat in my body, completely out of control.

Eve was scribbling in her journal like always—tentatively scratching and erasing and blotching the pages in her journal. But that didn't matter to me. I couldn't read a word that she was writing. Not because it was messy, but because she was writing in that foreign language again: the one I didn't know how to read. Not that I could read my own language very well, but that's besides the point.

I watched her pen swirl and her letters loop into messy, narrow shapes. I watched as she picked up her pen, turned the page, and continued. Loop, pick, turn. Loop, pick, turn—it was a simple, effective process. But it was monotonous and boring to watch, which was the reason why my mind kept going everywhere but the present.

For some reason, each time the clock hand ticked, I got closer and closer to imagining my past: the people I had spent time with; the people I loved; the people who were no longer with me; the people who would hate me if they knew where I was, what I was. Before, I would feel sick to my stomach like someone had twisted it and turned it inside-out. But now... now, all I felt was a void. An empty void, as if none of that happened or mattered. And I knew what I felt was wrong—it had to be wrong. After all, if I was this dispassionate about all those things, why would I be here? Why would I be an observer in my own body, letting someone else control it? Of course it didn't add up. Then again, did it really need to?

I followed her eyes on the paper again. For a little bit, I listened to her thoughts. Unsurprisingly, even her thoughts were in that language. I couldn't understand a word that she was saying, nor did I have a clue on what she was saying. It was all unfamiliar, all surreal.

Sort of like this feeling in the pit of my stomach.

Then again, now that I think about it, is this even my feelings?

Suddenly, I heard her sigh and before I knew it, I was looking at the ceiling. But it wasn't like those other times before. This time, I felt my heart racing, and some sort of burst of happiness—something that I had never felt at this time of day.

Did something happen?

For the first time, she smiled and nodded. "It is done."

What's done?

Tenderly, she lifted her journal up. The ink was still wet, and it began to slowly drip down the page. Still, her feelings were still flooding my body. She hugged the journal. "I finished it. I finally finished! It has been years since I started this and now... now..." She pulled it away from her and smiled down at it. "It is ready. I can finish this now. For him."

"For him"?

Suddenly, we heard a knock on our door. She turned. "Who is it?"

On the other side, a soft voice chimed, "It's me: Clementine."

Frantically, Eve pulled out the drawer of her desk and shoved the book inside. Then, she pushed and pushed until the full drawer closed. Once it looked safe, she yelled, "Come in!"

The door creaked open, revealing a red-faced strawberry blonde. Everything about her was perfect—just like always—except for her dewy sapphire eyes and deeply flushed face. But her tight curls blocked them, almost on purpose, almost like they were trying to hide her shame for her.