Cold Hearts

It was already dark outside. His glass had been emptied and the bottle stood untouched on the table since then. The fire was out and the stove was cold. The dim light of the candles kept shivering as if it could feel the cold wind escaping from the hallway. He had been waiting for a long time now. It had been foolish of him to believe something would change this year. But he had always hoped deep within that maybe – just maybe – they would have changed their mind. He had been wrong.

The snow was still falling, covering the city with a giant white blanket. He felt tired and in fact, he was. The wine was still flowing in his veins, slowing his thoughts. The sensation felt better than the stinging ache in his heart. He hated himself because of his naivety. He had too much hope, too little cynicism. He believed too much in people, which was funny knowing what had happened. But there was nothing he could do about it. So, he sat there, in his old chair and looked at the tiny walking silhouettes, from the height of his flat. Some of them were walking with incredible amounts of bags, others were rushing with their hands in their pockets and their heads low. He would have liked to be among them to feel less lonely. He would have preferred to nurture the illusion of company than to sit in a far too silent home. He could almost hear the music down there in his head, the people's voices and their coughs from the cold. And the laughs, the sight of people smiling at each other, maybe also some children crying or giggling. The silent sound of footsteps on the snow, cars pulling by. Anything would have soothed his loneliness. But when he looked around him, there was nothing. He had no cat or dog, no lover, no child, no friends, no family. It was just him and silence. It wasn't peaceful; it wasn't a haven either. It was cold and dark, unwelcoming. His apartment reflected the state of his heart. There's a saying that goes 'hope springs eternal'. In his case, hope had been destructive. Living with that hope hadn't brought any comfort, only self-doubt. He kept thinking to himself that maybe he shouldn't have said anything, maybe he should have done things differently, that it was his own fault. It was a little voice in his head, constantly putting him down, reminding him of what people had called him. That voice never stopped talking. He wanted it to.

He poured himself another glass of wine and drank it in one go. He closed his eyes and focused on the warmth spreading in his throat. There was a time when he constantly had gone to pubs in the evening, after a long and exhausting work shift. It had quickly become a habit after the incident. His mind was so troubled at the time and he couldn't help but crave the feeling of strong alcohol. He hadn't fought the urge, he hadn't thought about it once. He remembered a drunk guy who had been sitting next to him saying that there were two reasons to drink: to forget and to warm up cold hearts. He had just smiled sadly and shaken his head. It was pathetic. But it was true.

Snow falling and falling and falling. It was relentless. Footprints didn't take long to disappear. Snow covered everything. It covered the truth. It covered things hidden from the view and embellished them. He had wanted to wipe it away, to expose the bare and ugly reality. As a consequence, he had been blamed, he had been rejected and hope of change had finished destroying him. Nobody had believed him when he had told what had been done to him. Nobody had believed him when he had said who had been the cause of it. By coming forward he had not only been more vulnerable than ever, but the person who caused his suffering had been protected and supported. They turned them into a saint and he was slowly pushed away. He chose to accept his isolation so that he wouldn't have to face them anymore. With nobody around, he was less likely to suffer. Though in the end, he didn't know what situation hurt more. Both just did.

It took him years to understand. At the beginning, he didn't even believe himself. But the more he grew older, the more he realised. What had happened back then – it wasn't right. He then had heard from people who had experienced similar things and that's when it eventually hit him. He had been blinded. He had been abused and he never saw it as something bad or as something that had to stop, because he didn't know. He was too young to. And now that he knew, he finally understood why so many things went wrong in his life. The thoughts, very dark thoughts that he couldn't push away and just kept invading his mind. The self-confidence, which he severely lacked, and the impossibility to trust others. So many things that altered his view of others and himself. All of that because of the abuse he had been a victim of. It made him sad, it truly did. He had hoped for support. He had hoped for understanding. Nothing as such came.

The only thing he had enjoyed about Christmas was the way his mother would smile at him when he opened his gifts. He really missed those smiles. As a kid he would get excited over anything even though the abuse had already taken place. He hadn't let it bring him down back then, so why did he now? It would have been so much better to know nothing and to continue living in that delusion of everything being okay. Though what hurt most wasn't the actual abuse, it was the fact everyone had thought he had been lying. They had kept distorting his words, turning them against him. He had been so shocked that he hadn't even been able to talk back. He could still hear the word 'liar' ringing in his head. It had been like sharp glass puncturing his flesh over and over again. The second after he had come home he just started crying and crying because there was nothing that could ease the pain. He had been cracked and they broke him.

He had told his mother. She had looked at him as if he had told any random fact about the current weather. She hadn't cried or yelled, she had just shrugged slightly and continued what she had been doing. In some way, it had been worse than being called a liar or a troublemaker. Her indifference to the traumatic event had left eternal bleeding scars.

After everything, why didn't he feel numb? Why couldn't he just get used to the pain? He wanted to control it, to smother it. Perhaps he was like a candle. Burning until there's not enough substance. Flickering until there's nothing left. Just a dim light struggling to breathe. He could let it die. Put an end to it.

He felt short of breath. He heard his neighbours laughing and chairs scraping the upper floor. He really was alone in a world full of people. What was even the point? He leaned his head back. He should have kept all of this for himself. He should have shut up. No one believes you anyway when you claim your own father to be your abuser. Being a boy was only the cherry on top. Boys can't be victims of sexual abuse, after all.

The ache was unforgiving. It felt like birds plucking and pulling his skin. He wanted to close his eyes to stop the minutes from running. Years were missing. Years of potential happiness ruined by one event. He who once was full of hope was hopeless. There was nothing left to do.

Boys don't cry, they said, so why did he?
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