The consequences of falling

Chapter 11

At the park...

- You know, Omer, this passage would feel more prominent if it was in shorter sentences. Like in gasps. Like the character can't catch his breath... What do you think?

- Hm...

Omer went silent, whispering something inaudibly, re-writing the paragraph as per Sanem's suggestion. He closed his eyes; his right hand flew into air and he started scribbling with invisible ink over air parchment. Then his eyes opened wide and eyebrows went up in amusement. Omer smacked his lap and laughed:

- When you're right – you're right! Feels SO MUCH better this way!

Sanem smiled at him while Omer tapped the keys of his laptop with the lighting speed. This man had an infinite creative drive and energy and Sanem was happy she was getting this glimpse into actual writing process of someone so worthy of her admiration. She still remembered a feeling of freedom when reading Omer's fist book – and was glad this feeling was coming back now for the second too. There was some sadness to the first draft Sanem had reviewed but it felt like it was lifting with every revision – it's like the book was helping Omer to sort through something personal and he was coming out better for it.

The author finished the revision of this para and turned to his editor:

- Where to next, boss?

- Page 75, not sure what that passage about thunderstorms meant, feels too detached, too hyperbolic. Would you explain?

Omer scrolled down the manuscript and reviewed the marked text. He nodded; his tone serious:

- Oh, yes, this... The thunderstorm is supposed to be the representation of characters inner demons and how sometimes he chooses not to fight them and just expects everyone to accept them – because it's the storm, he says, you can't outrun the storm. And after the storm comes the rainbow – and the character believes that justifies the storm.

- Yes, I got that part. But what is the part of 'not every storm is a miracle'? And this – 'Some storms come to ruin and leave nothing behind... And you can't outrun them, you really can't... but you still have to keep running. When fighting with storm don't count the chances of winning. Count the running'. I'm not sure I get this part.

Sanem was silent and attentive. By the way Omer's shoulders fell and he almost folded into himself she knew this passage was touching upon something very personal. Sanem wasn't going to pressure Omer into admission and was ready to move on to the next note when Omer spoke:

- My father was an abusive drunk. He never hit us or anything, but he made sure we felt like absolute nothing, worthless. The only value me and my mom had was in relation to him – she was supposed to always be there for him, support him through his down periods, and I was supposed to make him proud where he'd failed in life – in sports. It wasn't my thing, but mother made me to comply, to appease him. She used to say, 'He was so hurt by life, we should be his rock'. And I was a rock – always steady, solid, not moving anywhere in my life.

Omer sighted and was silent for few inhales. Then he'd continued:

- I begged my mother to leave him. When he'd cheated on her, I begged her to leave. When he'd spent my stipend money on some crazy scheme, I demanded her to leave or let me go. But she was adamant to stay by him, always blaming his 'inner daemons', as he was helpless against them. And then... he'd left. Just like that, took our savings and disappeared one day. At first, I was happy, I thought I was about to start living for myself. But... my mom got so lost. She didn't know how to be without him, how to dress if it wasn't approved by him, what perfume to wear, what to cook if he wasn't eating, what jobs to apply for if he wasn't suggesting them. Turned out, she'd erased most of herself and replaced it with his needs and want – and there wasn't enough of her left when he'd disappeared.

A single tear went down Omer's cheek and Sanem touched her hand to his arm in a silent consolation gesture. He caught her hand in his palm and squeezed it. Omer said:

- In a year she was gone, jumped off the bridge. Her note was addressed to him, not a word to me.

- Omer, I'm so...

- No, don't say it. You have nothing to feel sorry about. This story has taught me that we all have demons – some of us just chose not to fight them or put the fight on someone else's shoulders. This lesson cost me my mother, but I will never make a person I love to battle my insecurities for me, to be my 'rock' while I quit fighting.

- Quit running...

Omer smiled at Sanem and covered her hand with another palm – she understood, he knew she would. After that letter she wrote about his first book – somehow, Omer just knew that this editor newbie would understand him better than any other seasoned professional in the field. Sanem was the one.

- Yes, Sanem, can't quit running. You can't outrun everything, can't suddenly become a perfect person with no baggage and no shortcomings... but you either run or storm will consume you and your house and your family and your life... and that's not the way I want to go out.

Sanem was feeling dizzy – she was just hit with something so visceral and soul-cutting and she felt like she was holding something very precious in her hands. Sanem hoped it was their friendship that she was holding.

But also, it turned out, she was holding her breath. That's where the dizziness came from, probably. Sanem realized the situation when her diaphragm contracted convulsively, and she'd hiccupped loudly. And continued to do so, shaking with all of her body in unison.

Omer looked her over and said with amused horror:

- Well, if that's your reaction to my deepest secrets, we'll have to cut our soul-sharing sessions short or I'll risk damaging my editor permanently.

Sanem tried laughing but it went out more like clucking, so she shoved the arrogant prick with her shoulder and tried speaking:

- Stop... eek... it immi... eek... diately! Eek! Get me some... eek... water!

- Right away, boss! Here you go, careful!

Omer held his palm under the bottle so that Sanem wouldn't spill it on herself while she hiccupped through her drinking. Water helped some and hiccups subsided. Just as Sanem finished drinking – turned out she was very thirsty – her stomach growled loudly. Turned out she was hungry too.

Omer laughed at that:

- First, I upset my editor, then I impair her breathing, now I starve her! I'm a model author, am I?

Sanem was feeling generous:

- You'll do! Shall we go find something to eat? We can invite Deren from Fikri Harika and discuss the readings arrangement for next week once again.

- Sure, sounds like a plan!

Sanem smiled to herself as she took out her phone – finally Deren gets to meet Omer, she's been bugging Sanem about it for days now. Also, Deren knew all the fancy places to eat and Sanem didn't want to embarrass herself with suggesting pizza at their first business launch.

As they left the park, Sanem thought to herself that it was a start to a very good story.

... ... ...

As they left the park, Can thought to himself that he should've not came back. He'd lost her.

He felt stupid spying on them like this... but he had to know. The way Sanem touched the guy's hand... the way he held it... made her laugh... their comfortable touches... emotional intimacy radiating of them in waves.

He'd lost her. And maybe not to this guy – she knew him all of two days – but to somebody other than Can. Somebody better than him.