A Prose With No Direction

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Pitter-patter.

Hugging knees to chest, I set my cup of tea down.

"How do you humans cry?" I wonder aloud. "How do you keep the tears falling?"

I can feel him look at me oddly. "Have you never cried?" 

"I have," I reply. "And you've seen me. You've seen me cry and wail and then completely turn silent in a blink of an eye. That's how I cry. When I cry and cry and cry, I'd sob, maybe even wail if I'm that sad, but within a minute or two, the tears just stop and my mouth stitches up. Then I stop crying. But the sadness still remains. It's like crying inside, the sadness begging to be expressed but the mind and body have been disconnected for so long that the body doesn't listen to the mind anymore. It's like that, and it hurts. It hurts to be so emotionless when inside you're so emotional."

"Have you always been like this?" He asks gently. 

I shake my head. "The last time I cried like an actual human being was when I was nine," I say. "It was for something dumb. I think I was scolded by my Dad or something. But after that... That's when I stopped crying. I don't remember why I stopped. It's sometimes hard for me to remember things that actually happened without being anxious about remembering something that I wanted to remember."

He chuckles awkwardly. "What?"

I purse my lips. "Anyways," I continue. "I've been crying like that ever since, and I never really paid it much attention until earlier. When I cried in front of you. That's when I knew I've fallen so deep that I no longer see the light. That this falling of mine—this Fall of Lucifer of mine—began so long ago I don't even remember when I started to fall." I pause. "Or who pushed me to fall."

"You know," I begin. "People say humans are born with two innate fears. The fear of loud sounds and the fear of falling. Every other fear is born through experiences or what society has taught us. But to me, the fear of falling is no longer a fear that I fear. I have so many fears and some fears still counting, but falling has never been one for me. I actually embrace it. I like the feeling of falling off a building or falling from a bridge and plunging into the comfort of the water. I don't fear the fall anymore." I hug myself closer. "But what I fear, Hugh, is the fact that I no longer fear falling. That I've accepted this fear; that I've learned to love it and yearn for it. That's what I fear, Hugh. I fear that I have no fear."

I sigh. "And since I've fallen so deep, I guess that's why it's hard for me to cry."

Then there's silence.

"I'm no psychiatrist, Clara," Hugh says, "but if it helps, when I want to cry and express my emotions, I think about what or who I care about, imagining what would happen if he or she or it has left me. I imagine what would happen, and if it brings me to tears, I hold on to that imagination and cry."

I can't help but smirk.

Something I care about?

I wonder what that is now.

"I think you need to find some ground to step on," he continues. "Or a rope to hang on to. You need something that'll stop you from falling. Again, I'm no psychiatrist, but I think if you find a way to stop falling, then maybe you can find a way to cry." He pauses, giving me his pretty boy smile again. "Or maybe try to find the courage to cry."

My eyes widen.

Courage to cry?

"What do you mean?" I ask, shaking my head.

He shrugs. "I mean, expressing yourself is hard enough already," he says. "But it takes bravery to actually become vulnerable and helpless in order to get the help you need."

"And how do you do that?" I inquire.

"I'm really not qualified for this," he jokes, chuckling. "But for me—I can't say for you, of course—but, if I wanted to become vulnerable, I'd confront all my issues head on. I'll take it step-by-step in trying to become as vulnerable as I can be, laying all my cards on the table instead of running from them."

Running.

He's running towards something.

And I'm running away from it.

"I'd also lower my pride," he adds. "I'll admit I can't go through this alone, and I will try to reach out to anyone who is willing to help me. I'd try to be less controlling of the situation and recognize the limits I have. But most of all, I'd be open. The only way to become vulnerable, for me, is to be open. Open about everything and anything. That's when you become vulnerable, when all your weaknesses, faults, flaws, and scars are laid out on the table. And for anyone, showcasing all of that takes a great amount of courage."

Laying my cards on the table.

He wants me to do that?

To become vulnerable?

To a stranger?

You said you would learn.

I scoff, barely looking at her.

Yeah, I did.

So, will you? Will you learn? Will you learn to cry, to care, to hold on, to become vulnerable?

Do I have a choice?

You're the one in control.

I bite my lips.

No.

No, I'm not in control.

I'm going to regret this.

You did mention that.

I look at him.

"I wanna learn to become vulnerable," I say. "I want to learn to hold on, to care, to cry. I'm willing to learn." I stare at him. "Will you teach me?"

"Uh." He squeaks. "I..." He laughs. "I'm not qualified, Clara. You should see a psychiatrist. I don't want to give you advice that may hurt you even more."

His words make me look out the window. "I don't like psychiatrists," I say, reminiscing of something not worth reminiscing. "They don't help you. They manipulate you."

I shake my head. "You don't have to talk to me," I say. "Just listen. I want someone other than a pen and paper to actually hear me and my thoughts. I want someone to actually hear my voice."

"Clara..."

"You asked me why I cried," I say. "And now I'll give you an answer."

I gulp down the pit in my throat.

I'm really going to regret this.

"Ben Demarli," I say. "His name was Ben Demarli. And he hung himself."

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