Stuck with a Punk ✔

No. 82.: Broken

Struggle, struggle, struggle. The evening continued in a struggle. A struggle for air. A struggle for peace. A struggle for clarity. And a simple momentary feeling has evolved into a night of struggles, which is probably not restricted only to me. 

Devon doesn't have it particularly easy. He probably has it the hardest being just a baby, a spectator to the joys and sorrows of those around him. Perhaps that's where our need for action comes from - as babies we're powerless, and being powerless is an unbearable, nagging feeling. Just like that having no control becomes our greatest fear, and once we grow up, action and control, the desire for some kind of power - emotional, physical, domestic - becomes a part of our nature, an inner drive. 

It's the only thing I was able to think about after we finally came back home. My thoughts either focused on how Devon must feel about it all, or when he called for Annabelle in his own way. 

He merely caught a glimpse of her and was ready to sell his soul to jump into her arms. 

I don't blame him. I'd do the same thing. 

Ambe...?

It's not her face, her body language, or her desire to escape back home that lingers in my mind - it's Devon's reaction to her, and it hurts more than whatever I used to torture myself till now. 

At home, Devon could not get comfortable no matter what I did. His happy plushie, a purple lion, was of no use. A small dose of baby formula did not do anything either. In his crib, in the safety of his comfort fuzzy blanket, he only became even more agitated than he already was. I tried to sit down with him and read him a few paragraphs of Curious George, but he was not interested in it. When he could barely keep his eyes open, whenever I tried to leave him, he woke up and would not let me go. Only when he was nestled in my arms like a baby bird, or whenever I was at least in close proximity, he was not in distress anymore. 

I was left with no choice, but to take him to my room. Supposedly that's not something that qualifies as great parenting, but I want my kid to be happy and well-rested, not alone in a dark room crying about missing me. 

Once he was laid down in my own bed, he relaxed a little bit. However, whenever I shifted in bed or got up to go to the toilet, his eyes burst open, then he slowly closed them again. 

At least, he got to get at least some sleep, unlike me. Technically... Technically, I did, I suppose. I don't know. Did I sleep or what happened?

I was haunted by guilt. Guilt concerning Devon's needy, panicky behaviour, and guilt concerning Annabelle. Everything revolves around Annabelle... 

Now that I think back on earlier this evening, when I just felt this intense need to cut a few arteries and went to see her, she did look abnormally tired. The one and only time I've seen her that tired was after she took the Plan B pill and ended up crying about Mason long into the night. 

That was so messy... So fucking messy. And this now is just fucking awful. 

If there's any possibility that I indeed am the reason behind the bags under her eyes smudged up with light makeup, the runny nose, the sleepless nights, the tell-tale paleness... It all only proves how much she trusted me. You don't lay your heart out to someone for whom you think they're not worth it. Had she never had hope for me to make the right move, she never would've said so breathlessly and at the same time happily that she in fact likes me too. She probably wouldn't have even got as mad at me as she did. 

Now that realisation... That hurts inexplicably much. It fills my head with all sort of nonsense, and my heart is bombarded with so many feelings I don't even know what's happening anymore.