I've been tactless in my desperation to be alone, doing it in an undesirable manner that's hurt the people around me. I cannot be with people because of my self centredness, yet I need them. I need people like you...her.
In
a fit of silent, selfish frenzy I'd overlooked the various bouts of her
kindness and worry that overshadowed me. But despite it all, instead of the
thought comforting me like a lone burning lamp on a dark quiet night, it
continued to rock me with guilt- the hating remorse bludgeoning me to a
decadent spiral, knocking all pride out of my head leaving my head and heart in
a tangled, throbbing mess that soon became a constant part of me. I revelled in
the shame of my morbid unthinking selfishness yet embraced it all in quiet
sepulchral victory.
Nobody, not even myself could explain why I chose to do what I did. Deep down, weaved into the crevices of my conscience, I knew I was being cruel detaching myself from the people who loved me the most.
I know she tried extremely hard to the best of her abilities to prod through my heart and understand this part of me she had never experienced before. But then, that one hot afternoon when she personally sent a brown envelope at my door ( my brother was the one who claimed the sighting and I hid my relief at the fact that I was crouched admittedly like a cowardly snail in the comfort of the drawn curtains in my room) it was met with a mix of dismay, perhaps slight indifference, but of which eventually gave way to a kind of strange, festering furiousness that I discovered I was feeding on for days after.
In her cutesy writings she asked if I was alright and all kinds of things like what she planned to do that afternoon and for the rest of the holidays. She ended off saying she missed me. When I rummaged through the contents of the envelope I found a drawing of a pug (I heard you find them cute, she had scribbled) a sticker pad (I am not a fan of stickers unless they peel off cleanly with no filthy residue to mark its cheapness and poor make) and two rings (which, according to her, were made by people with down syndrome and purchased for a good cause). I laid them all out in front of me, staring at the little thoughtful things and wondered if I was going to burst into tears for what I had done. They seemed harmless in their innocence-sweet even- yet foreboding as they lay on my bed expecting something in return. Perhaps an explanation, a quick call to say thank- you- and- sorry -and let’s- go- out- for- ice cream. My breath was strangely calm, refusing to convulse into uncontrollable gasps. But then I felt horribly mad at her. How could anyone, ANYONE at all put me in such a position? In all my running ins with friendships, once I decided to detach myself from people, nobody would run after me and ask what's wrong. I would wish to be left alone but deep inside in was the yearning for someone to reach out, pull me into a loving embrace and tell me everything would be alright. But here was this girl, cutting the waters clear and chasing hard enough to not lose me and trying to make sure I was okay. I felt like I was in a cave, huddled up but kept to hunker and scrounge right in and eventually hibernate in a dark and lonely corner, exhausted from being chased.
I was angry, because it felt like she was dangling a credibly safe light for me to hang on and pull me out from my desolation, but I wasn't ready yet. I wasn't ready to escape this perplexing depression and morbid coldness. I think I even secretly enjoyed it.
And so I took one last look at all the things she had sent me, decided to not take into consideration how she had gone out of the way to ensure my state did not reduce me to suicide, packed it all up in the thin brown envelope and kept it under a pile of heavy books where I promptly forgot about it all a week later.
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