H feels blessed with a zesty bit of pain that runs through his thin veins, which runs his body day and night. The pain was shielding him from feelings that he is not currently would be able to deal with, such as joy, happiness, hope, love.
It had such a power that there was no space to think anything else or feel any different, was like a mother, protecting the vulnerable child from the horror of the outside world. Everything seems so big to the child, every problem is too heavy to bear, boredom is dark and scary. Child wants to feel secure and safe, always longs for the smell of the mother’s skin, her hands -somehow bigger than anything outside the house. This is what pain is for him. Bigger than anything outside home…
It is buried deep down vibrates like a never ending song, helps him get drunk with every drop of his blood, circulating through the bottom of his hairs, his scalp, neck, chest, lower back, bottom, knees and ankles. Wherever his skin stretches to it can reach. Even his guts, his stomach, his heart are infected with it. That’s the colour of my spirit, he thinks. This is somehow not new, only became visible, after mourning for weeks. It was there all along, all his life, as if her death was an inevitable act for this creature of pain. As if it was his destiny walking towards her death that he could only wait and see, only for him to recognise it in the form of a beautiful soulless body. As if he needed her death to see his own pain-infected spirit.
It was inside him when he was born, it was there when he started reading and writing, playing basketball in the school. It was there when he graduated from the college, in the all family pictures, when he first met her, at their wedding, in the all pictures hung in the bedroom. It got bigger and bigger as he grew older. He is sitting in the middle of the pain now, in the bedroom, where dark curtains move with the breeze reminding him the beautiful shadows on her white pale skin. Her naked body, she hated wearing anything at home, was happy naked, only those shadows were covering her beautiful arse, only when she lied on her belly on the right side of the bed. She smiled gently trying to understand what he thinks, to make him talk. He wouldn’t talk much, instead he would watch and feel, feel things that she never really could fully make sense of, but she knew that his soul had that bitter colour. She would do the talking, impulsively, wanting to stop the pain emanating from him, to heal his pain-infected soul and protect herself. Was that it? My pain, behind her death?
H whispered “Mea culpa” feeling responsible for what had happened. His eyes filled with the drops of pain and those drops were somehow alleviated the level of pain in the veins. His tears turned into weeping and a loud cry. He sat in front of the dark curtains reflecting shadows onto the right side of the bed, searching for her beautiful white arse to cover.
He cried loud, so loud, that John didn’t want to ring the bell and put the car keys into his pocket. It was a beautiful Sunday and he would definitely go to the bakery as usual, at 9, when it opens the shatters.
John wanted to pretend that neither the keys nor his loud cry implied that he was lost and in pain. He left a note on the door and his phone number, which implied everything he denied.
H found the note and a visible confusion spread towards his forehead. Didn’t he give him the keys after the breakfast? He checked his pockets to find the keys, listened to the teapot boiling in the kitchen, smelled the rosemary in the toaster.
H wondered what time it is and first time in his life H doubted that he was awake.