“How was your birthday Emily?” He asks rather more loudly than necessary with this sharp, accusatory tone which draws several more pairs of eyes to the scene. He looks at me with this blank stare, but still he looks at me, as though to say that he is persisting in getting something from me. That he, and they must steal a piece of information about me, or at least punish me and make me feel uncomfortable for not giving these pieces willingly. And in my surprise, for Andrew usually displays a rather mature, unobtrusive politeness and understanding, in my surprise at this sudden attack on my privacy, my eyes dart from him to my hands as I fold the paper in front of me, a nervous agitated motion that tells him he has succeeded. And when my reply comes it tumbles as quietly and insignificantly as my body tumbles about the factory all day, “Yeah it was fine thank you”
I just lay there and wept. An ugly, steamy, pink crumpled face. Contorting and twisting and straining to release a putrid angst. A spasmodic and repulsive shuddering from my bones and through my grotesque, bovine flesh, my heaving gut. The gut of an animal consumed by gluttony and ignorance. My soul was bleeding and I could not find one word for my pain. My tongue, like my body; that of an animal, a mindless and confused canine distortion, unable to speak. A beastly mass, unbearable to witness.
And I wished I could project this darkness from myself, in a spew of vomit noir, in a raging blur of demonic tumult.
But instead I can only lie and weep and feel his eyes burning upon me and vainly wonder whether those gems are filled with love or reproach? Pity or shame? Sadness or remorse?
And he says now come on, chin up, cheer up, look at me. Look at me he says. But I cant raise my head, it hangs with the weight of my self-loathing and chokes me with the rolls tied around my throat. And again I hate myself. And he begs me to look at him, to show my eyes to his so he can show mine that he means it when he says this;
I love you I love you I love you I love you he says.
He exhales this stream of I love you, he breaths it in my hair and squeezes his arms around me as if to squeeze the hell inside me out and push his love in. And I don’t feel what I want. I wanted that, to feel that love. And I know that he meant it and I know that my heart loves him too, there’s no doubt there. But there’s no passion either.
This dull, horrid, frustrating apathy. It wont let me love. It wont release me.
I know I need him, but now he wont believe me. He throws his heart at me and mine is so shriveled and dry I cant even light the fire beneath it. How could I show him?
He says tell me, tell me whats wrong. I’ve watched you cry and I’ve tasted those tears and I want to know why, and how can I make you happy? I shrug because I don’t know and before I can say ‘I don’t know’ I feel it and it shoots a cry of despair up my chest and I catch it in my throat and hold it there, waiting for it to dissolve. And he’s watching me. And he looks like he wants to crack my shell open and see, and finally understand.
And all I can do is sigh and whisper how unhappy I am. He thinks it’s his fault. I say what will I do do without you? He says promise you’ll be more positive.
I cant look at him.
He leaves.
