youth

06 \\ episodes

“It’s okay to lock yourself in the medicine cabinet, to drink all the wine, to do what it takes to stay, without staying. It’s okay to hate God today, to change his name to yours, to want to ruin all that ruined you. It’s okay to feel like only a photograph of yourself, to need a stranger to pull your hair and pin you down. It’s okay to want your mother as you lie alone in bed. It’s okay to break, to fuck, to flame, to church, to crush, to knife, to rock, and rock, and rock, and rock, and rock, and rock. It’s okay to wave goodbye to yourself in the mirror. To write, ‘I don’t want anything.’ It’s okay to despise what you have inherited, to feel dead in a city of pulses.” - Rachel McKibbins, Letter From My Heart to My Brain (2010)

                                                               ✧  ✧ ✧

I knew you were different from anyone else I had ever met the first time I saw you. The second time I saw you, this belief was only strengthened by actually talking to you. I’d say you were special but, in all honesty, I know that that is  not true. No one is wholly special because to be wholly special you have to be special to everyone and even the greatest of people are not special to everyone. Though you were definitely special to me… no one is wholly special but everyone is special to someone, whether they know it or not.

But despite knowing you were different, I didn’t realise how different until your first episode. I will come to forget most of our walks, a lot of our talks, the majority of our days and the minority of our nights but your episodes are ingrained on my mind, as if I have looked at the sun for too long and when I blink all I see is that. You weren’t always a good different – that was the problem. It was a different that I had never come across before and that most people didn’t like to talk about, especially those people who were different in that kind of way.

“It’s raining like hell out there. Summer’s definitely gone…” I had shouted to you as I stepped into what was then our apartment, only just managing to stop one of the book buildings collapsing on top of me as the door swung shut. Of course I know  now why you didn’t reply but at that moment I could hear Strawberry Fields Forever playing and I assumed you were reading or perhaps smoking on the balcony. It wasn’t long before I realised that that was not the case at all.

The record faltered for a second and then continued, almost announcing my entrance as I walked into the living room. I could see the balcony from there and you weren’t there. I think I shrugged to myself, slipping out of my jacket and kicking off my shoes. A few moments later and I was walking to our bedroom, the source of the music. Sometimes I think what would have happened to you if I had come later; if I had had to wait a few extra minutes before crossing a road; if the queue had been longer at the store; if I’d stopped to look in the window of a book store; if the books had collapsed onto me and I’d had to clear them all up; what would have happened to you? I’m glad I never found out.

It was obvious something was wrong when I went into the bedroom and found only mess. Our bedroom was usually a mess but it had been trashed. Someone had knocked things over, thrown stuff at the wall and the worst thing was I knew it was you. You were curled up in the middle of the wreck, your body shaking. Your back was turned to me and you had your arms wrapped around you, as if you were trying to hold yourself together. As if at any moment the inconceivable would happen and your bones would shatter. I was scared.

You seemed unflappable but obviously that was not the truth. I shouldn’t have thought it was. No matter how impossible someone seems they will always have cracks somewhere. The fear was washing through me but I buried it, moving across to you and touching your shoulder. I won’t ever forget how you looked when I pulled you into my lap. Your jaw was trembling, your lips shredded with sobs, your cheeks strewn with a map of make up that was riddled with searing tears. Tears fallen from tangible pools of broken blue. I could feel every part of you shivering in a kaleidoscopic chasm of languid sadness. A sadness that makes me ache whenever I think about it.

You had continued to cry for several minutes, neither of us speaking as I rocked you, my fingers only feathers on your shoulder whilst my arms were girders, holding you to me. You did not stop crying even as I asked what was wrong and tried to figured out what had happened. I wanted to help. But silent tears were all I was rewarded with and, in the end, I decided not to question you. The record had finished and undoubedtly it would  be scratched but I did not care. I could get another one. You, on the other hand, was not something that could be replaced. I had to fix you.

I can remember how light you were as I carried you to the bathroom, how soft your body was as I undressed you, how cold your skin was as I helped you into the bath, how disconnected you were as I poured water over your back and washed you. I treated you as a child, patient as the stubbled towel dried you, gentle as I dressed you in knickers and a jumper, motherly as I wrapped as many blankets as I could find around you, loving as I stroked your hair, watching you fall into a feverish sleep. I didn’t leave your side except to throw Strawberry Fields Forever into the bin, not checking to see if it was scratched because even if it wasn’t I know I didn’t want to keep it.

Whenever I hear it now all I can see is your face, harrowed with an intoxicating sadness. I wish I didn’t have to.

“I’m sorry.” Your voice awoke me later and I was slow as I opened my eyes and looked at you. I had put you on the comfier couch, myself sitting on the floor near your head so I would be with you when you woke. I had offered a smile to you, turning so I could see you properly.

“You have nothing to apologise for.” You closed your eyes.

“I have everything to apologise for.”