The beating of my heart echoes in my ears. How it still pumps blood is a mystery to me. I always imagined it would fall silent if we were separated from each other. But my heart still beats, as strong as ever. Only the pain that forces itself through my veins with every heartbeat reveals that something has changed. “You promised,” I say in a strangled voice, the sharpness of my pain echoing through it.
Simon smiles softly at me. His brown hair is disheveled, his black jacket torn and wounds stand out sharply against his pale skin. He is so close to me that I could touch him, but when I reach my hand out to him I feel nothing. His comforting warmth is gone.
"You promised," I repeat. We have been together since childhood. All the time. He was the only one I could rely on. The only one who knew what kind of life I led. What I had to endure every day.
“I will always be there for you.” Hearing his familiar voice feels like my heart is being cut from my chest. I don't feel the tears as they flow down my cheeks. Liar.
My eyelids feel heavy and my cheeks are moist when I wake up. I don't want to go to school. There is no point. There is no reason why I should go. With each passing day that I live without Simon, I realize that more. Why should I take a course that I will never do anything with? Why should I make friends who eventually leave me anyway?
When I get out of bed and look in the mirror, I stare at the red-blue skin under my eye - another reason to stay home today. But the thought of staying home is even worse than the thought of spending a useless day at school. Anything is better than another day in this house. Evenings are bad enough.
I put a thick layer of foundation on my face to hide the bruise. Sometimes I think it's better for others to see, to discover what's going on behind the walls of this house. But I've heard the stories about what happens to children when such atrocities are discovered and I only have two more years to sit out.
Two more years.
Two years sounds like an eternity.
I grab my mobile and open the chat conversation with Simon. Hang tight, says his latest message. I'm coming for you. My fingers grip the device tightly before I put it in my pocket and walk into the living room.
The living room smells sharp of alcohol and on the wooden coffee table lie empty beer bottles and a wine glass. I wrinkle my nose and walk to the hall, where I put on my G-star parka, and walk out with my school bag.
Arriving at the bus stop, I pause for a moment, and then continue walking. How would they find out I'm not going today?
In the city park I take a seat on the bench under the cherry blossom. Pink petals cover the path and slowly whirl down. With my eyes closed, I lean my head back against the tree trunk. Simon's clear voice echoes in my head: Did you know that blossoms symbolize renewal and the speed of life, Hanna? A cherry blossom has a very short life, but until it has wilted, it is the most beautiful flower.
"You've always hated that statement."
I open my eyes. Simon stands smiling in front of me. For a moment a spark of joy flashes through me, but then it dies out to leave a pit of emptiness. "I hate it even more now."
Simon sits down next to me. "You shouldn't allow that. Blossoms are beautiful. You always thought they were beautiful too.”
My eyes are focused on our fingers, they are only a few inches apart. It's unbearable that I can't touch him. I say: "They remind me of you. That's why I hate them.”
“Do you hate me?” Simon looks at me.
"You left me."
"That wasn't my choice."
I know, but… "You promised me we'd always be together."
"I'm here now, aren't I?"
I look Simon over closely. "This isn't real."
He raises an eyebrow. “No?” Then he puts his hand on mine. There is no warmth, but I can feel the pressure of his hand.
With a shock my eyes fly open. Faint sunlight seeps through the blossoms above me. When I look next to me, Simon has disappeared and when I put my hand on the wood it feels cool. A man with a jack-russell on a leash stops for a moment and looks at me inquisitively. His eyes move to where my hand is on the bench, after which he gets a disapproving look and quickly walks on.
I keep looking at him until he disappears out of sight. I lower my head in my hands.
My heart is beating fast as I whisper over and over, “It wasn't real. It wasn't real.” But that doesn't change the fact that it felt real.
Could I see him again? Surely it can't hurt to try it.
I get up, grab my school bag and walk home.
When I turn my key in the front door, I notice that it has already been unlocked. The door opens slightly with a soft click. Crap. I freeze as I listen. If after a few seconds I still don't hear footsteps, I push the door open further and step into the hall.
I peer into the living room through the glass in the hall door. Mom is sitting on the leather sofa. The TV is on - the voice of the presenter of the program pours into the hall. In front of her is a half-empty wine bottle and in her hand she has a wine glass, filled with the golden wine, which she slowly sips from. How she's going to react when she discovers me at home now depends entirely on how much wine she's already had. Anyway, I'm lucky it's her and not Dad. From her I can escape
Carefully, to make as little noise as possible, I push the door handle down and open the door. I leave it open as I tiptoe past the couch. Mom doesn't seem to notice my presence. Still, my chest feels tense and my heart vibrates quickly under my skin.
When I'm only a few steps away from my bedroom door, she turns around with a jerk. My heart skips a beat when I see the haze in her eyes. She narrows her eyes. “Why are you home?” she asks sharply.
I resist the urge to break eye contact. "I don't feel well and…"
Her gaze darkens. She stands up without putting down the wine glass. She wears a half unbuttoned white blouse and a tight black pencil skirt. Her blond hair hangs loose along her face. "Do you think your father and I pay for that? For you to call in sick from school?”
She walks up to me. The thought crosses my mind that I must run away, but my body is numb. I cringe as she grabs my upper arm. Through the fabric of my parka I can feel her fingers pressing into my skin. The pain makes me capable of moving again. I try to pull myself free, but she grabs me tighter. "You’re hurting me," I beep.
“Good. That's what it feels like to take care of someone who doesn't appreciate it. Just feel what it's like to be an adult.” I let out a cry as she gives me a hard push. I hit the ground with a bang.
I move backwards across the floor, towards my room. “Simon always took care of me. You never did. Don't act like it's different now!”
Mom's gaze hardens. Pushing myself to my feet, I slam open my bedroom door just as she steps up to me and yells: "Don't say that name! Don't you dare talk about that kid!” I quickly shut the door between us. Her fist slams into the wood and the door handle bounces wildly as she yells: "Ungrateful bitch! Open that door. Open up and you'll see how I care for you!” I press my hands to my ears, trying to shut out her screams, as I brace my back against the door to keep it shut.
My legs hurt from the constant tension when she finally gives up and I hear her walk away. I quickly slide my clothing drawer in front of the door, after which I drop onto my bed and press my hands against my eyes. Falling asleep now seems impossible, but I must try. I try to clear my head, which is impossible. Then I try to count sheep. In my mind I hear myself say: sleep. Fall asleep. For the hell of it, fall asleep!
I'll lay there until I hear Dad come home. I know from the rough sound of his voice that has a bad day today. I hear Mom talking to him and decide to skip dinner today. I wait: Until it gets dark outside. Until my clock radio shows twelve o'clock. Until I hear Mom and Dad walking up the stairs. Then I wait another hour.
At half past one I realize that I am not going to fall asleep. I sneak out of my room and walk to the end of the kitchen, where I carefully climb the stairs, avoiding all the creaking steps. Mom and Dad's bedroom door is open. I peek inside briefly. Snoring fills the modern furnished room and I exhale with relief.
I sneak further across the landing to the bathroom. From the medicine cabinet I take Mom's white jar of sleeping pills. I shake two in my hand, then put it back and walk downstairs. Back in my bedroom I take the pills dry - with all the gagging that entails - and lie down. Within a few minutes I feel the sticky threads of sleep wrap around me and pull me down.
