The Dreams That Were Dreamt

Chapter Seventeen: Whispers

The whispers that were the bearers of warning stood somewhere, far behind me, with their heads held high. Their distorted faces in the translucent wind witnessed the few ups and the many downs with righteous eyes. They did not have to say as much as 'we told you so'. Their presence pressed against the surface of the ice emoted all there was to say. Shame. Shame was what I felt. What were the whispers? The answer, I could only feel.

The longing in my heart had played me for a fool, and I was the weakest of prey. I was the one that always leaned forward. I tilted my body over the edge of the cliff until I passed the horizon and the hole sucked me in. I hit the bottom of the well face first. ''What happened to your nose,'' they asked. I would always just shake my head. Because I couldn't wave the white handkerchief that was hanging out of my back pocket. I couldn't let the whispers claim any sort of victory. Not yet. They could still be proved wrong. Hopefully, they could still be proved wrong. I continued to tuck the sheet of white back inside. Please, let them be wrong. Deep down, I knew that I was the one in the wrong. Why was I so stubborn?

Life with Owen was difficult. Maybe it was stupid to think that what I had with him could be called a life. He was in the center of mine but I continued to be in the margins of his. He continuously outran me. When I called his name he rarely answered. But every time he spoke mine, I was quick to build a fire. In those moments he gave me what sufficed and withheld what I longed for. He would pour the bucket of water over what could have burned for hours before I had the chance to get warm. I knew not to complain about it. The times when I had done it he would just grab my hand and stick it into the flames. Is that what you want? We had no safeword. Life with Owen, or my life with Owen in it, wasn't easy.

Even though being just within the margins of his frame was difficult, it rarely crossed the line of being unbearable. And when it did, he would come around and tell me everything I wanted and needed to hear. It was a vicious cycle of him taking a lot, giving a little, taking more and giving me what I needed to survive. But what did he do? What did he do that was so vicious? It was difficult to speak. I would always reduce the many isolated incidences to just that, isolated incidences. It never helped that what he, in turn, reduced me to was being dramatic or overly emotional.

But hands hurt. Words could hurt just as much. Lies were something I had grown accustomed to. The most painful thorn however, was the one of not knowing in what form our next encounter would take shape. What would be the next lie? What would the next harsh word be? How long until it reached the point of getting physical? I had learned to differentiate the sound of his sighs. You had to. But abuse was a word that felt weird on my tongue. How could it be abuse? We were equals, were we not? No one had ever taught me how to respond to it. I never thought it could be a part of my world. That people such as him existed was, in my world, fiction at best. And having it entering my world made everything feel unreal. 

It was more than turning no's into yes'. Putting on a smile in those instances was not difficult anymore. I could turn my eyes vacant with the snap of a finger. It was the constant pulling of tides that was what was draining. It was saying one thing and then claiming it never had been said. It was choosing rage instead of reason. It was deciding on rules that applied to me but not him. It was never being able to demand anything. It was never knowing what words or what actions would turn his eyes red. It was being the object of harsh words and physical altercations. Rhyme and reason didn't exist. The same scene had been played a multiple of times.

And it was all my fault, was it not? I wasn't forced to endure any of it. No one picked up the phone or answered the texts for me. I was the one that always opened the door. I wasn't a victim. I wasn't, was I? I hated thinking of myself as a victim. Things didn't just happen to me. I let them happen. I chose to, for whatever reason, to stay. I accepted every half hearted apology. I overlooked many things I shouldn't have. And in the times where I couldn't look the other way, I told myself that if I'm with him no one else had to be caught in the crossfire of his ways. It wasn't just about not letting the whispers win. I knew this. The crux of the matter was that I didn't want to be alone.