Precious [h.s.]

Chapter 53

It's finally quiet. Silence.

The moonlight peaks through the curtains, but it's enough to make me see around the room. In such a room one may feel afraid to wander at this late hour, but I've been here too many times - days and nights. It's comforting.

I sit down on the couch and look at the tall bookshelves that reach the ceiling. I can hear my own heartbeat so it's likely that Michael has already gone back to sleep. I try to close my eyes and think about nothing. Like a black canvas. No memories, no stories, no people. Nothing. Just a blank mind. Just a few minutes. But it's impossible. The harder I try, the harder it gets. There will never be enough thinking to get my brain to go to sleep.

I sigh and sit up. Insomnia? Maybe. Fear of going through whatever woke me up again? Most likely.

I don't know what kind of dream got this reaction out of me, but my mind has enough bad memories to pick from. It's stupid, and I'm an adult who can't sleep because of a bad dream. I leave the room and make sure that I close the door gently. My feet touch the wooden steps softly, and the silence is deadly. The kind of silence that makes you hear things that aren't there.

I finally get to the kitchen where I allow myself to be less tense. He can't hear me from here. With only the light from the moon, I find an old candle in the back of a kitchen cabinet and light it up with a lighter also found after meticulous searching. Perfect, minimal lighting. I sit on the chair and look through the window. I can see the greenhouse from here, I can see the pool and the whole back garden. I haven't been to any of these places in a long time. I haven't done anything that makes me happy in a while. Not only do I not have the motivation to do something for more than five minutes before getting bored and giving up, but there's also a hidden fear that I'll put all my negative thoughts and emotions into the only things that are mine. The only things left for me to love. I'll ruin them forever.

I sit up from my chair, hitting it a little too hard in my hurry to reach the cabinet which contains the reason for my nocturnal visit to the kitchen. It wasn't the thing that brought me downstairs, but it was in the back of my head, guiding my actions.

I pick up the corkscrew and easily open the bottle of red wine. I don't bother to look for a glass and drink straight from the bottle instead. I swallow too much, and it goes straight to my head. It feels good. My back hits the island and I stare at nothing as my body slides down until I'm seated on the floor. The tiles are cold and my thin pajamas don't protect my skin from their temperature. I bring my knees to my chest and rest my arms on them, hiding my face in the sleeve of my yellow shirt. The house is completely silent, but for once, it makes me feel weirded out. I am in this position at 2 am in the morning, just a few days away from Christmas. It has been the last thing on my mind, but it is not like I have many people to worry about.

"Another shitty holiday spent with shitty people," I say quietly. The winter season does not bring only the same sadness that appears out of the blue as the temperatures start to drop, but it comes along with the obligation to feel happy. It's Christmas, be happy! A new year, let's celebrate! I couldn't care less about what other people choose to do with their time, but everyone makes it such a big deal if you don't want to join whatever they're doing. It's a yearly facade people put on. They invite you to their houses on Christmas day and then don't speak to you until a year later.

Trying to turn such a depressing season as winter into something jolly that everybody on the planet enjoys is just a marketing tool for companies to sell their products. I don't get it anymore. What's the point of being nice for three days of the year when you're an asshole for the rest of it? What's the point of acting like a good person when you are a wifebeater when people's eyes aren't on you?