The seventh paper,
People don't go around talking about their problems aloud, do they?
Because I would like to do so. But I can't. Because people don't, do they? People just simply don't. But can I? Just this once.
I wrote ," Just this once."
Draft.I hated it. I hated feeling like it didn't matter, like it was okay for you to do so just because you can. And each time when I feel that way, I wash it all away, running the water on my skin to wash off the feeling because I felt so dirty. So used. Like a ragdoll being rummaged all over. I remember sitting in the showers for hours. Running the showers to wash away the dirt, the sins; to wash away all traces of you and everything. It didn't matter if I fell sick after that because it felt like I deserved it. It felt like I deserved it for what I've let you do to myself, for what I've allowed myself to go through. It felt like I was compensating for it. I didn't care if the fever burned me inside out. I didn't. That was how horrible it felt.
I never sat in the showers after that day anymore.
It was August 9th.
People always leave.
People I know, people I don't know, people I never got to know, people I thought I knew, people I once knew, and the people I want to know. I never got to know her. In my memory, she was the same beautiful bride in her white gown just two years ago. She left. And I never got to know her. Her departure left me envious. The thought of leaving seemed so vast of the air I needed to breathe. Because I had wanted to leave. Leave and breathe all over again. But I couldn't leave the same way she did, I musn't and I did what was nearest to it. And that day, I tried to. It was grandpa's birthday. Fate brought me there to the place where it all began. Absentmindedly, I turned off the calls on my phone and walked away. Walked blindly wherever I wanted to, till I reached that very same KTM station.
They couldn't find me.
I sat by the road for five hours. Five hours and time seemed to has stopped while I was there.
They couldn't find me there. It hit me after seeing that old couple, it wasn't worth it. Whatever reason I had for running away, it shouldn't be this. Because it simply wasn't worth. And I walked back to my family, the same way I walked away from them. I never told them why, and they never asked again after that. You were even texting me that time. You didn't know, did you? No. You didn't even noticed.
And that was the aftermath of my wishful thinking.
The night the thief broke in my window, I texted you four times. Or more I don't remember. I was crying so badly, probably the worst I had ever cried, so shaken by that man standing outside my window.
You didn't reply.
And that night the voice telling me "Don't cry, its okay. I'm here with you. Don't be afraid . Don't cry. I'm here," wasn't yours. The person who called wasn't you. The voice I spoke to the whole night while I tried to sleep wasn't yours. It felt wrong, because you weren't the person who were there when you should be. It hit me hard when he asked " Where is he?" I didn't know how to answer. Instead, the next morning, I was the one calling you. You weren't home. And I will never forget what you said to me that night before I slept in that same bedroom alone for the first time again after what happened. Again, I never said anything. I guess you didn't know I couldn't sleep the whole night that day.
I cried instead.
And each time I look at the window now, what I remember wasn't that thief who tried to break into my bedroom, but your absence when I needed you most. The words you said to me that night.
It happened when I was five.
There was something about that day that made it memorable. It wasn't until it happened for the second time that I realized what it was. I didn't cry. I must have said the wrong thing, or did something she really hated, I remembered wondering that day. I was so young, I didn't know. She left the door ajar. The five year old me sat right in front of the front porch, ready to reach up to her as she come back through the same door. She didn't. And I waited. Whilst waiting, I never shed a single tear. I just sat there, ignorant as I was young and waited. I waited until she came home and I cried.
The second time it happened was four years ago. I was tugging her arms, pulling her back. She was crying, shaking so badly her tears fell on my hands. Before she left for the door, she said, "
I hate you. And one day when I've had enough, I will walk out this door and you will never see me again." I watched her leave. The door this time was no longer ajar but wide open. I sat at the same spot on the front porch and I did what I could. Wait. She never came back that day. She never did until two days later. And I never cried, not until she returned.
Seven weeks ago, she fell ill.
It was a relapse from the side effect of the surgery she had six years ago. The pain was immense, I guess I'll never know just how much. For that one month every day after school, I became that child again. The same five year old child waiting for her at the door once again. And so I sat, waiting for her to come home from treatment everyday fearing that she wouldn't one day. All of a sudden, I was that young, ignorant child all over again as I sat waiting for her each day. Of all the things I fear in the world, I was suddenly most afraid of losing her. The words she once said to me. They haunt me each time I see her reach for the door. I was afraid to find that one day she wouldn't be walking in through that door again.
You knew. And what did you do?
You chose at that moment to say,
"There's no point worrying anyway, you worry too much all the time. "
I never said anything. Because I barely had the strength to even be angry. No. I was too tired.
I must be a demon child because I never noticed how she was limping as she walked, how she barely had the energy to even nag at me anymore, how she lost her appetite, how her already petite frame suddenly became thinner, or how long she was crouching in pain on the floor that Friday while I was on the phone with you. I yelled at her, do you remember? I yelled.
I would've given everything to take back what I did, but I couldn't. Could I?
You said you were patient till the end. So what of me? What was I if I wasn't patient? All your words thrown at me that way, had I not endured it all? And I never said anything even after that Friday. I lost count how many times I've broke down in front of my best friend and how she dreaded getting calls from me because it would mean I was crying. The tears already drained from all the crying. I was like a withered leaf, with tears that fell as if to water the soil. I was sent to counselling. I vomitted during classes. I skipped meals and got myself acute gastritis, taking medication from time to time. That was three months ago. I simply never said anything because it felt like I deserved it all. But, really do I? The things I did say to you though, you just got mad and shrugged them off.
"You always kept saying bad things happen to you all the time."
Still, I never said anything back.
In the end, I resort to just keep it all to myself. I didn't choose for bad things to happen. They all happen to me for reasons. Reasons I've now come to realize.You weren't the only one who was so sick and tired. I just chose not to say anything.
I never told you the something I meant to say that Monday. Because I couldn't say it. I started crying when I tried to say it because it hurts. It hurts so much. Your smile. I didn't say the something I meant to say because I didn't want to see it disappear. I didn't want to hurt you. And I end up hurting myself in the end.
It took me a while to realize why I didn't cry the way I always do when you left that Monday. Simply because it was just not worth my tears anymore.
Am I really protecting myself? Tell me why then, why it hurts this bad as I am typing this. If you really need to know, I'm not fine. And I really wish that people would stop with all the how are you? questions, because frankly I am sick of answering. I don’t care if it’s out of plain courtesy, or everyone is really just plain worried. Just stop, because truthfully, most of the times I spend more time thinking of a lie to avoid the conversation from becoming emotional rather than what, and how I am really feeling. Because right now, I need to be studying and be who I need to be.
Dont know. Maybe. Perhaps. Nothing.
Suddenly they all seem to make more sense than they had ever did.
Fifteenth. I didn't forget.
And the seventh paper says,
I'm sorry.