Fractured
Even when everything changes, nothing is different.
A cold winter night. The warmth emanating from him. The sky tinged with red as the snow blankets every inch of every surface. The city is a wonderland that mirrors how I feel: cold, quiet, pristine. The stillness around us is a gift only winter can allow, like being under water — languid and free — akin to tipping the honey bottle and watching it travel down one side ever so slowly.
I drop my head onto his shoulder and lace my arms around his waist. “Are you cold?” He asks without turning into the embrace. His voice, barely above a whisper, tickles my forehead. I close my eyes. One, two, three… I count silently, waiting to see how long he takes to kiss me. He doesn’t. I’m at 18 now. 19. 20. I wish he would say something. Anything. Why are you so distant? Won’t you ask me about me?
Isaac and I spent lifetimes apart, wrapped up in the minutia of the love he sought in others and all I gave to the wrong people. But even the life we made together, the one we call our own is crumbling. He lives in his misery too much and I, in my hope for more. I wonder when our love became an unlisted address.
Growing up, addiction shadowed Isaac’s youth and violence and neglect loomed over mine. That was the first stone life threw at us, fracturing what little innocence was left of our childhood.
Neither of us fully recovered and when we found each other, we mistook a shared history for a guarantee of a different life, a different love. We had a contingency for everything. We knew better.
But as we learned later, unresolved pain makes us do unspeakable things and conscience is a beast that feeds off justification. The deeper the wound, the crazier the justification and we collectively carried enough pain to last us a few lifetimes.
Isaac’s voice shook with urgency as he spoke, “I’m sorry. You were right. You were right about everything.” I could hear the hustle and bustle of a megalopolis airport in the background. “This is the last call for passengers boarding flight AL792 to Stockholm…” The operator’s announcement only added to his panic.
“Shit. That’s my flight. Please, baby,” He pleaded. “Please pick up. I promise I’ll fix everything. Just give me one more chance.” Another string of expletives followed before he hung up.
When we fought he would say, “Every couple fights, love. We’re no different.” And everytime I would believe him for the last time. So what was it in his voice? Longing? Regret? Love? The hopeful cadence of his pleas had me imagining a thousand different “what if” scenarios. I spent days replaying the message on my phone. Weeks passed. January fell into February, which opened its arms to March. One day I opened my inbox to an untitled email from him. Attached was a photo with a view from his apartment and a message that read: Everything I failed to give you before. Come.
And who can recognize heartbreak when it disguises itself as everything you’ve ever hoped for? I forgave , once again, for the last time.
“Were you drinking again?” I asked.
“It was boy’s night out. What was I supposed to do, sit on my hands the entire night?” Isaac almost fell over the first step of the stairs. I instinctively reached out to break his fall but he slapped my arm away. The gesture stung. “You clearly have a problem,” I said quietly.
“Don’t you dare go there. I’m not him.” The menace in his voice made me take a step back and it took all the courage I could muster to suggest counselling. “I’ll go with you. We’ll work through it together.”
“I’m not one of your patients, Ava. Don’t try to fix me. I don’t need your help.” He raked a hand through his hair, frustration evident in the hard line of his jaw.
“What do you need, then? Tell me so we can stop doing this,” I pleaded.
“I need you to leave me alone. You made a mistake coming here. Leave. Pack your bags and go,” He said.
“You don’t mean that,” I choked past the tears.
“That’s just great. Cry it out.” His look held nothing but contempt as he brushed past me and headed for the couch.
I slid down the wall that held me up and wondered where we went wrong. Who he was, was never the problem, nor where he came from, or his past. I knew I had my fair share of demons but it was becoming increasingly difficult to recognize who he was becoming. Adversity may carve us into who we’re meant to be but none of us survive the onslaught without a few cracks. His just kept growing and I was afraid they’d continue until he shattered completely.
Parents are our first heroes and our first villains. We admire them yet fear becoming them. The boy is afraid of turning into his father so he does everything to avoid the same mistakes, only to end up filling his shoes. The girl vows to never be silenced into submission but somehow follows in her mother’s footsteps.
It feels as if society is set up to repeat the same cycle — roles and conventions intact. Trouble greets us on the path we took to avoid it and the things we’re afraid of just catch up to us that much faster.
That’s how psychological scars fracture our psyche. Instinctively we attract more of the same, perpetuating unhealthy behaviours and damaging coping mechanisms that do nothing but fuel misery. The void we try to fill can’t be filled until we actively seek to remedy the pain our hearts harbour. So even when good things like love and understanding come our way, we don’t know where to put them, or what to do with them, and they grow stale in our hands.
After all, here we were: him, a spitting image of the man he grew up resenting and me, crumbling underneath the exterior and helpless when it came to him.
I look around now trying to see if I can coax out our love from the shadows, hopeful that it can still save us. I reach into the darkness but it draws nothing but blood. The jagged edges of reality latch onto the life we made, creating a fissure so wide it’s impossible to reach him even across the bed we share.
Isaac brings the cigarette to his lips. I try to catch the smoke he exhales. It dissipates just like my hope, my wishful thinking. Suddenly, I want to cry. Bloody cigarettes. It’s all that smoke in my eyes. The wind howls outside. I feel just as empty — hollow. I should pull away but my arms around him are laden with lead. The silence around us, once a cocoon of warmth, feels suffocating. I glance over to the bed then back at him, tears of frustration prickling my eyes. I want to scream. What’s worse than being lonely in the presence of the one you love?
I turn away from him. He says nothing. Sometime later I feel him crawl into bed behind me. I can smell the alcohol on his breath. “I want to hurt you,” he whispers playfully in my ear as his lips find mine. Demanding. Taking. Too late, I think, as a tear slides out the corner of my eye. You already have.
