Elegy

You are my child.

I had you in my arms when I was a child.

You nursed my soul when they hurt me.

I pulled you closer to my chest.

They hurt some more, and I clung to you even more.

We grew up together, and I was sad when I saw you malnourished.

Your growth is my happiness.

I could see no use in my existence if you did not thrive.

They said you would get tired from holding him.

You should learn to enjoy life on your own some time.

I smiled. I did not consider those words for more than a second.

I closed your ears, held you tight and told you all about the joy we had in each other.

How they would never know how lovely it was.

Then, on a trip,

I was meant to die.

I only got tarnished, though.

There, for a brief moment, my worries shifted from feeding you to surviving.

After that, I had nothing dearer than you.

I think, from that moment, the lines between your being and mine were blurred.

I squeezed you tightly, and we went to sleep that night.

I can still remember the smell of that room and the TV that lulled us to sleep. We were safe because the door was closed and between two beds we were secure.

I was you by then.

Anything that targeted you was personal, without exemption.

I surely lost pieces of my essence then, but the portrait I made of myself had no parts to cherish and nothing to guard.

I lived through you.

As you prospered, they smiled at me more, praise was thrown my way, I was loved!

Gradually, there was a duality in existing.

We had a role each.

I would deal with the surfacing pain, I clean the bruises, and I tell myself whatever needs to be told to keep the ugliness inside.

You, however, are in charge of the facade. You attend to what gives us meaning henceforth.

That was the deal.

It is simple, isn't it?

Oh, how I love you!

I mean what can I do other than that?

In the face of every difficulty, I only need to press you against my flesh, surround you with my arms, and tighten my loving embrace as we go through it all.

We have seen it all, you and I,

blowing winds, shards of glass, steep roads,

nothing managed to destroy us.

We survived well.

I had hope.

I hoped I would mend my broken pieces.

That way I could protect you better.

After all, I was frail at times.

That year, however, my worst nightmare became my reality.

You were dying in my arms, and I could do nothing,

nothing at all.

Oh! the confusion was beyond earthly comprehension for my poor exhausted mind.

I did not acknowledge it at first.

I thought the tragedy got revived inside, and my inevitable fragility

caused your discomfort.

So I medicated it all.

You were still dying.

I saw the change in their eyes, I remember the yelling, not the words though.

Amnesia tends to protect me from those due to their destructive power.

I was so petrified.

I saw my world crumble every day a bit more.

It was the beginning.

I could not sleep.

I could provide no solution.

No one believed me when I shouted: "Something is wrong. He is dying."

They said I imagined things, or I was lazy. They said it was one of my tricks to distract.

You did not get better, but I managed to live because I had a plan.

I wanted a year, just another year, and I would resuscitate what I adore.

I ignored the cause of your illness, but I convinced myself time was all I needed.

Oh! I was strong back then.

I admire that woman.

I was marvellous.

I got myself another year despite them all.

You were cold, but I questioned my touch.

I pushed through the days.

I engaged in all sorts of mental cartwheels a mother uses as she watches her dying son.

It seems that we failed again my dear.

I sat in a bed sobbing. I did not blame you. I knew you did your best.

I kept you a secret since then.

I glared at those who asked about you.

I suspected danger everywhere.

I was suspicious of everybody.

I had a black hole growing inside every time I checked on you and found no signs of improvement.

it was a grudge that pushed me to extreme isolation.

I had to be alone.

I could not stand their laughter, their useless banter, smiles and unwavering tranquillity.

You were dying in my arms!

How could they be fine?

Oh, Dear! They did not care.

It was just you and I.

We cried through the nights and kept our composure in the morning.

We even amused them at times.

We treated them well.

It was a sad state but nothing we could not handle.

I always hoped you would get healthier by the start of each chapter.

Love, I got tired, and I felt desperation creeping in, but I never said a word .not even to you.

By the time I walked those patterned pavements, I was numb.

I understood you might never recover.

At that point, I was harmed beyond recovery as well, I thought.

You did wonders there. You really did.

I remember I used to laugh in owe.

How could you achieve that from a deathbed?

Apparently, your dying breaths were enough to gain some love.

Their eyes were almost as before.

I was never better though.

Happiness was an unfamiliar feeling.

Serenity was a luxury I lost years ago.

Our plan, this time, was again simple but not glorious.

We would survive the day, and once, at home, I would distract myself from everything: you, the remerging chaos, and the new injuries as well.

I was ecstatic those rare times we found our complicity again.

I could feel the blood run through my heart and send a wave of liveliness across my entire body.

That gave me hope, hope that I would curse once you gave up on me when I needed you.

I was relatively fine, I suppose.

Their love was restored, and I could appease myself by running away after every minimal effort I managed to have you deliver.

We joined an adventure, and it only reminded me you were not doing so well regardless of your current triumph.

We got a job dear, much needed.

We despised the commute, I know.

Late, late all the time.

Excuses, excuses all the time.

I think it reminded us both of our shortcomings.

After all, we secretly wanted to die, so working constituted a contradiction neither of us could rationalise.

Three years.

Three years of keeping face, overlooking our internal demise for a somewhat composed exterior.

I hated myself.

I hated you.

Your demise ruined me.

I could not see life in any way other than gloomily.

Nothing mattered but you, and you never healed.

So, I never did.

We broke by the fourth year.

You know I wished I could justify a self-induced death.

Although my battered faith was a newly acquired injury, it was never weak enough to let me die prematurely.

I got help.

Ï miraculously got help.

I entered that room, and, for the first time, I unburdened myself.

I laid it all in front of her:

the tragedy, the injuries and you.

I enclasped your grip from me, and I put you down.

I cried as I told what I had never allowed leaving my memory, soul or body.

I left the building, and I breathed differently.

The air filled my lungs all the way.

I could hear laughter in the streets and cars and birds and people shouting randomly.

It was not offensive, annoying or trivial.

It was ok.

I was ok.

I was happy!

I thought I would never feel that again.

I smiled all the way home.

I wept for joy.

I wanted to scream and shout and convince every sufferer to seek help.

She said I had to cut your umbilical cord.

She explained why it was there, why you came to be.

She said I am the priority.

She said you would be stronger, and so would I if I cut what bounded us to each other.

So, I did.

I thought I did.

The plan was to take care of myself and in my strength, you would flourish, a charming plan.

The upcoming weeks were exciting.

I felt everything vividly.

Life was colourful and bright.

We fought together again, and we won.

I thought I could conquer the world.

I could get sad again, and struggles were waiting somewhere, but I was fine.

I resented nothing.

Everything made sense.

It was our road to redemption.

Tonight, dear, I am writing your elegy.

Amongst our rebirth,

you kept dying.

I looked at you in worry.

Look you are still pale as ever.

Like before, I confined myself to a bed, and I destroyed myself.

I resisted for a week before that.

I am only human.

So, go ahead. Die!

I don't have the right nor the power to change your destiny.

Die! I might die with you, but it does not matter.

Nothing is worth this.

This much agony is for neither of us.

Leave, I'd rather never feel joy than self-sabotage because of you again.

Die!

I would amount to nearly nothing.

It does not matter.

I have always known that I had to go to extremes in order to learn what others learned better.

Life lectured me over and over again, but I resisted this lecture in particular.

It meant your loss, and I thought I am you, you are me so how could I allow it?

I pulled myself to shreds facing your mortality.

I do not expect life to be kind now.

I often glance at the mess I have made while caring for you, and I am ashamed.

I am ashamed of it all.

If your departure won't kill me, mere recollection might as well do.

Dear, our story is horrid.

Is this an ode to you or is it to me?

Are we separate now?

I am letting you go.

Will I survive?

I am tired of fear, stress, panic, the chase, suffocating, tripping, jumping, running, you, them, my melancholy, anger, blisters here and there, hush, all the hushs.

Freedom is all I want really.

Is that why I scribbled free when I was young at that man's office?

Do you remember?

It's high time, isn't it? to let it all burn to ashes.

I allowed others to draw the course of my life, and it came at a high cost.

If you live through this, Angel, you might not be what you hoped you would be, but at least you will be free.

Burn the dagger they keep stabbing you with.

Nothing is worth this.

Nothing is worth it.

It has always been inhumane in a way.

You are not a display of success.

If their motivation was your own good, they should have trusted you.

Because, now, it is clear.

Nothing is worth this.