The memories of my parents are fleeting. Handshakes and flashes of a smile. A phone call every now and then, but never more than a few sentences exchanged. When I was a child, five or so, I began to wonder...
Riding my bike down that steep hill and hoping my father would be there to catch me, and stop me from doing something dangerous, or that my mother would be there to tuck me in. Does it hurt to hit the ground? But I was alone, and the walls oppressive. My teenage years were much the same. I never wanted for anything, and my needs were met. With a bright future i my hands, and the keys to the kingdom, I explored the corners of the world. No one knew my origin. I could catch glances, but never words. The world was dull, and fuzzy, and my ears were full of liquid. Within the silence of my friendless reality, there was someone I considered familiar. A man with no face who came to me in my dreams. No face, and no name. Just a shape and a shade, and a smile that scatted himself through my nights: always the same, it would start with a loud sound, and I would look up and see him, against the light. Muffled words.
"What could it hurt?" I said to my first cup of wine, drowning myself in a last attempt to mean something to someone. Anyone in my own age group. Determined to be anything more than a shadow. More than the background noise, or the last resort when words were slurred. Who would it hurt if I disappeared? The mother and father who never cared? Never called? The friends I never met? The lovers I'd never had? I finished the wine, and dragged myself back to my oppressive walls, hiding beneath sheets that smothered and I woke up years later in another place. A new place, with unfamiliar walls, and sounds.Traveled the world, and a voice had never been so clear. I have resigned myself to the reality of how my own world shall be until I heard it. That night, there was a voice to the shape of a man in my dreams, and eventually, eyes, and a face. I was twenty-five, and it was my first year teaching. I hadn't gone to school for this. Not specifically for this. I came to this campus to learn, and then I heard that voice, and found a reason to stay: psychology. An empty room and a help wanted sign out front. What could it hurt? A year goes by, and your face is the face I see in the man in my dreams. The air seems cleaner, less fuzz and less noise, and what was once a shadow extends his hand to me a last time. I stand, and the world around me seems still; the words almost clear.
It couldn't hurt to smile a little. Flirt a little bit. An innocent drink after a long day of teaching turns into dinner, and flirting becomes conversation. You tell me in that voice of your marriage, and your child, and I silently wonder how you ended up here. The noise starts to creep back around the edges. How silly of me to think this was anything but a drink, I say to myself. More than a conversation. But it's nice to have a friend.
You don't want a friend.
You smile at me, and you see me, and the haze is gone the instant it's come back. Slowly. I'm terrified someone could make me feel anything near this, and you seem nervous, too, but...you wouldn't hurt me. It's quiet around the students. Is it obvious? It's raining, and my mother calls me, but I don't answer, because it's the first time you've kissed me. The first time I've kissed anyone. I don't say anything. I can't speak. Twenty-six and no longer alone. I know you from somewhere. So familiar. My dreams stole your face, but I know you. Several innocent nights together; you're patient with me. Dinners, and movies, and me, falling asleep somewhere other than oppressive walls. I feel warm. I don't consider what it must feel like when I brush away your hand when you try to show me affection. Innocence that became warmth becomes a blaze when I finally understand and I feel your hands on my skin for the first time. My heart is pounding. The walls are closing in, but you're there. The ringing in my ears, and your breath against my shoulder; I'm excited and terrified all at once, and like the cracking of a mirror, my life falls apart in front of my eyes. I lose the only friend I ever made. I lose a small part of myself in every footfall from your place. I lose myself on the way home. I'm Cinderella, and I've lost my slipper, and when I dream that night, I've lost your face, and it hurts. I don't want to see you. I don't want to be around you. I don't want to hear you. I've never suffered such embarrassment. I'm so mortified, I stay home for a week. I avoid you when I return. Ignore you at all costs.
...
Does it still hurt?
Over a year later and I couldn't bring myself to leave. I don't want to talk about it. I want to pretend nothing ever happened. I don't care what the students think. I just want my friend back, but is it too obvious to be possible? Does it hurt when we catch each other's eye? When I stare through you? Does it hurt when I walk away? When I text you help on your lesson plan? When I tell you I don't have time for you? When I refuse to look you in the face if there isn't space to run?
Does it hurt to love me, Ilios?
Because it ******** kills me to love you.
Riding my bike down that steep hill and hoping my father would be there to catch me, and stop me from doing something dangerous, or that my mother would be there to tuck me in. Does it hurt to hit the ground? But I was alone, and the walls oppressive. My teenage years were much the same. I never wanted for anything, and my needs were met. With a bright future i my hands, and the keys to the kingdom, I explored the corners of the world. No one knew my origin. I could catch glances, but never words. The world was dull, and fuzzy, and my ears were full of liquid. Within the silence of my friendless reality, there was someone I considered familiar. A man with no face who came to me in my dreams. No face, and no name. Just a shape and a shade, and a smile that scatted himself through my nights: always the same, it would start with a loud sound, and I would look up and see him, against the light. Muffled words.
"What could it hurt?" I said to my first cup of wine, drowning myself in a last attempt to mean something to someone. Anyone in my own age group. Determined to be anything more than a shadow. More than the background noise, or the last resort when words were slurred. Who would it hurt if I disappeared? The mother and father who never cared? Never called? The friends I never met? The lovers I'd never had? I finished the wine, and dragged myself back to my oppressive walls, hiding beneath sheets that smothered and I woke up years later in another place. A new place, with unfamiliar walls, and sounds.Traveled the world, and a voice had never been so clear. I have resigned myself to the reality of how my own world shall be until I heard it. That night, there was a voice to the shape of a man in my dreams, and eventually, eyes, and a face. I was twenty-five, and it was my first year teaching. I hadn't gone to school for this. Not specifically for this. I came to this campus to learn, and then I heard that voice, and found a reason to stay: psychology. An empty room and a help wanted sign out front. What could it hurt? A year goes by, and your face is the face I see in the man in my dreams. The air seems cleaner, less fuzz and less noise, and what was once a shadow extends his hand to me a last time. I stand, and the world around me seems still; the words almost clear.
It couldn't hurt to smile a little. Flirt a little bit. An innocent drink after a long day of teaching turns into dinner, and flirting becomes conversation. You tell me in that voice of your marriage, and your child, and I silently wonder how you ended up here. The noise starts to creep back around the edges. How silly of me to think this was anything but a drink, I say to myself. More than a conversation. But it's nice to have a friend.
You don't want a friend.
You smile at me, and you see me, and the haze is gone the instant it's come back. Slowly. I'm terrified someone could make me feel anything near this, and you seem nervous, too, but...you wouldn't hurt me. It's quiet around the students. Is it obvious? It's raining, and my mother calls me, but I don't answer, because it's the first time you've kissed me. The first time I've kissed anyone. I don't say anything. I can't speak. Twenty-six and no longer alone. I know you from somewhere. So familiar. My dreams stole your face, but I know you. Several innocent nights together; you're patient with me. Dinners, and movies, and me, falling asleep somewhere other than oppressive walls. I feel warm. I don't consider what it must feel like when I brush away your hand when you try to show me affection. Innocence that became warmth becomes a blaze when I finally understand and I feel your hands on my skin for the first time. My heart is pounding. The walls are closing in, but you're there. The ringing in my ears, and your breath against my shoulder; I'm excited and terrified all at once, and like the cracking of a mirror, my life falls apart in front of my eyes. I lose the only friend I ever made. I lose a small part of myself in every footfall from your place. I lose myself on the way home. I'm Cinderella, and I've lost my slipper, and when I dream that night, I've lost your face, and it hurts. I don't want to see you. I don't want to be around you. I don't want to hear you. I've never suffered such embarrassment. I'm so mortified, I stay home for a week. I avoid you when I return. Ignore you at all costs.
...
Does it still hurt?
Over a year later and I couldn't bring myself to leave. I don't want to talk about it. I want to pretend nothing ever happened. I don't care what the students think. I just want my friend back, but is it too obvious to be possible? Does it hurt when we catch each other's eye? When I stare through you? Does it hurt when I walk away? When I text you help on your lesson plan? When I tell you I don't have time for you? When I refuse to look you in the face if there isn't space to run?
Does it hurt to love me, Ilios?
Because it ******** kills me to love you.
