𝐒𝐨𝐧𝐠: 𝐀𝐩𝐩𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐬, 𝐛𝐲 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐌𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐚𝐥.
A pain crossed the middle of my head and the content seemed to splash to the four walls. I reached out for the painkiller and saw Asher's texts instead. "I hope you're sleeping well, Anita." I smiled at the sweet message but my lips were aching. My whole body was soring as if it had been stretched and smashed. The same had happened last year. Always after a high. I remembered being happy when Asher kissed me hard. Then, less than three hours later, I was agonizing on the bed, alone and shivering. "Sorry, I couldn't stay with you tonight," he said. "I don't know why but my headache has worsened." It was like we were sharing the same body. I could feel when he was sick, and vice-versa. I was the Queen of headaches and he was the King of migraines. I personally had them due to my University. Hours of studying were not quite harmful but stressing about assignments and exams was the death of me. As for Asher, it was a creative streak of disarrangement. "I get anxious when I'm not creating," he'd repeat while I massaged his temples. "And even more anxious when I finish something because I don't know what I'm going to do next." See that? My boyfriend was a sucker for anxiety. I was somewhat glad we shared the same illness. "You're both stressed out folks," Noah had said. Asher and I nodded, to which he shook his head and spun the wheelchair to the other way. "I tried."
Anyone could try. But we were untouchable when it came to winding down and understanding the concept of tranquility. I don't think we were ever designed to be calm. Even when I was a child. Mom always had me working on minor tasks. Asher was constantly worried about what would be the consequences of being raised by artists. And we continued living this way until our brains could no longer endure the pressure. Asher's first migraine was after dad's funeral. He said he had never felt the world so heavy on his back. Which I didn't understand at that time, but today I know that he was referring to an artistic responsibility. Octave was Asher's first inspiration. The reason he had had the bravery to pick up the guitar and face the music. The death meant a lot to him. It propelled him to break the resistance and create. As for me, I never had much trouble creating. I could whisper lullabies and write melodies in the air if one stranger in the bus asked me to. What really squished my brains out was the mandatory routine made of rising achievements and systematic obstacles. The thrive to reach the top performance at school. At college. At everything. I thought entering University would alleviate the pressure in my life, but it just got worse. And the answer was natural. I was preparing to become a doctor, not a waitress, with all due respect to their work. My mind setting was being forged to be 'resilient', to face the mission. The thing is, I wasn't a soldier, I just wanted to film Asher and go back home with him singing beside me.
Although not a soldier, I was in the middle of a war. A conflict between the well-adjusted and charming girl I was and the frail screaming soul I was giving a voice every day that went by. I was writing lyrics on little paper sheets at the back of my notebooks, and it was a festival of eerie sentiments and every damn emo situation I had sworn not to go through. And I didn't even know where these ghosts came from. My life was perfect. It was perfect because I was taught to face it as perfect. To face reality as something already conquered and perfected. That was the quickest way to achieve anything in life. But it wasn't working. The more I faced perfection, the more flaws I spotted on the way. Starting from my body. I had put up weight a few weeks before Asher invited me to, let's say, officially ask me out. I noticed when he stared at my arm a little longer. It sent shivers to my soul. I also noticed when mom checked my jeans and asked if they had shrunk in the laundry. They had become so used to my thin frame that every little oscillation was visible. At least that's what I concluded. Dad's line also crossed my mind. One could never stay at the top for too long. One could never stay thin for too long. Not if their genetics said 'rookie.' Not if their genetics said 'curvy.'
"I got a headache too," I texted back, to which he sent a thumbs up. Always so ironic.
"I think we're ready to die. Tell me when you're leaving to the graveyard, I'll pick you up in my carriage of death."
My forehead screamed when I laughed, but it was a pain worth feeling.
We said goodnight to each to other, and I plopped on the bed again. The move made my brain catapult itself to the ceiling and back to the skull. I squinted my eyes at the freaking agony and wished I had the guts or the permission to smoke a whole pack of cigarettes or drink a bottle of beer. I knew none of them would soothe the pain-maybe the latter-, but I wanted to try. Knowing that my mother had a potent radar stuck in each of her teeth, I gave up and buried my face into the pillows. I was starving. But I had already had dinner with Asher. Some grapes and a thin sandwich.
My headache slowly receded to my empty stomach, and my gastritis hit me with all force. I cried on the bed, not knowing which position to take, if I should breathe slowly, pick a metronome, scribble lyrics, have a shower, yell at the window, revise my anatomy spreadsheet, or just really text Asher again. I was totally ready to deactivate my sensible body. Living was so exhausting.
That was when the intensity of the thoughts bounced back. I had to run to the toilet. A gush of acid vomit just left my body with no warning. Was that a nervous collapse? I had read that there were many types of vomits. The quick and gushing ones were signs of nervous impairment. I tried to take deep breaths as I propped my arms onto the countertop. I turned the tap on and let the fresh water rinse my mouth. But the frizzle noise disturbed me. It screamed on my ears. I shut it down and got back to my bedroom, aware that my view was blurrier than yesterday. Maybe I should really eat a banana or a cube of cheese. Grapes and sandwich was nothing. Being with Asher had already sucked the calories off my body. He was like a calories annihilator. No exerting workout required. Surreal. One look at that guy, and you'll conclude you're starving for eras. You're fat, you're hungry, you wanna eat a buffalo that had eaten other buffalos, and you're not gonna make it because he'll always be more slender and skinnier than you. Like a real prince. Asher could work on a spa torturing middle-aged women or just girls like me. He'd just sit back and let the magic happen.
Confused as to what to make of that strange vomit, I turned my laptop on and did some research. Not the wisest thing to do unless you want to confirm you'll die. I did it either way and got the worst results ever. I wasn't going to die. My nausea skyrocketed and I nearly puked onto the laptop screen.
I was maybe pregnant.
Horror struck me with that villainous laughter. Wait a minute, I had taken the pills. I never failed. I opened my drawer and counted them. There were eight left. I nodded angrily, confirming that I had indeed taken my pills correctly. Was uncle's sperm so potent that it had veered from the medicine? I chuckled and felt a tragedy corroding my belly. It was impossible. As impossible as seeing him wearing condoms. The man enjoyed that 'extra physical touch'. I covered my face with both hands, and the brief moment without oxygen motivated me to take some action. I didn't want to die and I didn't want to be pregnant. But first, I had to calm down.
Another wave of nausea hit me and I ran to the bathroom.
When the toilet greeted me again with a suspicious face, everything fell apart because I suddenly understood.
I had been vomiting the pills for days.
---------♡---------
I entered the drugstore, panting. Not that I had run, but I can't confirm what I did instead. My legs just moved me to that direction. I reached for the counter woman and tried to reign in before opening my mouth. I didn't want to cry in front of her. But she was a woman. A kind looking woman. In her fifties. That little grizzly white hair already rising up. Glasses at the tip of her nose. It was impossible to remain calm in front of someone who allows you to panic. I broke into tears and she had to hold my shoulders. I explained her that I had lost the pills because I was sick, and now I was probably pregnant and didn't know what to do. I wanted to check but I was dead scared of the result. She pointed out that it could be just a bad stomach day, and that most anti contraceptives were really strong. But the lady didn't know how bad I puked. I could vomit three, four times a day, if necessary. I had reached a certain level of proficiency in that area. So much there was nothing left in my system.
Just a baby.
I left the drugstore with the test in my pocket. My hands and neck were sweating, the cold wind blew on my face and my ears screamed, my forehead ached a bit more, and maybe that was Asher's migraine coming through. "It makes you want to close your eyes forever," he'd say whenever I asked him how the feeling was.
To start off, the procedure was painfully difficult. I had to aim my urine onto that plaque. But how to hold the damn object without wetting my hands as I peed? My legs were trembling and I couldn't stand up from the toilet seat. I wanted to pee everything but I had to contain some to use for the test.
I opened the shower booth and peed in there with the test between my legs. That was the most ridiculous thing I had ever done.
So I waited.
Body shaking, that smell of urine taking over the shower booth.
According to my eyes, that was a blue line.
According to the instructions, blue line meant positive.
The test, that filthy object that looked like a crappy thermometer, fell off my hands and hit the sink drain. Next in line came me. I collapsed onto the floor, and barely managed to turn the tap on and let the fresh cold water hit me like razor. As my body died amid the universe of tiles and drops, only my belly existed. A dreadful weight augmenting as I breathed. A demon slaughtering my life and laughing at my imbecility. I was an idiot. I was stupid. I should've seen that shit coming. The demon continued enlarging, munching my uterus, clamping my vagina, pressing my stomach up, suffocating me with that alien life. And it whispered: Ricardo.
Because repeating the name Ricardo was less tenebrous than Uncle.
Yet when I concluded that, everything about uncle swam into my uterus and circled the fetus like two allies against my sanity. They were celebrating my defeat.
"D-Dad..." I cried, grasping my pants because I had forgotten to take them off completely. "D-Dad..."
He wasn't listening to me. I couldn't see his face, I couldn't hear his voice.
I eventually rose from the floor and turned the tap off. The silence only highlighted the presence of the devil in me. I whimpered quietly, wishing anyone burst in and woke me up from that nightmare. But the feeling was authentic. The shiver all over my body was intense. The migraine was colossal. The hollowness of my nerves were pulsating and obliterating the rest, letting the shadows occupy the territory.
The soldier had let the enemy take over the field.
It was time to return to the basement and call for backup. Or maybe just surrender.
---------♡---------
A senseless pulse carved into her uterus.
The girl crowed amid her darkness, the source of life demolishing her sanity. Loaded tears couldn't trickle down, the massive pain was fading away, fragile and lost, being replaced by a sense of dislocation, a piece detached from the building it had created. The look in her mother's eyes was devoid of kindness. Never a scent of flower, never a passion to collect. Gwen inhaled the stark perfume of rejection and swallowed all the words. They cut her body inside, veered from the fetus, and got stuck in her throat. She wanted to scream, to beg, to lose her little bit of shame and implore her mother to give her a chance. To be held in her arms and tucked to sleep. The black high heels spun and grew smaller, the view penetrating into her conscience and tattooing her heart. Ivonne was walking away, pointing her finger at the door. And the woman didn't want to hear the story. She didn't want to know the father. The woman was so utterly disgusted that every shred of detail Gwen dropped would cause a combustion. The woman shut the bedroom door and Gwen heard the sound of something being dropped. Ivonne was irate.
The shiver was back to her body, but right now it was heavy. She was stuck on the floor, incapable of moving an inch. There was nowhere to go. All the paths had been destroyed. With that last word, her mother had just ceased a contract between two women that loved each other. Gwen was no longer a daughter, no longer a burden. She was now a girl with no name, carrying the fruits of her compassion and the trades of life.
---------♡---------
---------♡---------