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Disclaimer: I own everything you don't recognize.A/N: This is my first time experimenting with first person POV, and I think it came out nicely. It includes the characters from my Repercussions storyline, and is Lena centric.
To Live
Ada C. Eliana
"There is no misfortune other than that of not being alive. And, in the end, no desperation other than that of not having lived." – Christa Wolf, "What Remains"
Punch, jab, kick. Blood pounding in my ears, sweat sliding down my arms, and I can't stop; I can't stop. Kick, hit, pound. And it won't go away, it won't leave. It's not enough anymore; kicking the stuffing out of a punching bag doesn't help. It won't stop. The voice in my head; laughing; mocking; telling me I could've stopped it. But I couldn't; I couldn't. And it won't listen; and it won't leave me alone, and I don't know how to stop it; I don't know how. And I see flames in the corners of my eyes and I scream because I don't know what else to do.
He's staring again; why is he staring? I can't even look in his direction, because then he would know that I know, and somehow I think that's exactly what he wants. But I can't stop thinking about it and I can't stop wondering. What does he want? Why does he always do that? I just want him to stop, and I want to be invisible. I just wish I could disappear and wander around without anyone knowing I was there; to live without anyone seeing me, or staring at me, or judging me.
Because I can't take it anymore. And all I have to do is listen and I'll know exactly what he thinks of me; exactly what he wants, but I can't. I just can't do it, because I'm afraid that it'll be worse than I imagined. And once I know I won't be able to forget and it will whisper in my mind every time I see him, and I couldn't take that.
Because sometimes the truth hurts more than silence; and I can't be hurt anymore. I'm afraid that one more blow and I'll shatter and they'll be nothing left of me except a hardened body, and cold eyes, and a lifetime of emptiness.
They're whispering too loudly; I can hear them and I'm not even trying to. They must know I can hear them; that's why they're being so loud; they want me to know. And everything they're saying is true but it hurts, goddamn it, it hurts, and I just want them to shut up and stop talking about me. They think it's funny and sad how I'm always alone; how no one's with me. Poor pathetic Lena and her solitary life, poor pathetic Lena who no one loves.
And that's not really true because they try; they try so hard but I can't let them help. I don't know how to be helped, and every time I see them I just want to scream and cry and destroy something and make them hurt like I hurt.
But they hurt differently. They give me sad glances, and don't say anything, they give me space while still being too close; they wait for me to 'recover' to 'get over it' to just grieve. As if grieving is something you can ever be finished with; as if I could wake up one day and decide I'm done grieving, that it's over and my heart no longer hurts every time someone says his name, that I don't feel myself dying a little more each time I think about it. It'll never be over, I'll never finishing mourning or grieving or feeling guilty, and no matter how long they wait I don't think I can forgive them either. Because they could have stopped it; they could have made it not happen, and they didn't. They just set it in motion; they let it happen; they didn't do a thing, and they say they did it for me. They made it so I would spend the rest of my life feeling like this and they think it's better than being dead; better than them losing me. If they loved me they would never have done this to me; they never would have made me live like this, because this has to be worse than dying, it just has to be.
They're selfish; everyone's selfish, and sometimes when I see them watching me painfully, hoping for forgiveness, I feel selfish too, but I can't make myself talk to them, I can't forgive them, I just can't do it.
Someone lights a candle and I scream. The flames dance before my eyes and I'm no longer in the house, I'm back there, and I'm watching it happen all over again. There are hands on me, people whispering in my ears, but all I see is fire, and I feel pain, and loss, and there's his face looking back at me. But it's twisted and distorted and he doesn't look the same; he doesn't look like he's supposed to and I hate it because I put that look on his face. I made him something I can't recognize and now there's no way that I can fix it. There's nothing I can do to change it; and I close my eyes and pray for the images to go away, and as I do so I feel as if I'm betraying him again because I should watch, and I should suffer. I deserve it, and they deserve it, but I can't bring myself to do it.
I can't bring myself to do much of anything anymore.
I'm staring at the ceiling of my bedroom again, not quite sure how I ended up there. And it's not the room I lived in for the past two years; it's the one from when I was a child. Just being there, looking at the same cracks I used to study during nights of insomnia in junior high makes me feel small and vulnerable again. And so for the first time in two months – has it really been that long? – I just let go and allow myself to cry. And before I know it the sobs are choking me and I can't breathe anymore, and I wonder if that's how he felt before the end, and I almost wish for my own grief to just kill me where I lay, but I know he wouldn't want that. And at this point I'd do almost anything to keep myself from hurting him again; even if it meant suffering like this for the rest of my life, because he didn't leave so that I could follow him; he left so I could stay. But staying is becoming harder, and more and more I wish for darkness and the end, and the chance to see him just once more.
An afternoon at the park, once more I don't really know how I got to where I am, someone must have brought me, but I don't pay attention to much of anything anymore. Wyatt sits beside me and talks about some demons that need vanquishing, tells me that it'll be good for me to 'get back in the saddle,' that killing something evil will make me feel better. But when he says 'killing,' I just see the flames again. I clench my hands tightly – unwilling to allow even the tiniest of sparks to escape, because that would be like killing him all over again. And I tell Wyatt to go, I tell him to leave me alone and take his magic with him, and he just stares at me, and for the first time I see disappointment in his face.
Then he leaves and where he once sat there's an impression in the grass, and I wonder how he could possibly be disappointed in me when he's the one who sent him off to die; when he's the one who betrayed me and everything we stood for as a trio; when he's the one who ripped my heart out and then refused to give it back; when he continues to hurt me every time he looks at me.
His lips are moving but I'm not listening and then I do hear him and he says 'this has to stop, this has to stop.' And I wonder if he would know how to end it if he were me, if he could just let go and get over it. And somehow I don't think he could, and I don't understand why no one will allow me this; why no one will let me perform the only selfish action of my life and grieve. Because really; after all of the sleepless nights, fights, blood, tears, and encouragement sessions I feel like they owe me that. They owe me the chance to withdraw; to be the one who needs help, not the one who dispenses it.
And suddenly I want to take it all back; every nice thing I've ever said; everything I did for Chris and for Wyatt when they felt like they were about to break; all the times I held them and told them it would all work out. I want those things back, and I want to horde them inside myself and watch them shatter and then tell them that 'it has to stop.' See how they like the frustration and the disappointment; bully them with the needs of the 'team' of the 'trio,' tell them to get over it and go do something useful with their lives. And every time I picture that I see them dissolve and disappear within themselves; unable to take it. And I wonder if I should show them that; if I should make them hurt like I do. Because I could do it, it would be so easy.
But I won't, because my pain is mine, and I don't want to share that. I've given them enough without sharing the one experience that is mine alone; without giving them the chance to tell me that 'it's not that bad,' without the scary idea that maybe they'll think it doesn't hurt that much.
But more than anything because this is mine and I won't let them take it from me.
My mother's kneeling in front of me, and I don't even notice her until suddenly I feel the pain beginning to fade. I look up abruptly and see her holding an orb I remember from my youth that's used to collect and gather excess emotions. And it's leaving me, and she's taking it. Before I even realize what I'm doing I've lunged for it, knocking it from her grasp and smashing it on the floor. And as she cries out and tries to reach for the pieces – to reassemble it, I suddenly release some of my emotions into her. The agony and grief hits her like a punch and she falls backward, gasping, and suddenly I'm on the floor panting from the use of magic I've neglected. Then she has her arms around me, and we're both lying on the fancy heirloom rug, wrapped in each other's embrace and crying desperately. And I wonder if she knows why she's crying, but I'm too tired to listen, and I'm not sure I really want to know anyway.
Four months – has it really been four months since I last heard his voice? – and I'm still not over it; I'll never be over it. My father brought me back to the isle, and as I breathe in the salty Mediterranean air I toy with the idea of staying here forever; of leaving San Francisco and all of its memories and hardships behind me. I could stay; they would never force me away, they would never ask me why, it's not within their interests. I could stay there forever, and never have to go home; never have to face them again; never have to do anything besides breathe in sea air, stand in the water, and dream.
But that felt like betrayal again, because he didn't save me so I could lock myself up in a tower and shut everything out. I sometimes wish I could live the way he wanted me to; but dear God, I've forgotten how. And that makes me feel even worse, because how do you forget how to live when you've never actually had to give it conscious thought before?
It's been six months, and I've nothing to show for it except for weakened muscles and unused magical abilities. I want to go back in time and I want to see that girl – me – the way she was; the way everyone saw her – vibrant, beautiful, living. Maybe then I could understand the devastation in my father's eyes, the distraught tone in my mother's voice, and the different sort of grief that seems to be in every glance my family throws my way.
I want to go back in time and revel in every moment of life; and commit it to memory forever, the feeling of his skin against mine, the beauty of love as it manifests itself for the first time, the terror and joy of lowering the walls I built around myself. Because I fear that I'm forgetting it; that every memory is being overpowered by one of blood and terror and fire. And I don't want to lose the days I never appreciated enough, the times before I fully understood the feeling of drowning in grief; the weeks before I understood exactly how much he meant to me only because he was gone.
And I want to understand this concept of living; I want to know how to create it, I want to hold it and touch it and make it. I want to live again for the first time in half a year. I just don't remember how.
I've begun training again; I know I can't let this idleness continue. The only thing about me that I ever loved was being a witch, and without that I'm no one, I have nothing. And so I've returned to the courtyard, rewinding my regimen ten months. And the familiar strain on my muscles and the headaches are all so goddamn familiar that I almost start crying again. But the tears don't fall and I don't know if that's because I'm passed the point of crying or because I used them all up and my body can't produce any more for me to squander. By the time I've finished my knuckles are bloody and the ground of the courtyard is all torn up and soaked, but there's no fire, because there will never ever be fire again.
And I thought I was done crying, but suddenly the tears start to pour, and I turn on the shower so no one can hear me sobbing. I strip and climb in and the water is too hot, but I don't turn it down, I just stand there and let it pelt my body, burning my skin, and the tears mix with the water until I can no longer taste the salt, but the headache's back and my whole body burns. I see his face in my mind but somehow he looks more sad than in pain, more moved than angry, and I want the image to last but it fades and I'm alone again with my dreams of fire and the hot water and the tears.
Eight months have passed and Wyatt finally convinces me to go on a demon hunt, and I don't know if I agree because I want to or just because I don't really care anymore. He tells me not to worry, he just needed the third presence for this particular spell and I nod as if I'm really listening and he smiles at me like he hasn't in eight months, and I see him standing behind Wyatt, shaking his head at his betrayer and I almost leave right then.
The spell doesn't work, and we have no back-up plan. The well known feeling of adrenaline coursing through my body returns for the first time in eight months, and for one moment I wonder what would happen if I just stop. If I stop and let it kill me. It would all be over quickly and I wouldn't be to blame. But then Chris is pushing me out of the way and I react on instincts I thought I had lost and suddenly there's fire coming out of my hands and it mesmerizes and terrifies me and I can't make it stop; not until that thing is dead. And once it turns to ash and disintegrates the flames stop, I stare at my hands as if I've never seen them before, and Wyatt and Chris are just staring, staring, because they can't understand how I managed to stop it, and they don't know why I'm not happy.
They take me to their home and try to talk to me, but I won't respond. And then I see it on their faces, a shared grimace; a look of pain, and their grief suddenly makes sense to me. Because they're not grieving for him, they're grieving for me. And I listen and hear their pleas to have their cousin, their real cousin, not this sniveling shell, to return to them, for things to be the way they were, for the whole ordeal to be over. And it feels like another betrayal. Because I'm not dead, I'm here, I'm right here, but they don't want me. They can't fix me and they no longer want to try, and if everyone else has given up then why can't I?It's been nine months when Chris finally admits that he wishes I died with him because seeing me this way is worse than visiting a grave three times a year. Because this way I'm dead but I'm still walking around and it's like having a constant reminder of everything you've lost being thrown in your face. And before I know it I've punched him square in the jaw, and he's too stunned to respond before I break his nose and push him to the floor. I'm on top of him, beating him and holding him down, and all the while I scream at him that he's not being fair, that when he broken and wanted to die I helped pick up the pieces and glue him back together, but that he's given up on me, and it's not fair, because I never would have given up on him.
They're afraid to use magic on me; afraid I'll retaliate in kind, and so it takes Wyatt, Dad, and Aunt Paige to drag me off of Chris, and their touch hurts and I fight wildly but they hold me back. And I see Chris lying on the floor; dazed; his arms limp and his face covered in blood, and I'm not sure if I'm proud or horrified by what I've done. And I find my answer when Wyatt lowers his hands over his brother and I screech and swear and tell him to not heal him, to let him suffer; that he deserves to suffer.
And Aunt Paige hugs me so hard it's painful, and I want nothing more than to not feel anymore, because I was supposed to be getting better, but it's just becoming worse, and I'm drowning again and I don't know how to save myself, and I'm tired of fighting. I feel sick when I catch sight of Chris' blood again, and I just don't know what to do.
A month later I look in the mirror and can't recognize myself. I study the image and see no traces of the woman he loved; of someone worth dying for. And I start to feel ill, and then suddenly I hate him, because he took the easy way out, because there's no way that death could be worse than the slow dying I've experienced for ten months. I try to cry but this time, when I want them, the tears won't come, and so I sink to the floor of my bedroom, and curl up on the carpet, and curse him over and over. I curse him for dying, for leaving me, for being the reason I suffer, for being the reason I can no longer live, for being the reason I cannot let go and die. And I hate him for ever having made me love him, for ever having come in to my life, because I'm certain I could have been happy if I'd never met him.
I've hated him for 30 long days when an old student I used to tutor before he died comes to me, desperate. There's a demon after her, she says, and she can vanquish it, but she needs help with the potion, and she knows I no longer practice magic, but could I, would I, help her just this once? I pull out my old cauldron and supplies, and feel a sense of nostalgia as I go through the old easy motions of potion-making. It's not a particularly difficult potion for me, but it takes concentration, and as I grind down the bay leaves I suddenly remember why I loved this so much. The memory of him standing behind me chopping lavender and laughing doesn't make my anger flare up, and it doesn't make me sad, it just makes me feel content.
And for the first time I can almost remember what living is like.
His apartment smells musty and stale. And I realize that the woman I've been paying to come in and clean has realized that I've been afraid to step foot into the apartment and so stopped coming, but kept my money. I study the thick layer of dust that has collected on the surfaces, and think that it seems oddly fitting, that maybe I'm glad the cleaning lady neglected this place, because it would be harder to come here and see it pristine; as if he'd just stepped out and would be back soon.
I open the kitchen window and smell the roses that we planted against the landlord's wishes. I wonder who has been tending to them all of this time, but am glad that they're still alive; that something we made together was able to stick it out even as we withered.
I walk into the bedroom, and open his closet. Beneath the scent of decay I can still smell him; a musky scent that despite the time that has passed still clings to his clothes. I leave the closet and go to his bedside table. A framed photo of us, smiling and clearly in love stands there, a silent witness that has stood guard for almost a year now. I pick it up, blow some of the dust off, and hold it tightly to my chest. My knees give out and I fall to the bed, still clutching the photo.
I cry, but swear to myself this is the last time.
Hours later I collect a few things from the apartment, mementos, things to clutch in the dark hours of the night when my grief resurfaces. I lean out the window and cut one of the roses below; it's all red, and yellow, and has not fully opened yet. Then I leave, closing the door behind me, and effectively putting an end to the part of my life that contained him, the part of my life that I've mourned for nearly a year.
I keep the rose in water, and pray that it stays alive for a week.
One year to the day that he died, I returned to the place where it all happened. The ground is no longer scorched; the grass having grown back in, and no evidence remaining of what occurred there; of the loss and the pain. And earlier that might have hurt me, but now I'm just happy to see that it's mended; that time can make even the deepest scars disappear.
I'm wearing his favorite skirt and blouse, and a little bit of the woman he fell for is showing in my appearance again. And when I lay the rose down on the area where he died I picture him standing there, not engulfed by flames, but happy and alive and with me.
I turn to see Chris and Wyatt standing a safe distance away, no doubt recalling what happened and the part they played in it. Chris never had anyone heal him, and even though it was two months ago, I can still see his fading bruises. I would feel guilty for it, but at this point, I think all of us have suffered enough.
I can finally see what he was doing when he chose to die for me, when he forced me to survive. And I truly believe that if he had known what was going to happen when we went there ahead of time, he never would have changed a thing. And perhaps that's what I loved most about him; that unwavering loyalty and determination to follow through on what he saw as best for everyone else.
I turn back to the rose, and the air around me stirs slightly. I close my eyes and am sure that I feel his hand on my shoulder, and I know he's been there all along, I just couldn't find him because I was too busy dying.
And though I know it will never truly be over; that grief never goes away; I can breathe the air around me, and I can see through open eyes. Little by little, I'm remembering how to live; just as he wanted me to, and nothing has ever felt more right.
A/N: I would love to know what you thought.
Thanks for reading,
Ada