Chapter 39
Mireya
Play - Keep The Rain by Searows
Forbidden conversations
The lily I started to draw with my metal compass on the table is almost done.
I blow away the wooden shavings and stare at it. The same thing happens, and a few petals are missing.
She’s next to the eye I started last time but never finished.
I tried to make myself small the moment I entered the lecture hall. Damien asked the class to do something but I didn’t listen to anything for the past hour. I don’t want him to see me like that. I don’t want him to ask how I am or if I’m okay.
I couldn’t handle that, especially given everything that’s happened and what we saw on that beach together.
The strangest thing is anger took over the sadness I felt yesterday. I didn’t know her, yet somehow, I woke up angry at the person who decided they had the right to choose her death.
I expected to feel sick and guilty. I expected fear. No one ever tells you that anger can arrive before grief.
I used to think grief belonged to people you loved and lost. Maybe it also belonged to strangers whose ending reminded you life could be taken just as easily as it was given.
I keep engraving things on the table as the thoughts and anger grow louder in my head and when I look down, the lily isn’t a lily anymore. It’s stained with blood, a small drop of it.
I realized that the compass slipped. The point caught the side of my index finger and I stared at the tiny red line.
“Mireya, you’ve been bleeding for the past few seconds.”
His voice. That somehow makes me look up and leave that strange place I was in and I finally let go of the compass.
When I look around, the classroom is empty. I don’t remember when everyone left and this keeps happening. He might think I’m doing it on purpose, or that I’m insane for not even being aware of the noise disappearing around me.
He’s standing near his desk, watching me quietly and waiting for a reply.
Far from me always, as if even his concern has boundaries.
“I’m fine,” I replied after a few seconds.
His expression barely changes as he says, “I didn’t ask.” He then reaches for the first aid kit and places it on the corner of his desk.
I stand slowly, crossing the empty space between the rows of desks and take it.
“You went deeper than you thought.”
I look up and see that he’s still behind his desk, watching me with that unreadable expression he gets when he has already noticed something but is waiting to see if I’ll admit it myself.
“It’s a cut.”
"That's not what I said.”
My eyes drop back to my hand, the cut is straight and long on my finger.
I pushed the compass deeper than I thought, but it didn’t hurt.
I barely remember doing it. I remember the lily, and the first few lines carved into the wood.
I remember how easy it was at first, until somewhere along the way the shape changed beneath my hand.
It stopped being something soft and I don’t know when it became something angry.
“I wasn’t trying to hurt myself.” The words come out meaner than I intend.
“I know.”
I’m not insane. I’m not insane. It was an accident.
I try to wrap the gauze around my finger again, but my hands refuse to cooperate, they shake with rage and guilt and the small packet slips between my fingers.
A breath of frustration slips out and for a moment, he looks at me with soft eyes, then he stands. He walks toward me slowly, giving me enough time to tell him not to but I don’t until he reaches me and stops. “May I?” He asks, eyes on mine.
The question catches me off guard, but I nod, following every move he makes. He takes the bandage from my hand and wraps it carefully around my finger.
“You’re angry.”
I look back at him, and see that his gaze is still on me.
“I didn’t know her,” I reply softly as if trying to understand that rage myself.
His thumb presses the edge of the bandage into place before he lets go and the distance between us returns as his warmth leaves me. “No? Why are you angry, then?”
Why am I ?
Because she didn’t deserve that, and a dark feeling rose inside me.
I can see her body clearly in my head now that it’s not blurred with uninvited memories. She had marks around her neck, chain marks. If it’s him, if this bastard is still active or if someone stupid enough is imitating him, then he deserves death.
“Women are never safe.” I look at my hands, trying to focus on the small marks left by the people who never considered us enough.
“You can be walking home, sleeping or even sitting somewhere you thought was safe…” My voice tightens as I continue, “And somehow, someone can still decide that your life belongs to them.” I lift my head, looking up at him and smile sadly before adding, “I think that’s what makes me angry. ”
His expression turns thoughtful for a second, then he speaks, “I’m angry too.”
His eyes move toward the bandage around my finger and stay there for a moment too long. “I’ve spent a long time learning how to separate emotion from work. But that doesn’t mean it will disappear.”
I shake my head as my hands shake harder than before. “How can anger disappear when everyone wants women to be afraid?”
His finger wraps around the bondage softly as if trying to calm the trembling without even touching me. “Most people try to turn anger into vengeance, Mireya. It’s dangerous because they look alike.”
I stare back at him and all I can think of is how maddening this is. “Most people are more comfortable with women being hurt than being angry about it.”
A faint smile appears on his lips as he creates distance between us again, taking a step back. “Good thing that vengeance is justice’s twin.”
“I don’t want her to be another file on a desk and another name people will only remember because of how she died.”
“Then keep being angry, because indifference is worse.”
And for some reason, that is the first thing someone has said to me all day that makes me feel less alone.
I go back to my desk and stare at the unfinished lily carved there longer than I should.
I grab my bag and walk to the door when I hear him sigh.
I think I want to say something, but it is stuck in my throat.
Instead I smile at the way he stands there, not aware of how this looks. “I’ll stop staying here after class.”
His brows knit in confusion as he asks, “Why?”
I hesitate. “Because empty classrooms and morally questionable conversations are becoming a habit between us.”
A small smile appears on his face. “You think this is morally questionable?”
I look at him, opening the door. “You’re my professor. I think we both know the answer.”
I leave him there because it’s easy to let a conversation become a habit and a person become a place you start looking for when the world gets too dark.
And I refuse to build a home somewhere I’m not allowed to stay and don’t even have full access to.