Chapter 66
Mireya
Play - My Angel by Adrianne Lenker
Morals Over Reality
I hear the robotic sound of the door automatically locking behind us as we enter his room. It shuts with a soft click when I turn around to face him.
“It’s a bit muggy in here, no? Perhaps we should sit on the balcony,” he says, gesturing towards the small terrace.
The mild breeze blows over me as we step outside. It’s strange. I’ve been here all my life yet this view still guts me. Cliffs that have seen me beg for them to split open so I can fall and escape this world. Ocean that crashes violently against the rocks whenever I’m losing my mind.
“Here we are,” he adds as he slips next to me. His eyes follow my collarbones, before sliding down at my chest. And I want to throw up.
It's a job, nothing more. A role, a name I don't use in real life, a version of myself that knows how to get through things without clinging to them. I know how to do that. I know how to stay in it. I have to succeed to avoid being excluded.
For a while, it holds. I answer when I have to, I smile when it's appropriate, maybe then he’ll understand that I’m not myself anymore whenever someone comes closer.
But then his hand reaches out, and my body reacts before I do.
“You look beautiful,” he whispers.
“Thank you,” I reply, trying to create more distance. But he still doesn't understand it.
Can’t he see the shadow I’m seeing behind him?
The man who never left me. The man who’s just behind him, begging me to remember what it felt like to be quiet whenever it was too painful to feel. Never a face, never a person.
I think… I think only I can see him.
He follows me back in the bedroom. His hand on my waist, his breath on my neck and for a moment I’m somewhere else entirely.
“You've been playing with me this whole time,” he says.
And already, the two realities begin to separate. In his mind, nothing has really changed. In mine, I’m still fourteen again, begging to be seen and not bruised.
I back away too quickly. Something bumps against me from behind, but I don't really feel it. His voice continues, a little less gentle now, a little more confident, “You came up here with me.”
My breath catches. “We can take our time…” I say, trying to smile, but my breathing quickens. I feel hands tighten around my neck. The hands of the man who haunts my deepest sorrows. I see him, even though I close my eyes to remind myself that it's not him.
No, it's not him. No. It's not him.
Why does it feel like him all over again then?
“Relax,” he says, moving closer and pressing me against the bedside table. “It's going to be okay, I'll take care of you.”
No. I can't. I can't.
“Stop.”
My mind no longer processes the whole sentences. It retains only the tone, and the tone alone is enough to unleash something brutal. I’m not small anymore. I can’t be.
“I told you to stop,” I say, but my voice is already too dry.
He moves even closer, his hands gripping my arms violently, pulling them away from him. And the second level breaks. “You were fine earlier,” he says.
No.
“Give me a second,” I hear myself say with a shaky voice.
“A second for what?”
I don't know how to answer. A second to stay here without losing myself. A second for my body to understand that now is not before. A second not to disappear into my memories.
A second to forget him.
But the body doesn't negotiate, it remembers everything all at once, and the wounds I no longer see reopen.
“I told you no, damn it, stop.” I push him away, but he's angry. He grabs my arm and pulls me closer.
Why aren't you listening to me?
“You think you can play with me? You got me all worked up and now you want to run away?”
I cling to simple things, the floor, the wall, the table. My name. The present moment.
“Stop. Stop. Fucking stop,” I repeat, pushing and struggling.
His voice returns harsher now. “I said fucking relax.”
And then, something shifts. My body can no longer distinguish between today and what resembles yesterday. My vision narrows to the sides. My hands become distant. And my voice becomes uncertain. I'm afraid. I'm still afraid, and I no longer recognize myself.
“Stop.”
Stop. Stop. Stop.
And he doesn't hear that as an ending. For him, I’m guilty for coming with him only to push him away for no reason.
All I can think of is that he's just like him, he has his hands without realizing it, his gaze is devoid of consciousness and doesn't understand why my fear is legitimate.
Two realities that cannot coexist without breaking something.
And my conscience is the victim. The room splits in two, time no longer stands still.
You couldn't protect yourself the first time. I'll protect you this time.
I'm still here, but not entirely. I walk toward the cliff and see the small version of myself dangling my legs over the edge. I never protected you.
She looks at the sky, shakes her head, full of innocence.
Can you hear me? Can you see me? I haven't changed. I'm still you.
My body throws me back to reality in fragments. Him on top of me, pushing me against the furniture until my back cracks. His gaze full of desire, his hands uninvited brushing my skin. But I still see her. She turns toward me and smiles.
An empty plate from his room service is next to me; a knife finds its way into my hands without my consent, and I stab him hard in the abdomen. I hear him gasping for breath, but I sit down beside her. I’m on the cliff, making wishes with her.
Fireflies are coming from everywhere.
With each smile, another stab follows. Until I hear her. “It’s over, Mireya.”
But I want to stay with you a little longer.
My body aches. “Can I stay here forever?” I ask as she vanishes with a smile.
His face appears instead of hers. The man who tried to hurt me. He falls on top of me, before collapsing completely. His warm blood runs down my dress, my neck, my arms. And I get up, pushing him back until he falls down.
Breathe. Step back. Stop.
My hands tremble as if they weren’t mine. He’s on the ground, dead. I said no. I know I said no. Why is that never enough?
The door opens and I can’t look away from his body on the floor. Dead. He’s dead.
“Put that knife down Mireya,” Damien’s voice came through.
When is he even here? Is this all in my head?
I turn around, threatening whatever this is with it, as if it was possible to kill a memory of a shadow. “You’re not real.” I keep repeating it, closing my eyes, blinking away the fog and anger. “You’re not real.” I feel him getting closer, and I’m still not sure.
“Mireya, look at me.”
His voice… Maybe everything is real.
I open my eyes, meeting his sorry gaze. And nothing comes out of my mouth.
The knife is still in my hands, trying to make him leave, and scare him away.
Even if it’s an illusion, even if it’s just in my head.
He needs to leave before I hurt him. But he doesn’t, instead he gets closer, closer enough for me to see my reflection in his eyes.
Broken Mireya. Stupid Mireya.
His hand closes around the blade, blood pooling down from his fingers to the ground, and everything stops working at the same time. The room is still there but I can’t keep it stable in my head, it keeps slipping out of my reach every time I try to look at it properly.
“Put it down.”
I hear him but it doesn’t attach to anything. His hand is still around the blade, as he pulls himself closer. He’s hurting, but it feels like pain is the only bridge he can cross to reach me.
My hand opens without me really understanding why or when that decision happened.
“Look at me,” he says, fingers brushing my cheek.
I’m trying, I’m really trying. All I see is blue eyes softening and worried, clouded by memories of me crying on my bathroom floor, praying that the shadow will forget about me.
“Mireya.” That one breaks the complete drift for a second, enough that I notice I’m not fully here anymore. “Remember the star you made in my office?” The star… “Safe. I wished for you to be safe.”
“Damien… I still see him everywhere,” I say finally, with a shaky voice.
I still see him even when I try to reach the cliff, I see him every time I think I’m doing better. I always see him. In a second, strong and warm arms are encircling me.
I can feel his heartbeat, focusing on how slow it’s pulsing.
Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.
“You’re here,” he says. “You’re with me.”
My breath stutters, my hands feel like they belong to me again, and my body is returning in small pieces and I’m not even the one putting it back together.
His bloody hand wraps around the back on my neck, and I hear him clearly, finally.
“You can breathe. I’ve got the rest.”
I’m here, but I can feel the glass still moving inside me, and even his hands careful over it can’t stop it from remembering how to cut.