Chapter Ten
Elio
I started seeing my mother thirteen hours ago.
At first, I was aghast. She was so real, indubitably present.
She carried along the feeling of being in an environment with another person.
When she looked up at me from her position on the couch, my world stopped, rotated, and stood in place.
The black dress she wore was the same one I’d seen in that video footage before she bathed herself in gasoline and set the whole church on fire.
I had closed my eyes for about five minutes, standing utterly still. When I opened them again, she was gone.
That was the first time I’d seen her.
That was the second time I realized I was no longer in control of my mind.
That was the thousandth time I’d told myself I shouldn’t be here. I should hurry up. Finish this once and for all. Stop wasting time.
But it was also in that moment, and at that single thought, that I realized I wasn’t as focused on that idea as I once was.
It was the first time I acknowledged that I was stalling, not because I hadn’t finished what I wanted to do, but because I thought I had a lot to look forward to.
To anticipate. I thought there was enough reason to want to live, to change my mind.
I spent the entire night after being with Zahra battling with my own mind, mumbling pros and cons that refused to keep themselves inside my mind, slamming my fist into a mirror because I hated what my reflection showed.
A confused man. Unfocused nonsense. An indecisive entity.
A man who couldn’t even do what he truly wanted.
A man who couldn’t end the life he’d been craving to end since he had watched his family burn.
A man who hated himself because he had these thoughts, this weakness, eating at him from the inside out.
A self-inflicted parasite. Abnormal. Wrong.
My depression had arrived with a vengeance after seeing the woman who birthed me.
I needed to sleep.
Four days of sleepless nights was not something I let fester.
But four days of sleepless nights with depression and hallucinations?
I knew I needed a total knockout—a shutdown, something that would take me out for days on end.
But I couldn’t do that—I didn’t trust myself enough to proceed with it, so wearing myself out was the most appealing option.
I brought out alcohol. Cigars didn’t wear me out; they made me active.
So I drank, put on feel-good music, and waited.
That was until Zahra had woken up, and I had tried my best to block out her presence because I could already feel my body relaxing into the atmosphere, the alcohol, and the music.
But I should have known better.
Her scream from the kitchen had erased my hours of progress to find solace.
Suddenly I was more in tune with my environment. The alcohol stopped making me tired; it made me active.
The interruption, though, didn’t irritate me.
It surprised me. I was amused. My mood was lifted, and for those moments, holding her close to me while she asked me not to let her go, I forgot exactly why I couldn’t sleep, why I was depressed.
It felt good, she felt good, and I felt the instant regret of not wrapping my arms around her while she slept, of not tapping from that peace that seemed to make her body sink into the bed in sleep.
I wanted to. I really did. But I also didn’t want to overstep my boundaries; she’d once said she was opposed to … cuddling.
And before I took a dive for the worse, I had been thinking of ways to change that opposition, to make the idea more acceptable to her.
Asking her to be in a relationship became the best solution.
But seeing the way that question had brought forth a negative response, how uncomfortable she had been with the mere thought of committing to me—I felt angry—wanted to tell her she had no choice because she made me fall for her, she made me question everything I wanted for myself; the least she could do was indulge me, and not dismiss me.
But then, I saw how she fought for words, how her eyes had shined in discomfort and horror like being with me that way was as atrocious as signing a death sentence. I realized I had been too forward. I didn’t think it through; of course she wouldn’t want that.
Who in their right mind would want that?
After she left, I continued my drinking and put on some music again—I turned it off an hour later when my head started to pound—and I stopped drinking soon after when my stomach started to reject it. I felt the alcohol trying to come back out of my throat, and suddenly the room became too cold.
I turned off the air conditioner, turned on the heater, and then realized I didn’t reasonably need the heat because my skin began to burn.
I was hot, cold, and uncomfortable.
The pounding in my head was worse than before.
I felt like I could sleep now, but I couldn’t help the discomfort I felt; despite having changed the temperature in the room to something bearable, I was still so cold.
I decided to have another warm shower—after I did, I opted to find something heavy to ward off the cold—a thick black hoodie with thick sweatpants.
I dried my hair thoroughly because the wet strands irritated my eyes and neck, a clear sign that it was due for another cut.
My mind drew a blank when I tried to remember the last time I had cut it.
After I was all done, I settled on the bed, but with a tiny sniff of the pillow, my mind took me back to last night—to Zahra, who had rejected me and was now thinking about it so she could twist the knife further in by rejecting me again.
I pressed my nose into the pillow and breathed in like the creep she once referred to me as.
I lay there for a few minutes and then grew uncomfortable with the view of the vast ocean; the pillow became as hot as my skin.
I sat up with a groan, my hand falling to my side to keep me steady upon the sudden lightness in my head.
I grabbed the pillow, left the bed, walked to the dresser, pulled it open, picked up my phone, and turned it on as I walked out of the bedroom to the living room.
I settled the pillow on one of the long couches and lay there instead, pressing a remote to reduce the room’s lighting.
My body felt too heavy to carry when I tried to move.
I needed medicine, something to dull the headache. I couldn’t administer it myself.
Bringing the phone to my view, I squinted with a wince at the light, and I quickly moved to reduce the brightness before going to my contacts list.
Five names.
I clicked on Angelo’s name, which immediately went to voicemail. Unavailable to answer the phone. I tried again … and again … same result.
My throat grew too dry, and my head ached. My breathing was getting loud, my breath as hot as my skin.
I clicked on Casmiro’s name next, but it immediately said unavailable. There was no point in trying it again because he wasn’t here to provide immediate aid—but then again, he could help alert someone nearby—I tried calling again. Unavailable.
I closed my eyes with a tired groan before reopening them.
My gaze fell on Zahra’s name … I contemplated it …
thoroughly. She’d left here a couple of hours ago …
She was on the cruise. She was close, and I wanted her here.
Although she’d taken away my first chance to relax, I did not want her to leave.
I clicked on her contact, and it was silent for a few seconds before an automated voice came on. “Sorry, you are not allowed to call this number.”
The line cut immediately. I frowned at the phone, redialing it. The same automated voice came on, repeating the same sentence.
I clicked on the message icon next to the call button, which brought me to her numerous messages that I’d ignored.
I sent her a hello, and instead of a Delivered notification to pop up under the text, it was Not delivered, with a bright red exclamation mark.
She … blocked me.
I pressed my lips together, biting my tongue. My fingers trembled on the phone as another wave of coldness hit me.
I shouldn’t have said anything.
I left the message page and swiped right on her contact, my thumb hovering over the delete button. I didn’t want to click it. But it was the right thing to do. She had made it clear with this action where she truly stood.
I felt sicker than before.
Was the thought of being committed to me really that scary? Had I been mistaken when she confessed to me the day before?
But she was so sincere …
I sighed, swiping back.
I dialed Gemma’s number, and it didn’t ring before it said busy, which meant she was on another call. I waited a bit before trying again, and it clearly stated, “The person you are trying to reach is on another call at the moment; please try again later.”
I closed my eyes, releasing a hot breath from my heavy chest, a wave of dizziness taking over my head.
“Why are you surprised, my love?”
I froze.
The voice was right beside me, stressed and winded, soft and warm, familiar, too daringly familiar.
I opened my eyes and turned my heavy head to the side. She was seated at the center table, facing me.
My mother. Again.
My stomach turned, and I clenched my jaw.
“You thought they would answer?” A soft laugh left her. “They never answer, Elio, and nor will they ever. Not everyone is like you.” She smiled. “You have to know that the only people who ever truly loved you are just an action away if you would just take that step.”
I frowned. It was pained; I knew that because I felt it in my chest. Tight and choking.
I looked away.
“You don’t like seeing me,” she stated, and her voice sounded sad. “It shows in your beautiful eyes that you don’t. Is that why you won’t come to me? Because you hate me?”
I closed my eyes.
Not real.
She was not real.
“I am sorry, Elio. I know it will take you forever and more to get over what I did. But you have to understand … no … I know you understand. You want to do it, too, burn it all, just like I did. You know exactly how I felt. I had to do it, just like you must.”